Carefully shutting doors behind him, he made his way to the column-lined outer hall, where waited half a score of the Chosen, Zephran among them. They thought they stood as his bodyguard, though either of the Khitan assassins could have killed all ten without effort. They bowed as he appeared. He motioned to Zephran, who approached, bowing again.
“Go to the Tower of Contemplation,” Jhandar commanded. “There you will find the body of the one I set to guard that place. Bring the body to the Chamber of Summoning.”
“At once, Great Lord.” But Zephran did not move. He wished to ingratiate himself with the Great Lord Jhandar. “It was the Hyrkanians, Great Lord. Those I spoke to you about, I have no doubt.”
Jhandar’s cheek twitched, but otherwise his face was expressionless. “You knew there were Hyrkanians in Aghrapur?” he said quietly.
“Yes, Great Lord.” Sweat broke out on Zephran’s forehead. Suddenly he was no longer certain it had been a good idea to speak. “Those … those I spoke to you of. Surely you remember, Great Lord?”
“Bring the body,” Jhandar replied.
Zephran bowed low. When he straightened the necromancer was gone.
In his antechamber Jhandar massaged his temples as he paced, momentarily ignoring the Khitans. The fool had known of the Hyrkanians and yet said nothing! Of course, he had set no watch for them, warned none of the Chosen to report their appearance. To guard against them was to expect them to come, and did he expect them to come, then they would. It was the way of such things. The proof was in himself. He had not been able to destroy his own belief that they would appear. And they had come.
Carefully Jhandar gathered the powders and implements he would need. Dawn was but a few hours distant, now, and in the light of the sun he had few abilities beyond those of other mortals. He could not call on the Power at all while the sun shoned. He could not summon the spirit manifestations then, though commands previously given still held, of course. Perhaps he should summon them now, set them to find the Kyrkanians. No. What he intended would sap much of his strength, could it be done at all. He was not certain he would be physically able to perform both rituals, and what he intended was more important. He knew something of the Hyrkanians, nothing of the tall barbarian. The unknown threat was always more dangerous than the known.
He motioned the Khitans to follow. A sliding stone panel in the wall let into a secret passage, dim and narrow, that led down to the chamber containing the circle of barren earth. The Chamber of Summoning.
Quickly the corpse was brought to him there, as if Zephran thought to mitigate his transgressions with haste, and arranged by the Khitans under Jhandar’s direction, spreadeagled in the center of the circle. At a word the Chosen withdrew, while the mage studied on what he was about. He had never done the like before, and he knew no rituals to guide him. There was no blood to manifest the spirit of the man; there had been no blood in that body since its first death. After that there had been a tenuous connection between that spirit and the body, a connection enforced by his magic, but the second death, at the tower, had severed even that. Still, what he intended must be attempted.
While the Khitans watched Jhandar chose three pillars, spaced equidistantly around the circle. On the first he chalked the ideogram for death, and over it that for life. On the second, the ideogram for infinity covered that of nullity. And on the last, order covered chaos.
Spreading his arms, he began to chant, words with meanings lost in the mists of time ringing from the walls. Almost immediately he could feel the surge of Power, and the near uncontrollability of it. His choice of symbols formed a dissonance, and if inchoate Power could know fury, then there was fury in the Power that flowed through Jhandar’s bones.
Silver-flecked blue mist coalesced within the circle, roiling, swirling away from the posts he had marked. He willed it not to be so, and felt the resistance ripping at his marrow. Agony most torturous and exquisite. It would be as he willed. It would be. Through a red haze of pain he chanted.
Slowly the mists shifted toward, rather than away from, those three truncated pillars, touching them, then rushing toward them. Suddenly there was a snap, as from a spark leaping from a fingertip on a cold morning, but ten thousand times louder, and bars of silver-blue light, as bright as the sun, linked the posts. Chaos, forced into a triangle, the perfect shape, three sides, three points—three, the perfect number of power. Perfect order forced on ultimate disorder. Anathema, and anathema redoubled. And from that anathema, from that perversion of Chaos, welled such Power that Jhandar felt at any moment he would rise and float in the air. Sweat rolled down his body, plastering his saffron robes to his back and chest.
