The Conan Compendium

by Various Authors

  The flitting shapes portrayed the indecisive state of his thoughts, dulled by frequent sipping from a wineflask beside his chair. He pondered many things: the loves and the enemies he had found in recent weeks, the splendor and ambition that lurked in the Manse, the wrath and shame of the evils he had witnessed here and elsewhere. Dissolved by wine, the turbid confusion of his brain had finally begun to drain down to hard particulars: how much longer to remain here, how much wealth to take when he left, how many lives to leave intact. ...

  His musings were interrupted by a noise in the corridor outside. He placed his hand on his saber-hilt. The weapon was already clear of its sheath, propped against his chair arm. Yet the fumbling at the latch was unguarded, and Conan watched the faint outline of the doorway with no particular dread. If his heart quickened at all, it was only in hope of a repetition of the last tender meeting that had occurred in this chamber.

  But when the door swung wide and the fumbler strode in, the candle that wavered in the intruder's hand showed that it was Favian, unhelmeted and clad in his second-best armor. He reacted in a slow, tipsy way to the sight of the outlander sprawled on his bed-furniture, then waved an arm toward the open door behind him.

  "Begone, savage! This room's rightful owner has arrived, and he shall scarcely be needing your services tonight. Back to your stinking cellar!"

  Hardly warmed by this speech, Conan did not move to obey. "I was told to wait out the night here. With the Manse full of revelers, your father and his spy-chief think the danger too great for you. Better that you crawl off to some other bed."

  Instead of taking offense, Favian showed astonishment. "My father told you . . . ? Why, the old demon! He would never stoop so low!" With an air of distracted rage, the lordling took two steps toward Conan and stood lowering at him. "Cimmerian, you may have stolen my place and my name-my chariot, my clothes and my honor as well! But my manhood you shall not have!" He set down his candle and stood unsteadily, waving his fist in the air like a knight's flourished mace. "The oaths are cast, the decree is made, and the bride is commanded here to my pleasure. 'Tis my natural right and privilege-well-nigh the last one remaining to me. I will die rather than relinquish it!"

  Faced with imminent assault by the intemperate lord, Conan arose and stepped back. "What mean you, drunken rogue?" He clutched his sword ready at his side, avoiding the empty-handed Favian more for his madness than for his menace. "A bride is to join you here tonight?"

  "Aye, barbarian-by my noble right, the right of the seignior. What think you is the occasion of tonight's revel, anyway? Thank the gods there is still one lordly freedom my father cannot deny me, if only because of his own handicap." Favian stood arrogantly straight at the room's center, his gaze fixed scornfully on the Cimmerian. "As sole functioning heir of the Einharson line, I have first claim to each new virgin of the province on her wedding night."

  Conan shook his head in astonishment, his sword sagging at his side. "Why, 'tis vile! What young woman would permit such a thing . . . and what groom?"

  "Permit? What choice do they have?" Favian laughed disdainfully. "But you would be surprised, barbarian! Most girls yearn for it-the well-bred ones especially. They cherish the brief moment of splendor throughout the remainder of their staid, boring lives. And what commoner does not welcome a royal graft into his stunted family tree, if his bride is lucky enough to be chosen?"

  Conan's head still shook, half now in bitter amusement. "A wonder that your father so guards his noble seed in your loins. Likely his heirs are spread over half of Nemedia!"

  Suddenly ignoring Conan, Favian harkened to approaching steps and scrapes of armor in the corridor. "Enough prattle now, and away with you! I hear the favored one being brought hither to my tutelage. A proud and surly student, she strikes me to be. But she will learn well under her master's rod." With no further seeming of threat or insult toward Conan, he extended an arm to usher him out. "Come this way; an encounter in the corridor might be ... confusing. This passage leads to the rear postern stair." Drawing his hesitating bodyguard by one arm toward the room's hidden doorway, Favian flung aside the curtain and unlatched the panel.

  The Cimmerian, his head buzzing with drink and confusion, let himself be shoved through without protest. In the narrow passageway beyond, as the door slammed and latched behind him, he found himself without light.

