The Vendhyan cavalrymen stared at Conan, black eyes unblinking and expressionless, as he led the stallion among them onto the raft. They were tall men, but he was half a head taller than the biggest. Some tried to stand straighter. The only sound on the raft was the occasional stamp of a hoof. Conan could feel the tension in the soldiers. Any one of them would take a direct look as a challenge and being obviously ignored as an insult. As he was not looking for a fight before he even got across the river, the Cimmerian involved himself with pretending to check his saddle girth.
The raft lurched and swayed, swinging out into the current as a strain was taken on the two ropes. It was then that Conan found something to look at in earnest, something on the shore behind them. Well away from the water, Torio rode slowly, peering at the ground. Looking for what he had thrown down, Conan realized. He watched the guard captain until the raft touched the far bank.
Chapter XII
Seen close, the huge tent of golden silk was impressive, supported by more than a score of tent poles. The hundred Vendhyan lancers could have fit inside easily, and their horses as well.
The circle of mounted men opened before Conan, seemingly without command. As he rode through, it closed again. He wished he did not feel that those steel-tipped lances were the bars of a cage.
Turbaned servants rushed to meet the Cimmerian, one to take the stallion's bridle, another to hold his stirrup. At the entrance to the pavilion stood a servant with cool, damp towels on a silver tray, to wipe his hands and face. Still another knelt and tried to lave his sandaled feet.
"Enough," Conan growled, tossing back a crumpled towel. "Where is your master?"
A plump man appeared in the entrance, a spray of egret plumes on his large turban of gold and green. Beneath the edge of his gold-brocade tunic peeked the pointed, curling toes of silken slippers. Conan thought this was the wazam until the man bowed deeply and said, "Pray follow me, master."
Within, a large chamber had been created by hangings of cloth of gold and floors of Vendhyan carpets fit for the palace of a king. Incense lay thick and heavy in the air. Hidden musicians began to play on flute and cithern as Conan entered, and five women, so heavily veiled and swathed in silk that he could see nothing but their dark eyes, began to dance.
Reclining on a rainbow of silken cushions was a tall man, his narrow olive face topped by a turban of scarlet silk. The servant's snowy plumes were duplicated here in diamonds and pearls. About his neck hung a thick necklace of gold set with emeralds as large as pigeon's eggs, and every finger wore a ring of rubies and sapphires. His dark eyes were deep-set and harder than any of the gems he wore.
"Are you Karim Singh?" Conan asked.
"I am." The seated man's deep voice held a note of shock, but he said, "Your lack of the proper forms is strange, but amusing. You may continue it. You are the one called Patil. It is a name of my country and seems odd on one so obviously from distant lands."
"There are many lands," Conan said, "and many names. The name Patil serves me."
The wazam smiled as though the Cimmerian had said something clever.
"Sit. One must endure the deprivations of travel, but the wine, at least, is tolerable."
Seating himself cross-legged on the cushions, Conan ignored silver trays of candied dates and pickled quail eggs proffered by servants who seemed to appear and vanish by magic, so obsequiously silent were they.
He did accept a goblet of heavy gold, ringed by a wide band of amethysts. The wine had a smell of perfume and tasted of honey.
"Word travels quickly," Karim Singh went on. "I soon heard about you, a pale-skinned giant with eyes like.... Most disconcerting, those eyes."
He did not sound in the least disconcerted. "I know much of the western world, you see, though it is a veiled land to many of my countrymen.
Before journeying to Aghrapur to make treaty with King Yildiz, I studied what has been written. While there, I listened. I know of the pale barbarians of the distant north, fierce warriors, stark slayers, ruthless. Such men can be useful."
For the first time in what seemed a very great while, Conan felt he was on ground he knew, if ground he did not particularly like. "I have taken service as far as Ayodhya," he said. "After that my plans are uncertain."
"Ah, yes. The Khitan. He is a spy, of course."
Conan almost choked on the wine. "The merchant?"
"In Vendhya all foreigners are considered spies. It is safer that way."