“You who called yourself Emilio the Corinthian,” Jhandar intoned. “I summon you back to this clay that was you. By the powers of Chaos enchained, and the powers of three, I summon you. I summon you. I summon you.”
The triangle of light flared, and within the circle the head of Emilio’s corpse rolled to one side. The mouth worked raggedly. “Noooo!” it moaned.
Jhandar smiled. “Speak, I command you! Speak, and speak true! You came to steal a necklace of rubies?”
“Yes.” The word was a pain-filled hiss.
“Why?”
“For … Da-vin-ia.”
“For a woman? Who is she?”
“Mis-tress … of … Mun-da-ra … Khan.”
The mage frowned. He had tried for some time to ‘obtain’ one of General Mundara Khan’s servants, so far without success. The man stood but a short distance from the throne. Could he be taking an interest in Jhandar, as the necromancer took in him? Impossible.
“Do you know a tall barbarian?” he demanded.
“A man with pale skin and blue eyes who would also try to steal that necklace.”
“Co-nan,” came the moaned reply. The head of the corpse twitched and moved.
Jhandar felt excitement rising in him. “Where can I find this Conan?”
“Noooo!” The head rolled again, and one arm jerked.
“Speak, I command!” The triangle of chaotic light grew brighter, but no sound came from the body.
“Speak!” Brighter.
“Speak!” Brighter.
“Speak! I command you to speak!” Brighter, and brighter still.
“I … am … a maaan!”
As the wail came, the light suddenly flared, crackling like lightning and wildfire together. Jhandar staggered back, hands thrown up to shield his eyes. Then the light was gone, and the Power, and the body. Only a wisp of oily black smoke drifting toward the ceiling remained.
“Freeee … .” The lone, thin word dissipated with the smoke, and naught remained of Emilio the Corinthian.
Weariness rolled into Jhandar’s bones as the Power left. Despite himself, he sagged and nearly fell. There would be no summoning of spirit manifestations this night. That meant a full day must pass before he could send those incorporeal minions searching for the Hyrkanians, and for the barbarian. Conan. A strange name. But there was the woman, Davinia. There could be use in her, both for finding the barbarian and beyond. General Mundara Khan’s mistress.
With a tired hand he motioned the Khitans to help him to his chambers.
IX
The palace of Mundara Khan was of gray marble and granite, relieved by ornate gardens from which rose towers of ivory and porphyry, while alabaster domes whitely threw back the sun. The guards who stood before its gates with drawn tulwars were more ceremonial than otherwise, for an attack on the residence of the great General Mundara Khan was as unlikely as one on the Royal Palace of King Yildiz. But the guards were numerous enough to cause trouble, especially if a handsome young man should announce that he had come to see the general’s mistress.
Conan had no intention of entering by a guarded gate, though. Finding a tall, spreading tree near the garden wall, well out of the guards’ sight, he pulled himself up into its thick branches. One, as thick as his leg, ran straight toward the garden, but it was cut cleanly, a bit highe
r than the wall but well short of it. The top of this wall was indeed set with razor shards of obsidian. Within the garden, slate walks and paths of red brick wound through the landscaping, and in the garden’s center was a small round outbuilding of citron marble, cupolaed and columned, gossamer hangings stirring in the breeze at its windows and archways.
Arms held out to either side for balance, he ran along the limb, leaped, and dropped lightly inside the garden.
Moving carefully, eyes watchful for guards or servants, he hurried to the yellow structure. It was of two stories, the ground level walled about entirely with gauze-hung archways. Within those arches, the glazed white tiles of the floor were covered with silken pillows and rare Azerjani rugs. Face down on a couch in the center of the room lay a woman, her pale, generous curves completely bare save for the long golden hair that spilled across her shoulders. Above her a wheel of white ostrich plumes revolved near the ceiling, a strap of leather disappearing through a hole above.
