The plump man at the baron's elbow spoke, clasping his arms over his belly and leaning toward the nobleman officiously. "Milord . . . are you really suggesting that this burly brute could pass for young Favian?"
Baldomer laughed, turning his face aside so that he looked benign once again. "Well, Svoretta, my son and heir might have to wear padded jerkins henceforth to match his bodyguard! And both might have to wear war-helmets more often. But that would only improve Favian's public image."
While the others laughed dutifully, Svoretta pressed on with Baldomer. Clearly his subservience to the baron was less complete than theirs, and just as clearly he would rather have spoken in confidence.
"Milord, to introduce an unknown, unruly creature like this into your intimate household staff... I fear that it will pose a far greater danger than the one you seek to avoid. Speaking as your chief of espionage, I can say that the problem of maintaining secrecy in such an affair is practically insurmountable."
"Svoretta, this is nothing we haven't already discussed." The baron overruled his counselor abruptly but without gazing on him directly, as if accustomed to having him close at his side. "Whatever the difficulty of carrying out such a masquerade here in Dinander, it will be far simpler on the impending provincial tour. 'Tis then that we anticipate the greatest danger to my son's life-to my own as well-and the greatest need for a double." Baldomer's knuckles tapped absently on his kilted thigh as he spoke, his voice deepening.
"In these times of rampant rebelliousness among our peasants, my sole concern is the firm rulership of the barony of Dinander. That, of course, means the continued reign of the Einharson family. We must at all costs avoid the catastrophe of civil war-or worse, of some half-witted interference by our foppish King Laslo from his padded seraglio in Belverus!" Baldomer elevated his blinking gaze above the others' heads, his voice intensifying to an oratorical pitch.
"My own rule here must be firmly sustained! And more important, when my -earthly tenure ends, those in command must be ready to effect the orderly transfer of power from one generation to the next. Obviously, that is possible only through the preservation of my sacred seed, exalted aforetimes by the gracious gods and passed down from my divine forebear, Einhar." The baron's head turned back to his listeners, his gaze flashing among them with a bizarre, alternating aspect of serenity and cruelty. "Therefore our course is self-evident. Do all of you pledge yourselves absolutely? It is vital that the life of my son and sole heir be preserved!"
Baldomer's speech was followed by an embarrassed silence; it lasted, however, for only an instant before. the necessary nods, smiles and assents were given. The listeners had not failed to note how violently, even fanatically, the baron's fist smote his leather-clad thigh toward the end of his tirade.
The baron, by contrast, seemed unaware of any awkwardness; his eyes were alert, scanning the eyes of the others for signs of resistance or doubt-lastly the downcast, shadowed eyes of the Cimmerian.
Finally Svoretta dared undertake to calm his liege. "Yes, Milord, I understand your priorities in the matter, truly I do! Of course I can humbly offer only one thing in support of your divine mission-my life!" He paused for the effect, his head bowed in an attitude of utter reverence. "Therefore I shall undertake to implement your . . . command and see that only good consequences result from it." His effort of ingratiation culminated in a deep bow and a lingering kiss to the baron's extended fingers.
"Good, then." Baldomer returned swiftly to his earlier, equable manner. He waved a slack hand toward Conan. "We can bring this one into the household as a personal bodyguard; plainly he is a fighter? Splendid! And we can keep him out of sight, or else downplay the resemblance, until he begins standing in for my son. He must learn to stay quiet -that potato-mouthed Cimmerian accent will never pass! And of course we must teach him noble precedence and horsemanship.
"I leave all that, and the clothing and housing of him, to you, Durwald. On second thought, my son's mustache will have to be shorn, since I do not think this stripling could manage to sprout even so much of one in the time remaining!" He shot them all a grave look. "The secret must not travel outside this room. Regardless of the suspicions or rumors that may arise, there is to be no hint or confirmation from any of you." He lowered his face slightly to catch the Cimmerian's noncommittal gaze. "Understood, -boy?"
By leveling his look at Baldomer and nodding calmly, Conan surprised them all. "Aye. And what is to be my pay?"