  Well, no harm; he remembered the place from his earlier visit. With his armored elbows brushing both walls and his still-drawn sword probing before him like a cane, he moved toward the rear of the Manse.

  The darkness was not total, he came to realize. A dim thread of light crossed the passage just ahead -from Calissa's door, he knew. On coming to it, he found that the portal was not tightly secured. The inner bolt was wedged only partway home, leaving the panel minutely ajar and allowing light to escape. Sliding his sword-blade into the crevice, he flicked up the hinged metal bar and pushed the door open.

  The source of the light, he saw, was a three-branched candelabrum resting on a dressing-table at the opposite side of the room. Its triple radiance was reflected in the hazy, polished silver of a mirror hung beyond the table. Also thus hazily reflected were the pale, rosy charms of Calissa, who stood at the table laving herself from a golden basin. Her flimsy sleeping-gown was thrown down from her shoulders to hang loosely about her waist, and her hair cascaded in a rusty-red plume down her shapely back.

  At the faint creak of the door she turned to regard her visitor. Her face showed gentle surprise rather than alarm, and she made no effort to cover herself in modesty. "Favian, dear brother! We have had no chance to talk . . ." Her face reddened then as she realized her mistake. Swiftly she took up an embroidered linen towel with which to cover her bosom, patting her skin dry where it glistened with washwater.

  "Your brother is dallying with another beauty tonight, Calissa." Conan sheathed his sword and eased the door shut behind him, taking care to set the bolt securely this time. "He ousted me from my nightwatch in his room."

  The noblewoman said nothing. Contriving to keep her towel across herself, she drew up the front of her nightdress and shrugged her arms into the sleeves. Her newfound shyness was not well served by the mirror at her back.

  "Why cover up such splendor, girl?" Conan went across the woven carpet toward her. "'Tis nothing I have not seen before, and from a good deal nearer vantage. ..."

  "Stop!" Groping behind her, Calissa snatched up a pair of haircutting shears, pointing them meaningfully before her. "Whatever license I may once have allowed you, you do not command me! Remember, you are still a minion in this house!"

  "Aye, whatever you say." Conan stopped in the middle of the room, watching her push strands of raven-red hair out of her face. "But then, joinings between lords and their minions seem to be the way of this place."

  "Enough!" Calissa stood against the dressing-table, waving her scissors as if to hold him at bay. "Should my brother decide to take every slattern of the town to his bed, what am I to do about it? Women are as nothing here. I am not at fault for his low tastes!"

  "Why, girl, you are jealous! I did not know . . ." Conan started toward her again, then thought better of it and stayed in the middle of the carpet. " 'Tis a trial for you, I see, to be joined to such a mad family."

  "Madness! Speak not of madness, lest you call it forth from places you did not expect. Remember, I, too, am an Einharson." Her eyes blazed darkly at him from her pale face. "But then, what does it matter, really? Madness is the common thing in the world. 'Tis widely abroad in the land. The madness of war and civil strife eventually sweep over us no matter what we do."

  "You have heard more talk of rebellion, then," Conan offered. "Is it whispered here at court?"

  Calissa laughed. "Are you so blind that you do not see the stirrings, even amidst all this ghastly merrymaking? The murmurs and the surly looks, the cruel remedies bandied by the nobles, the bridling of the commoners under my father's ever-harsher demands? And now we hear these stories of snakecult
s gathering power in the east."

  "Aye, did they tell you of the ambush? 'Twas a crack company of archers that set on us in the woods," Conan told her gravely. "They might have slain us all, had we rallied less swiftly. ..."

  "Fool, they will not stand a chance!" The noble girl was shaking her head in exasperated impatience, her hair thrashing darkly behind her. "My father, and you, and all his other troopers, will crush them, as the warlords of Dinander have dealt with such outbreaks over the centuries." She paused, placing a hand on her forehead. "What I despise most is the turmoil and the suffering, and the way our province will be thrown backward once again, with all the gains of my mother's day lost. The serfs will be as slaves, this city little better than a prison. How I dread it!"

  Conan regarded her silently for a moment. "Aye, girl, I understand. I would not want any part of it myself." He paused as if silently debating within himself, then resumed: "Have you ever thought of leaving here? There are other cities than Dinander, most of them comelier and better-smelling."