Conan swore to himself. A servant must be occupying the floor above, to turn the crank that in turn rotated the plumes. Still, he would not turn back. His calloused hand moved aside delicate hangings, and he entered.
For a time he stood enjoying his view of her, a woman of satiny rounded places. “Be not alarmed, Davinia,” he said at last.
With a yelp of surprise the blonde rolled from the couch, long legs flashing, and snatched up a length of pale blue silk that she clutched across her breasts. The nearly transparent silk covered her ineffectually to the ankles.
“Who are you?” she demanded furiously. High cheekbones gave her face a vulpine cast.
“I am called Conan. I come in the place of Emilio the Corinthian.”
Fury fading into consternation, she wet her full lips hesitantly. “I know no one of that name. If you come from Mundara Khan, tell him his suspicions are—”
“Then you do not know this, either,” Conan said, fishing the ruby necklace from his pouch and dangling its gold-mounted length from his fingertips. He chuckled to watch her face change again, deep blue eyes widening in shock, mouth working wordlessly.
“How …,” she fumbled. “Where … .” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Where is Emilio?”
“Dead,” he said harshly.
She seemed neither surprised nor dismayed. “Did you kill him?”
“No,” he replied with only partial untruth. Emilio’s true death had come before their meeting in the tower. “But he is dead, and I have brought you the necklace you want.”
“And what do you wish in return?” Her voice was suddenly warm honey, and her arm holding the strip of blue had lowered until pink nipples peered at him, seeming nestled in the silk. He did not think it an accident.
Smiling inside, Conan replied, “Emilio spoke of one hundred pieces of gold.”
“Gold.” Her tinkling laughter dismissed gold as trivial. Rounded hips swaying, she moved closer. Then, suddenly, she was pressed tightly against his chest. In some fashion the silk had disappeared. “There are many things of more interest to a man like you than gold,” she breathed, snaking an arm around his neck. “Of much more interest.”
“What of he who turns the fan?” he asked.
“He has no tongue to tell what he hears,” she murmured. “And no one will enter without being commanded, except Renda, my tirewoman, who is faithful to me.”
“Mundara Khan?”
“Is far from the city for two nights. Can you only ask questions, barbarian?”
She tried to pull his head down for a kiss, but he lifted her, kissing her instead of being kissed. When she moaned softly deep in her throat, he let her drop.
“What,” she began as her heels thudded to the floor, but he spun her about, and his hard palm flattened her buttocks. With a shrill squeal she tumbled head over heels among the cushions, long, bare legs windmilling in the air.
“The gold first, Davinia,” he laughed.
Struggling to her knees, she threw a cushion at his head. “Gold?” she spat. “I’ll summon the guards and—”
“—And never see the necklace again,” he finished for her. She frowned fretfully. “Either I will escape, taking it with me, or the guards will take me, and the necklace, to Mundara Khan. He will be interested to find his leman is receiving jewelry from such as me. You did say he was suspicious, did you not?”
“Erlik blast your eyes!” Her eyes were blue fire, but he met them coolly.
“The gold, Davinia.”
She glared at him a time longer, then, muttering to herself, crawled over the cushions. Carefully keeping her back to him she lifted a tile set in the floor and rummaged beneath.
She need not have bothered, he thought. With the view he had as she knelt there, he would not have looked away to survey the treasure rooms of King Yildiz.
Finally she replaced the tile and turned to toss a bulging purse before him. It clanked heavily when it hit the floor. “There,” she snarled. “Leave the necklace and go.”
That was an end to it. Or almost, he thought. He had the gold—the amount did not matter—the tellings of Sharak’s star-charts had been fulfilled. But the woman had thought to use him, as she had tried to use Emilio. She had threatened him. The pride that only a young man knows drove him now.
“Count it,” he demanded. She stared at him in disbelief, but he thrust a finger at the purse. “Count it. It would pain me, and you, to discover you’d given me short weight.”