The intent look in Karim Singh's eyes made the Cimmerian wonder for whom he himself was considered to be spying. "But there are spies, and there are spies. One who spies on a spy, for instance. Not all in my land have Vendhya's best interests in their hearts. It might be of interest to me to know to whom in Vendhya the Khitan speaks, and what he says. It might interest me enough to be worth gold."
"I am not a spy," Conan said tightly. "Not for anyone." He felt a moment's confusion as the wazam gave a pleased smile.
"Very good, Patil. It is seldom one finds a man faithful to the first buyer."
There was a patronizing tone to his words that made Conan's eyes grow cold. He thought of explaining, but he did not think this man would recognize the concept of honor if it were thrust in his face. As he cast about for a way to change the subject, the Cimmerian's gaze fell on the dancers and his jaw dropped. Opaque veils still covered the faces of the five women to the eyes, but the other swathings of silk now littered the carpets beneath their feet. All of them. Supple curves of rounded olive flesh spun across the chamber, now leaping like gazelles with stretching legs, now writhing as though their bones had been replaced with serpents.
"You appreciate my trinkets?" Karim Singh asked. "They are trophies, after a fashion. Certain powerful lords long opposed me. Then each discovered he was not so powerful as he thought, discovered, too, that even for a lord, life itself could have a price. A favorite daughter, for instance. Each personally laid that price at my feet. Are they not lovely?"
"Lovely," Conan agreed hoarsely. He strove for a smoother tone, lest the other take his surprise for a lack of sophistication. "And I have no doubt their faces will be equally as lovely when the final veil is dropped."
Karim Singh stiffened momentarily. "I forget that you are an outlander.
These women are of my purdhana. For them to unveil their faces before anyone other than myself would shame them greatly, and me as well."
Considering the soft nudities before him, Conan nodded. "I see," he said slowly. He did not see at all. Different lands, different customs, but this tended toward madness. Taking a deep breath, he set down the goblet and rose to his feet. "I must go now. Kang Hou will soon be crossing the river."
"Of course. And when you reach Ayodhya and no longer serve him, I will send for you. There is always need for a man of loyalty, for a ruthless slayer untroubled by civilized restraints."
Conan did not trust himself to speak. He jerked his head in what he hoped might pass for a bow and stalked out.
Outside the tent the plump man with the egret plumes on his turban was waiting, a silver tray in his hands. "A token from my master," he said, bowing.
There was a leather purse on the tray. It was soft and buttery in Conan's palm and he could feel the coins within. He did not open it to count them or to see if they were gold or silver.
"Thank your master for his generosity," he said, then tossed the purse back to the startled man. "A token from me. Distribute it among the other servants."
He could feel the plump fellow's eyes on his back as he strode to his horse-the two servants were still there; one to hold the bridle, one to hold the stirrup for him to mount-but he did not care. If Karim Singh was insulted by the gesture, so be it. He had had all of His Puissant Excellency, the Adviser to the Elephant, that he could stomach.
The steel-tipped circle opened once more, and Conan rode toward the water. Cursing camel drivers used long switches to drive their laden charges from a raft held tightly against the bank by the slaves on the
tow rope. All three of the rafts were in service now. One, loaded with Vendhyan nobles, was in mid-river, and the last, crammed with camels and merchants, was close behind. Two milling masses, merchants in one, nobles and their odd companions in the other, showed the crossings had begun soon after he had reached this side. The far bank was crowded with those waiting.
The Cimmerian did not see Kang Hou or any of the others. If he crossed back, however, it was just as possible as not that they would pass each other on the river. He drew rein where he could watch all three landing places.
As the black stood flicking its tail at flies, stamping its feet with impatience to run, a Vendhyan cavalryman rode up beside him. The silk and velvet of the Vendhyan's garb marked him as an officer, the gemstudded scabbard of his sword and the gilding of his turbaned helmet as an officer of rank. An arrogant sneer was on his face and his eyes were tinged with cruelty. He did not speak, only stared at the big Cimmerian in fierce silence.
He had sought to avoid a fight once this morning, Conan told himself.