Baldomer smiled thinly. "Must you trouble me with these petty things? Besides your life and your keep, one gold dram per fortnight should suffice. . . ." He reached into a slack purse on the table beside him, extracted a coin and flipped it to Conan.
Just then a green-velvet curtain parted at the back of the room, exposing a paneled door, and a young nobleman who edged through it a little unsteadily.
He was a large, tall lad, dressed in a silk shirt and a fur kilt lengthy enough to overtop his high, black cavalry boots. A long-bladed, jewel-hilted poniard was belted to his waist. His tousled raven hair and firm-jawed face bespoke Cimmerian blood as well as Einharson lineage, though both effects were weakened by the faint mustache at his lip. He was not unlike Conan in build, although he lacked some of the barbarian's height and more of his musculature. He sauntered in and stood by the table, resting one hand on it as he surveyed the room's occupants; whether he did this for dramatic effect, or to maintain his balance, was not entirely clear.
"Aha, a convocation! Men of responsibility pondering the weighty affairs of state!" The grandiose flourish of his free arm revealed, as did his slurred, flowery speech, that he was near-drowned in drink. "How is it, I wonder, that I was not summoned to this lofty conclave?"
The baron shot him a look of withering distaste. "Favian, when you are old enough to attend the counsels of men, and when you prove it by your honorable behavior, you will be summoned! Not before."
Favian straightened his back and faced up to the rebuke-without, however, relinquishing his grip on the table top. "Not even when the topic is so intimate to my welfare, Father? For I think I know what is being discussed here. Yon creature-" the young lord unsteadily raised his free arm, one finger wavering in Conan's general direction- "that is the one whose soiled breeches I am to hide behind, is it not?" He favored the barbarian with a bilious stare. "That unwashed thug is to usurp my public life! Well, am I right?"
Baldomer's face had gained color during his son's speech, but his voice remained cold. "In short, yes, you are right... at risk of repeating what you have already overheard while spying outside my door."
Favian's head recoiled slightly as from an invisible blow. If the accusation was unjust, apparently it smarted more painfully than a true one.
The baron spoke on: "Yet 'tis not quite so nefarious a scheme as you imagine. I merely intend, during a time of civil unrest, to take extra measures to preserve the safety of our line. None of your important functions will be interfered with"-Baldomer glanced among the other men-"none of your pleasures, that is." He paused to share a smile with the wary listeners at the lordling's expense. "Only in circumstances wherein you would be exposed to unnecessary danger will a substitution be made. On the coming tour, for example, I shall have you lads trade places in the traveling column. You might learn something from riding with common soldiers, Favian, while the barbarian . . . can better cope with an attack."
"Well, that serves me nobly indeed!" Favian pushed himself away from the table, reeling, and moved forward. "For a baron's son to be thus coddled, and smuggled all about the province while a jumped-up jailsnipe enjoys his rightful fame!" He staggered dangerously and caught himself. "I tell you, Father, 'tis a dire insult!" The baron extended a restraining hand, but his son lurched past him toward Conan. "I can acquit myself better than any flint-axed savage! Just watch me!"
With this, Favian swung a clumsy fist at the huskier youth's head; meanwhile, as Conan instantly saw, he threw himself off balance and left no provision for his defense. The Cimme
rian seized Favian's arm with a single motion of his own, turned him aside and propelled him away. The aristocrat struck the side of a chair heavily and sprawled against it. He leaned there helplessly, clutching for the poniard at his belt but unable to find it.
At the moment of the encounter, Swinn, Durwald and Svoretta had unsheathed their weapons. Now they converged on Conan-who awaited them, crouching, ready to snatch up a heavy stool close at hand. But once again the baron intervened.
"Hold! Let him go. My son is deep in his cups and less than discreet, as always. The northerner was only defending himself, as he is paid to do. Sheathe your blades."
Svoretta scowled. "Milord! Would you let scum like this believe he can strike a Nemedian noble with impunity?"
"Nay! 'Tis all right, I said!" The baron shook his iron-gray locks. "I grow tired, and our business is settled. Spymaster, see my son to his quarters. Durwald, take charge of the new man. A fair rest to you all."
