“Excellency, I have explained that only those in the actual presence of these two mirrors…” Naipal stopped and drew a deep breath. Explaining to the fool for the hundredth time was useless. “I am Naipal, court wizard to King Bhandarkar of Vendhya. I plot the death of Bhandarkar and spit on his memory. I plot to place His Excellency Karim Singh on the throne of Vendhya. Your Excellency sees. I would not say these things if anyone could overhear.”
Karim Singh nodded, though his face was pasty. “I suppose I must…trust you, Naipal. After all, you serve me faithfully. I also trust that you know it would be well to give more faithfulness to me than you have given Bhandarkar.”
“I am Your Excellency’s servant.” Naipal wondered if the man had any inkling of how much of his rise to power was the wizard’s doing. “And how may I serve Your Excellency now?”
“I…do not know exactly,” the wazam said. “It could be disaster. The treaty is destroyed, without doubt. Our heads may roll. I warn you, Naipal, I will not go to the block alone.”
Naipal sighed irritably. The treaty with Turan followed the simple principles he had led Karim Singh to believe were his own. To seize the throne at Bhandarkar’s death required a land in turmoil. Outside enemies tended to unify a country. Therefore all nations that might threaten Vendhya—Turan, Iranistan, the nations and city-states of Khitai and Uttara Koru and Kambuja—must be placated, made to feel neither threatened by nor threatening toward Vendhya. The wizard’s preferred method was the manipulation of people in key positions, supplemented by sorcery where needed. It was Karim Singh who thought in terms of treaties. Still, the journey to Turan had kept him safely out of Naipal’s way for a time.
“Excellency, if Yildiz would not sign, it is of no import. Assuredly, even if Bhandarkar holds the failure against Your Excellency, he has no time to—”
“Listen to me, fool!” Karim Singh’s eyes bulged hysterically. “The treaty was signed! And perhaps within hours of that signing the High Admiral of Turan was dead! At the hands of Vendhyan assassins! Who else but Bhandarkar himself would dare such a thing? And if it is indeed him, then what game does he play? Do we move against him unseen, or does he merely toy with us?”
Sweat dampened Naipal’s palms as he listened, but he would not wipe them while the other could see. His eyes flickered to the ivory chest. An army? With wizards perhaps? But how could such be mobilized without his knowing? “Bhandarkar cannot know,” he said at last. “Is Your Excellency sure of all of the facts? Stories often become distorted.”
“Kandar was convinced. And this Patil, who told him, is no man for intrigue. Why, he is as devious as a newborn infant.”
“Describe…this Patil to me,” the wizard said softly.
Karim Singh frowned. “A barbarian. A pale-skinned giant with the eyes of a pan-kur. Where are you going? Naipal!”
Before the description was finished, the wizard leaped to the ivory chest. He threw back the lid, brushed aside the silken coverings and stared at exactly what he had seen the night before, a vast array of fires in the night. Not an army. A huge caravan. So many pieces suddenly fell into place, yet for every answer there was a new question. He became aware again of Karim Singh’s shouting.
“Naipal! Katar take you! Where are you? Return instantly or by Asura…” The wizard moved again in front of the mirror that contained Karim Singh’s now-apoplectic visage. “Just in time to save your head! How dare you leave like that, without so much as craving permission or a word of explanation? I will not tolerate such—”
“Excellency. Please, Your Excellency must listen. This man calling himself Patil, this barbarian giant with the eyes of a pan-kur”—in spite of himself, Naipal shuddered at that; could it be an omen, or worse?—“he must die, and everyone with him. Tonight, Excellency.”
“Why?” Karim Singh demanded.
“His description,” the mage improvised. “Various divinations have brought it to me that a man of that description can bring ruin to all our plans. And as well there is another threat to us in the same caravan with Your Excellency, a threat of which I learned only a short time ago. There is a party of Vendhyan merchants. Their leader is a man called Sabah, though he may use another name. They have pack mules rather than camels, bearing what will appear to be bales of silk.”
“I suppose these men must die as well,” Karim Singh said and Naipal nodded.
“Your Excellency understands well.” Commands had been given and apparently not obeyed. Naipal did not tolerate failure.
“Again, why?”
“The arts of divination are uncertain as to details, Excellency. All that I can say for certain is that every day, every hour that these men live, is a threat to Your Excellency’s ascension to the throne.” The wizard paused, choosing his words. “There is one other matter, Excellency. Within what appear to be the bales of silk of the Vendhyan merchants will be chests sealed with lead seals. These chests must be brought to me with the seals unbroken. And I must add that the last is more important to Your Excellency’s gaining the throne than all the rest, than all we have done so far. The chests must be brought to me with the seals unbroken.”
“My gaining the throne,” Karim Singh said flatly, “depends on chests being brought to you? Chests that are with the very caravan in which I travel? Chests of which you knew nothing until a short time ago?”
“Before Asura, it is so,” Naipal replied. “May my soul be forfeit.” It was an easy oath to make; that forfeit had been made long since.
“Very well then. The men will be dead before the sun rises. And the chests will be brought to you. Peace be with you.” The silver bell chimed in sympathy with the silver bell in the wazam’s tent so far away, and the image in the mirror leaped and was that of Naipal.
“And peace be with you, most excellent of fools,” the wizard muttered.
He looked at his palms. The sweat was still there. So many new questions, but death would provide all the answers he needed. Smiling, he wiped his hands on his robes.
CHAPTER XIV
Absolute darkness was pushed back from the night-swathed encampment by hundreds of campfires scattered among a thousand tents. Many of those tents glowed with the light of lamps within, casting moving, mysterious shadows on walls, whether silk or cotton, made less than opaque. The thrum of citherns floated in the air, and the smell of cinnamon and saffron from meals not long consumed.
Conan approached Vyndra’s tent with an uncertainty he was not used to. All during the day’s march he had avoided her, and if that consisted mainly in staying with Kang Hou’s camels rather than seeking her out, it had not been so easily done as it sounded. It was possible she wanted him only as an oddity for her noble friends in Ayodhya, a strange-eyed barbarian at which to gawk, but on the other hand, a woman did not look at an oddity coquettishly through lowered lashes. In any case, she was beautiful, he was young, and therefore he had come as she asked.
Ducking through the tent’s entrance flap, he found himself staring Alyna in the eyes, which was still all he could see of her for thick veils and heavy robes. “Your mistress,” he began and cut off as a flash of murderous rage flickered through the woman’s eyes.
As quickly as it appeared, though, it was gone, and she bowed him deeper into the tent, which, though smaller than Karim Singh’s, was divided within in much the same fashion by silken hangings.