  "Nay, Conan, you do not understand." Wearily she tossed her scissors onto the dressing-table, where they clashed against bottles of ointment. "No matter what happens here, I must see it through and try to salvage something. My father will need me, and after him, my brother, though they would never admit it."

  He nodded gravely. "As long as you do not expect me to do the same."

  "Oh Conan, no. 'Tis better if you leave. But come here." She raised her arms to him, resting them on his black-plated shoulders as he faced her. "I am sorry I rebuked you so. As you say, these strange alliances are in the tradition of the Manse. All we can do is to make the best of... ummm." Her words were smothered as his mouth moved against hers.

  A few moments later she disengaged from him, panting. "This is most awkward. Let me help you remove your armor-part of it at least!" She reached to his waist, her slim hands fumbling at his straps and buckles.

  Conan's doze was interrupted by distant cries of wrath and pain. Slumbers in the Manse were never deep, he had learned; in a breath he was awake, squinting in the faint light of the last guttering candle stub. Surely the shouts had been more than an evil dream; surely they had issued from some nearby chamber.

  Easing himself from the coverlets and the warm, silky weight of Calissa's limbs, he arose to don his boots and armor. There was no repetition of the blood-chilling yells, yet now he fancied that he heard clanks and footfalls in distant corridors-other sleepers roused by the same disturbance, perhaps. Strapping on his saber, he moved silently to the concealed door of his lover's room.

  The narrow passage between the walls was dark, but he quickly located the entrance to Favian's room by touch. Unfamiliar-sounding voices, male and female, clashed faintly beyond it, and something in their tense, sharp accents signaled danger. Bracing his back against a wall of the narrow corridor, Conan placed the sole of his boot upon the door and pushed, forcing the panel inward with relentless, mounting pressure. Finally the bolt gave with a splintering crack, and the door swung open to thump against the wall.

  Beyond the half-open curtain, murder glared up at him luridly: on the floor sprawled Favian, shirtless, his kilted, cavalry-booted legs tangled in a silken bedcover, his face and bared chest kissing the crimson pool outspread from his slashed throat. He had died in surprise, clearly, in the midst of his lordly pursuits; one of his slack hands still lay amid the coils of a many-tailed whip. His blood shone fresh in the brightly candlelit chamber, its scent coppery and cloying in the heated air.

  Of the three persons standing at the room's far end, two were males: commoners in festive garb, yet armed, their swords drawn but unstained. The third, a woman, was busy wiping her glinting knife, and the red-smeared hand that held it, on the limp rag of Favian's discarded shirt. Clad in a torn yellow robe which Conan immediately recognized, she spoke hurriedly with the others. In spite of her brusque, businesslike manner, she was without a doubt the innocent young bride Favian had earlier awaited so eagerly in his chamber. But as she turned to stare at Conan's figure in the broken doorway, he knew with dawning certainty that she was already well-familiar to him-as the rebel girl he had glimpsed first in the forest ambush, later in the doomed river town.

  CHAPTER 10

  Succession by Steel

  As Conan had burst open the door, the female assassin had turned. Her two companions fell silent to gawp at him, probably thinking him the ghost of the dead Favian. Now one of them started forward reluctantly, lifting his sword, but he let himself be stayed by the woman's swiftly extended hand. She regarded Conan gravely, as if preparing to address him-when he felt a touch at his side and heard a quick, stricken gasp in his ear.

  "Ah, Favian, no!"

  It was Calissa, who had awakened and crept silently after him along the passage. As she started to push past him into the room, he caught her and pressed her back into the darkness. While she wailed and struggled, he reached out and dragged the door shut after them, jamming it closed on its broken latch.

  "Come away, girl, this is no place for you!"

  "But my brother-he is slain!" Calissa gasped. "Why do you not arrest those assassins, kill them? I know that woman . . . Evadne . . . she was one of the Temple School rebels. Go back!"

  "I would sooner protect your life." He was forcing the distraught noblewoman down the corridor before him. "Red mutiny is afoot tonight, Calissa. I will be surprised if this is the mere extent of it."