He could easily do so again. After all, the man but looked at him. Only that. Just looked. Lowering, Conan kept his own gaze on the approaching rafts. The Vendhyan was alone, therefore it had nothing to do with the incident of the purse. In his experience, men like the wazam did not reply to perceived insults in such small ways. But then again, this was beginning not to seem so small. Conan's jaw tightened.
"You are the man Patil," the Vendhyan barked suddenly. "You are not Vendhyan."
"I know who and what I am," Conan growled. "Who and what are you?"
"I am Prince Kandar, commanding the bodyguard of the wazam of Vendhya.
And you will guard your tongue or lose it!"
"I have heard a warning much like that once already today," Conan replied flatly, "but my tongue is still mine, and I will not let go of it easily."
"Bold words," Kandar sneered, "for an outlander with the eyes of a pan-kur."
"The eyes of a what?"
"A pan-kur. The spawn of a human woman's mating with a demon. The more ignorant among my men believe such bring misfortune with their presence, and evil with their touch. They would have slain you already had I permitted it."
There was a shifting in the Vendhyan's eyes as he spoke. The more ignorant of his men? Conan smiled and leaned toward him. "As I said, I know who and what I am."
Kandar gave a start, and his horse danced a step sideways, but he mastered his face and his mount quickly. "Vendhya is a dangerous land for a foreigner, whoever, or whatever, he is. A foreigner who wished to have no fear of what lay around the next turning or what might come in the night would do well to seek a shielding hand, to cultivate a patron in high places."
"And what would this seeking and cultivating require?" Conan asked dryly.
The Vendhyan moved his horse closer and dropped his voice conspiratorially. "That certain information, the contents of certain conversations, be passed on to the patron."
"I told Karim Singh," Conan replied, biting off each word, "and now I tell you, I will not spy on Kang Hou."
"The Khitan? What are you saying? The wazam has an interest in him?
Bah! I care nothing for merchants!"
The Cimmerian felt as though the other's confusion were contagious. "If not Kang Hou, then who in Zandru's Nine Hells. .." He paused at a wild thought. "Karim Singh?"
"Aaah," said Kandar, suddenly all urbanity. "That might be pleasing."
"I begin to believe it all," Conan muttered in tones far from belief.
"I begin to believe you Vendhyans actually could sign a treaty with Yildiz on one day and kill the High Admiral of Turan the next."
The smoothness that had come to the Vendhyan was as suddenly swept away. He clutched Conan's arm with a swordsman's iron grip, and his teeth were bared in a snarl. "Who says this? Who speaks this lie?"
"Everyone in Sultanapur," Conan said quietly. "I suspect, everyone in Turan. Now take your hand from my arm before I cut it off." Behind Kandar the raft loaded with nobles had reached the bank, and men were streaming off. Two Vendhyan women riding sidesaddle walked their horses toward Conan and the prince. One was plainly garbed and veiled so that only her eyes showed. The other, riding in advance, had a scarf of sheer red silk over her raven hair, with pearls worked into her tresses, but she wore no veil. Necklaces and bracelets of gold and emeralds adorned her and there were rubies and sapphires on her fingers.
As Kandar, glaring at Conan, opened his mouth, the unveiled woman spoke in a low musical tone. "How pleasant to see you, Kandar. I had thought you avoided me of late."
The Vendhyan prince went rigid. For an instant his eyes stared through Conan, then he rasped, "We will speak again, you and I." Without ever once looking around or acknowledging the women's presence, Kandar kicked his horse to a gallop, spurring toward the wazam's pavilion, which was already being taken down.
Conan was not sorry to see him go, especially not when he was replaced by so lovely a creature as the jewel-bedecked woman. Her skin was dusky satin, and her sloe eyes were large pools in which a man might willingly lose himself. And those dark, liquid eyes were studying him with as much interest as he studied their owner. He returned her smile.
"It seems Kandar does not like you," he said. "I think I like anyone he does not."
The woman's laugh was as musical as her voice. "On the contrary, Kandar likes me much too much." She saw his confusion and laughed again. "He wants me for his purdhana. Once he went so far as to try to have me kidnapped."