"Good night, my liege," his retainers echoed.
Baron Baldomer turned, crossed the room and made his exit through the curtained door.
But it was Durwald, not Svoretta, who was then busied for a moment calming and expostulating with the drunken Favian. While he did so, the chief of espionage went to Conan, clutching the hilt of his sheathed dirk, with Swinn standing ready close by. The stocky spy-chief grimaced meanly, bringing his face so near the youth's that the two almost collided.
"And so, barbarian! Doubtless you think yourself fortunate to be the newest foible of his lordship's -nobly indulged and vaulted up above your superiors, even while still fresh, or rather ripe"-here Svoretta made his sneer even uglier, to suggest an ill odor-"from the prison pen!" He glowered at Conan, letting his pockmarked features creep into a stare of undisguised hatred.
"Well, I warn you . . . fancies and playthings come and go in the Manse, sometimes overnight! But one thing has endured in this barony ..." he hissed out the last words in a whisper inaudible to anyone but Conan . .. "and that is my influence! And if I hear that you have grown arrogant, pressed your luck too far or taken one single advantage of your flukish position here, it will go even harder for you in the end. Harken to that!"
Svoretta fell silent, staring into the barbarian's face. Once, and once only, his shoulder twitched as if he meant to strike the younger man. But he held back the blow, perhaps because of the utter silence and stillness with which Conan returned his stare. Finally he uttered a foul curse and turned on his heel.
CHAPTER 3
The Schooling
The sun, from its zenith in the southern sky, burned down into the courtyard. Both its heat and the clatter of horses' hooves were magnified, trapped between the sheer side of the Manse and the high curtain wall. The steeds were well lathered after a morning's workout, and Conan's saddle-bow was coated with dust -as, he would have sworn, were his parched, thirsty lips.
"A little better, barbarian. You may yet learn to sit atop a horse." Durwald's voice was bored and slack, yet he waited upright in his saddle with no sign of fatigue. "See here, you needn't crouch and hunker so, nor lean so far on the turns. We Nemedian cavalrymen have a saying: 'Sit tall, and let the serfs and horses do the work.'" He laughed, stroking his mustache between two fingers. "With all that reaching and straining you would never pass for a Nemedian farmer, let alone an aristocrat!"
"In southerly lands they say that working with the horse saves its strength and speed," Conan grumbled in reply. "Besides, this saddle is infernally thick, and the stirrups are set too low."
"You will find the fixed stirrups useful if ever you have to swing a heavy weapon from the saddle." Durwald reined in his whickering steed at a stone drinking trough. "But enough for today; at least you begin to earn your calluses. Now for our midday meal!" He swung down smoothly from his mount. "Your weapon training will take place here this afternoon, under the fencing-master, Eubold. Trust him to put you through your paces."
Conan winced and guardedly let himself down the side of the horse. He imitated the other man by tying his reins to one of the rings set in the stone wall. Then he started across the dusty yard, walking stiffly from his previous day's beating, and the further punishment his weary thews had taken in the unaccustomed saddle. He could feel the sun scorching the back of his neck where his mane of hair had been shorn off.
"Where are you going, Cimmerian?" Durwald stopped short, turning to face him.
"Eh? To lunch."
"You dine in the servants' quarters, off the kitchen, lad." The marshal jerked his head toward the Manse's rear double doors. "Barbarous as you are . . ." he laughed and wheeled away . . . "you are not near savage enough for the officers' mess!"
Muttering a curse, Conan changed direction and headed for the broad doors on the balustraded porch.
Passing through them was like entering a dark cave; the sun's hot weight was lifted from his shoulders and he felt instantly and refreshingly cool. Yet from an archway at one side of the entry came another wave of heat and an infernal flicker: the fires of the huge kitchen hearth, crowded with steaming copper vats. Smoke meandered overhead among hanging sausages, hams and braids of onion and garlic, until it found its way out of a sooty hole at the ceiling's center. The room was rich with odors to tempt a hungry man's stomach, as well as some to turn it.
"Foraging for your lunch, barbarian?"