“May the worms consume your manhood,” she cried, but she made her way to the purse and emptied it, rondels of gold ringing and spinning on the white tiles. “One. Two. Three … .” As she counted each coin she thrust it back into the small sack, as viciously as though each coin was a dagger that she was driving into his heart. Her acid eyes remained on his face. “ … .One hundred,” she said at last. Tying the cords at the mouth of the purse, she hurled it at him.
He caught the gold-filled bag easily in one hand, and tossed the necklace to her. She clutched it to her breasts and backed away, still on her knees, eying him warily.
He saw no shimmers of magic when she touched the necklace, but by all the gods she was a bit of flesh to dry a man’s mouth and thicken his throat.
He weighed the purse in his hand. “To feel this,” he said, “no one would suspect that you counted five coins twice.”
“It is … possible I made an error,” she said, still moving away. “An it is so, I’ll give you the five gold pieces more.”
Conan dropped the purse on the floor, unbuckled his sword belt and let it fall atop the gold.
“What are you doing?” she asked doubtfully.
“’Tis a heavy price to pay for a wench,” he replied, “but as you do not want to pay what you agreed, I’ll take the rest in your stock in trade.”
A strangled squawk rose from her throat, and she tried to scramble away. He caught her easily, scooping her up in his muscular arms. She attempted to fend him off, but he pulled her to him as easily as if she had not tried at all. Her hands were caught inside the circle of his arms, her full breasts flattened against his broad chest.
“Think you,” she gasped, “that I’ll lie with you after what has passed here? After you’ve struck me, called me strumpet, manhandled me … .” Her angry words gave way to protesting splutters.
“Mundara Khan is old,” Conan said softly. He trailed one finger down her spine to the swell that began her buttocks. “And fat.” He brought the finger up to toy with a strand of golden hair that lay on her cheek. “And he often leaves you alone, as now.” She sighed, and softened against him. Blue eyes peered into blue eyes, and he said quietly, “Speak, and I will go. Do you want me to go?”
Wordlessly she shook her head.
Smiling, Conan laid her on the couch.
X
Conan was still smiling when he strolled into the Blue Bull much later in the day. Davinia had been very lonely indeed. He knew it was madness to dally with the mistress of a general, but he knew his own weakness wher
e women were concerned, too. He was beginning to hope the army took Mundara Khan from Aghrapur often.
The common room was half-filled with the usual crowd of sailors, laborers and cutpurses. Sharak and Akeba shared a table in one corner, conversing with their heads close together, but instead of joining them, Conan went to the bar.
Ferian greeted him with a scowl, and began scrubbing the bar top even faster than before. “I’ve nothing for you yet, Cimmerian. And I want you to get that wench out of here.”
“Is she still secured in my room?” Conan demanded. Yasbet had become no more reasonable about being rescued for finding herself in a waterfront tavern.
“She’s there,” the innkeeper said sourly, “but I’d sacrifice in every temple in the city if she disappeared. She near screamed the roof off not a glass gone. Thank all the gods she’s been quiet since. That’s no trull or doxie, Cimmerian. Men are impaled for holding her sort against their will.”
“I’ll see to her,” Conan replied in a soothing tone. “You keep your eyes and ears open.”
He hurried upstairs, listening to what suddenly seemed an ominous silence from his room. The latch-cord on his door was still tied tightly to a stout stick. A man might break the cord and lift the latch inside, but for Yasbet it should have been as good as an iron lock. Unless she had managed to wriggle through the window. Surely that small opening was too narrow even for her, but … . Muttering oaths beneath his breath, Conan unfastened the cord and rushed in.
A clay mug, hurled by Yasbet’s hand, shattered against the door beside his head. He ducked beneath the pewter basin that followed and caught her around the waist. It was difficult to ignore what a pleasant armful she made, even while her small fists pounded at his head and shoulders. He caught her wrists, forcing them behind her back and holding them there with one hand.
“What’s gotten into you, girl? Did that cult addle your wits?”
“Addle my … .!” She quivered with supressed anger. “They thought I had worth. And they treated me well. You brought me here bound across a horse and imprisoned me without so much as word. Then you went off to see that strumpet.”
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