"When I want a woman, I do not ride away without so much as looking at her." He kept his eyes on her face so she would know it was not of Kandar he spoke at all.
"He has cause. My tirewoman, Alyna," she waved a negligent hand toward the heavily veiled woman, "is his sister."
"His sister!" Conan exclaimed, and once more she laughed. The veiled woman stirred silently on her saddle.
"Ah, I see you are bewildered that the sister of a prince could be my slave. Alas, Alyna dabbled with spies and was to face the headsman's sword until I purchased her life. I then held a masque to which Kandar came, intending to press his suit yet again. For some reason, when he discovered Alyna among the dancing girls, he all but ran from my palace. Such a simple way to rid myself of the bother of him."
Conan stared at that beautiful, sweetly smiling face, appearing so open and even innocent, and only what he had already seen and heard that morning allowed him to credit her words. "You Vendhyans seem to have a liking for striking at your enemies through others. Do none of you ever confront an opponent?"
Her laughter was tinkling bells. "You Westerners are so direct, Patil.
Those Turanians! They think themselves devious. They are childlike." He blinked at that. Childlike? The Turanians? Then something else she had said struck him. "You know my name."
"I know that you call yourself Patil. One must needs be deaf not to hear of a man such as yourself, calling himself by a name of Vendhyan.
You interest me."
Her gaze was like a caress running over his broad shoulders and chest, even down to his lean hips and thick-muscled thighs. Many other women had looked at him in like fashion and betimes he enjoyed it. This time he felt like a stallion in the auction barns. "And do you want me to spy on someone, too?" he asked gruffly.
"As I said," she smiled. "Direct. And childlike."
"I am no child, woman," he growled. "And I want no more of Vendhyan deviousness."
"Do you know why so many of King Bhandarkar's court accompanied the wazam to Turan? Not as his retinue, as the Turanians seemed to think.
For us it was a new land to be looted, in a manner of speaking. I found jugglers and acrobats who will seem new and fresh when they perform at my palace in Ayodhya. I bring a dancing bear with me and several scholars. Though I must say the philosophers of Turan do not compare with those of Khitai."
"Do none of you speak straight out? What has this to do with me?"
"In Vendhya," she said, "the en
joyment of life is a way of life. Men of the court give hunts and revels, though the last are often no more than drunken debauches. In any case, neither is proper for a woman of breeding. Yet for every decision made by men on horseback while lancing wild boars, two are made in the palace of a noblewoman. You may ask how mere women compete with the lords and princes. We gather about us scholars and men of ideas, the finest musicians, the most talented poets, the best artists, whether in stone or metal or paint. The newest plays are performed in our palaces and there may be found strange visitors from far-off, mysterious lands. Nor does it hurt that our serving wenches are chosen for their beauty, though unlike the men, we require discretion in their use."
Conan's face had become more and more grim as he listened. Now he exploded. "That is your 'interest' in me? I am to be a dancing bear or a montebank?"
"I do not believe the women of the court will find you a dancing bear,"
she said, "although you are nearly as large as one." Suddenly she was looking at him through long kohled lashes, and the tip of her tongue touched a full lip. "Nor can I see you as a montebank," she added throatily.
"Co-Patil!" came a cry, and Conan saw Hordo leading his horse up from the river.
"I must go," the Cimmerian told her roughly, and she nodded as though in some manner she was satisfied.
"Seek my tent tonight, O giant who calls himself Patil. My 'interest'
in you is not done with." A smile swept away the seductress to be replaced by the innocent again. "You have not asked my name. I am the Lady Vyndra." And a flick of her gold-mounted riding whip sent her horse leaping away, the veiled woman at her heels.
Behind Hordo, Kang Hou's servants were driving the merchant's camels ashore, aided by the smugglers. One of the humped beasts knelt on the bank while Hasan and Shamil solicitously helped Chin Kou and Kuie Hsi into tented kajawahs, conveyances that hung like panniers on the animal's sides.
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