  "No, stop! Let me go!" she shrieked. "Coward, do your duty!" She raged against him, her red hair lashing his face, her voice breaking roughly with sobs. "Ah, but I see why you refuse to obey me. You are in league with them!"

  Conan had borne her back through her dim-lit door with no sound of pursuit behind them; now her face glared up at him, pallid and tear-stained in the wavering candlelight. "You, my brother's trusted bodyguard-you abandoned your post at the vital moment! And then you came here to seduce me, and keep me from his side in his final hour!" She threw herself on him, bruising her fists against his steel-plated chest. "Murderer! Villain!"

  "Hush, girl, you are mad! Crom knows I had no love for your brother, but..." Realizing that she was clutching for the dagger sheathed at his waist, he thrust her back into the center of the room. "Calissa, calm yourself!"

  "Nay, deceiver! Vile lecher! For all I know, you slew him yourself!" She was on him again, clawing at his eyes. "Guards, come seize this traitor!"

  He shoved her back once again, and she tumbled onto the divan. After lying there panting for a moment in her disarranged nightgown, she lunged to the bed-table and rummaged for a weapon. The turbulent sounds coming from other parts of the Manse had increased, although they might not be in response to her outcries.

  "As for Favian, he died of his own vices; I had no part in it." The Cimmerian's voice was low and bitter. "But you, Calissa . . . you make yourself too dangerous to protect! Bolt the door after me, and farewell!" He eased the panel shut behind him, hearing bottles smash against it as he closed off the tumult of her curses.

  Groping his way down the passage, senses swimming in the darkness, his heart alternately plummeted and soared in his chest. Calissa was just as mad as the rest of her family, sad to see! But he, the Einharsons' pawn, was free of them at last, all his oaths discharged. He could leave now, if only he could carve his way out of this viper's nest.

  He bethought himself of the rebels. Certainly, they had his sympathy, against the likes of the baron. And this Evadne . . . now there was a fine figure of a woman! Yet somehow he felt no great desire to kiss her bloody hand. All these Nemedian wenches were too treacherous for his liking; he was best away.

  For that matter, should he not, while the Manse was in confusion, try to collect the back pay owed him? -with a comfortable bonus for severance, perhaps? He bethought himself of the money chest he had seen in Baldomer's chamber. His resemblance to Favian might help him in the theft, if he acted soon; yet perhaps 'twas wiser just to fly by night, and avoid even more painful severances.
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br />   He came to the door at the end of the passage; working its flimsy latch, he pressed it open and peered through. On the far side hung a curtain, screening the doorway from a sleeping-chamber. This in turn adjoined a lamplit spiral stair.

  There was no one to be seen, and still no sound of imminent pursuit; even Calissa's angry cries had subsided. But from below came shouts and the sound of weapons thumping at the doors. He slipped past the curtain and, mentally gauging directions in this unfamiliar corner of the Manse, turned away from the stair to pass through the empty second-level chamber.

  The chamber's far door opened onto one of the broad halls, but no sooner had he set out along it than he was opposed. Around the corner ahead of him two men came running, obviously pursued. The first Conan recognized as Svoretta, the chief of espionage, his portly figure black-caped and wearing a soft-brimmed hat that concealed half his face. Close beside him came Eubold, the fencing-master, armored from neck to waist and laboring breathlessly.

  "Well, barbarian, you are a welcome sight!" Panting, the spy-chief slowed as he drew near. "Your ward is dead, I am told! But fear not, you still can be of service to us!" He halted, casting an uneasy glance behind him, then turned a guileless look on Conan. "Unless, of course, you have cast your lot in with the traitors ...?"

  "Nay, not with traitors." Conan regarded Svoretta stonily as he drew his sword. "Hence, never with you!"

  The whistling slash of his saber should have killed the spymaster in his tracks; yet the portly man moved swiftly under his cape. His own unsheathed sword, carried slyly out of sight, gashed forth to meet Conan's; it was a longer, straighter blade than the cavalry weapon carried by the northerner, made slim to pierce the joints of armor suits. In riposte it darted swiftly toward the Cimmerian's unshielded neck, causing him to dodge back.