Of several heads bent over wooden worktables, the only one raised toward Conan was that of a curly haired young woman, a Nemedian farm girl of medium height and comely appearance. The lushness of her shape was shown off by a girdle of bright yarns laced around her narrow waist, joining her flimsy white blouse and knee-length skirt. She glanced at Conan appraisingly-with eyes that had been artfully shadowed, probably by means of chimney soot.
"You come too late, you know. Most of the food is already sent upstairs, or gobbled down here." She flashed him a defiant look, then shrugged uncaringly. "But all right, go in and sit. I'll see what I can scrape up for you." Suddenly she laughed, gaily enough to draw glances from her workmates. "You look like a fierce one indeed, with strange, barbarous appetites. I wouldn't want you carving up one of my haunches to gnaw on!" She turned with a toss of a shapely hip and busied herself at another table.
Conan passed on through the kitchen. The adjacent room was gloomy, lit by a single barred window-slit high in the wall. A long wooden table and rude benches stood in the center, and two sides of the room were lined with narrow, curtained sleeping-closets separated by wooden partitions. The one at the further end, alongside the cold stone wall, had been assigned to Conan late the previous night.
Ah well. No matter the chill, since this land was so much hotter in this season than his native Cimmeria in any season. He did not intend to stay in Dinander for the winter, in any case; mayhap not even for the night. Slowly, tenderly, he lowered his saddle-drubbed hindquarters onto the bench.
In a few moments the serving-wench appeared. She carried a wide wooden platter of food close against her belly, swaying her hips and shoulders gracefully on the approach. Conan's eyes were drawn up from the trencher's ample contents to the equally ample stresses and curves of her embroidered blouse. As she deposited her burden before him, thumping down an earthenware flagon of purple wine to one side of it, she leaned low enough to give him an even better perspective on her charms.
"There, barbarian! I hope that will be enough to stave off your northern appetites. If not"-she laughed good-naturedly-"give me some warning before you attack the horses with a meat knife, and I will look for more food in the pantry!"
"Ugh." Conan tossed a red-hot turnip into his mouth to crunch as he commenced tearing apart a thick loaf of black bread. "I could not stand to eat a horse, not after having been jounced about on one all morning!"
The maiden laughed, not loudly this time but sweetly. "What is your name, outlander?" After a glance at the curtained archway leading to the kitchen, she eased her round, wool-skirted thigh onto the end of the table. "Mine is Ludya."
"
I am Conan," he said, barely audible through a mouthful of bread.
"You are ... a Cimmerian, is that right?" She rolled her eyes. "When I was a girl, I was not even sure Cimmeria really existed. We were told the wildest stories about ittales of ogres, cannibals, draken and even stranger things!" With a little shiver she folded her bare arms across her girdle. "It sounded like a dreadful place."
"There is no truth in that." Conan took a deep pull from his wine-jack. "The teller must have confused my land with Asgard and Vanaheim to the north, where such terrors abound."
"Oh." Ludya's eyes widened a little as she considered this. "Well, when I came to the city I learned that the Baron Baldomer, in his youth, brought back a Cimmerian bride from his northern campaigns-the Lady Heldra. I never saw her, but they say she was beautiful and kind." Her gaze drifted away thoughtfully for a moment, then returned to Conan. "So now the northern lands are much better regarded here. The people remember Heldra fondly, they honor her daughter, Calissa, and have even grown accustomed to the prospect of being ruled someday by her boychild, Favian. You look very like him, by the way." This she said with an appreciative flash in her glance.
"Hmm." Conan met her gaze, then chewed thoughtfully. "He is no relation to me though, and I have not heard of his mother, Heldra. Mayhap the daughter of an eastern chief, or else she was a far-roving warrior-girl."
Ludya sighed. "The thought of a mere barbar wench becoming baroness. . . ."? Her brown eyes glistened. "It proves that a comely female can rise high in the world, though a man be bound by his family's station." She paused, plainly bethinking herself of Conan, and added quickly, "Excepting you, of course. You have done well, to become a guard in a noble household."
The Conan Compendium Page 193