"I, too, have seen her," Hordo replied in a hoarse whisper, "though not without the veils. She is called Lady Tiana, and 'tis said her face is scarred by some disease. She will not allow it to be seen."
"I'll not ask to see her face," Conan said impatiently.
"Listen to me," the one-eyed man pleaded. "Once I followed Eranius when he left us to get his orders.
Always, I knew, he went to the Street of Regrets, each time to a different tavern. This time he left the city entire, and in a grove beyond the wall met this Lady Tiana."
"Then she is part of the smuggling," Conan said. "That may provide a lever, if she proves difficult about answering my questions."
"You do not understand, Cimmerian. I was not close enough to hear what was said, yet did I see Eranius all but grovel before her. He would not do so unless she were high, very high, in the ring. Bother her, and you may find ton score smugglers in this city, hard men all, seeking your head."
"Mayhap they do already." Assuredly someone did; why not a woman who seemed to hate him, for whatever reason? He shrugged off Hordo's hand. "She will be gone if I do not go now."
But Conan paused, for as the Lady Tiana reached the end of the arcade, the blonde who had accompanied Garian appeared before her. Sularia, he had learned her name was, and she was indeed Garian's mistress. The veiled woman moved to go past, but Sularia, in golden breastplates and a golden silk skirt no wider than a man's hand front or rear, sidestepped in front of her.
"All honor to you, Lady Tiana," Sularia said, a malicious smile playing over her sensual lips. "But why are you covered so on such a bright day? I know you would be lovely, could we but persuade you into bangles and silks."
The veiled woman's hand flashed out, cracking across Sularia's face on a backhand blow that sent the blonde crumpling to the ground. Conan was stunned at the blow; it had taken no common woman's strength.
Sularia stumbled to her feet, rage twisting her face into a mask. "How dare you strike me?" she spat. "I-"
"To your kennel, bitch!" a third woman snapped, appearing beside the other two. Tall and willowy, she was as beautiful as Sularia, but with silken black hair and imperious dark eyes in a haughty face. Her blue velvet robe, sewn with tiny pearls, made the blonde look a tavern girl.
"Speak not so to me, Lady Jelanna," Sularia answered angrily. "I am no servant, and soon...." She stopped suddenly.
Jelanna's mouth curled in a sneer. "You are a slut, and soon enough Garian will decide so for himself.
Now, get you gone before I summon a slave to whip you hence."
Sularia trembled from head to foot, her face venomous. With an inarticulate cry of rage, she sped away from the two women, past where Conan and Hordo stood behind the column.
Conan watched her go; when he turned back, Jelanna and Tiana were gone. Scowling, he leaned against the stone.
"In this place I could search a tenday and not find her," he growled. "I should have spoken straight off, instead of letting you draw me away like a frightened boy."
"Mitra, Conan, let us ride from this city." Hordo's single eye fixed the Cimmerian with entreaty. "Forget Lady Tiana. Forget Garian, and his gold. There's gold in Ophir, and when we take blade-fee there, at least we'll know who wants to kill us."
Conan shook his head. "Never have I run away from my enemies, Hordo. 'Tis a bad habit to form. Go you on to the taverns. I go to my chamber to think on how to find this Tiana. I'll find you later, and match you two drinks to one."
As the Cimmerian started away, Hordo called after him. "Always before you knew who your enemies were!"
But Conan walked on. A wise man did not leave an unknown enemy behind him, but rather sought that enemy out. Better to die than flee, for once flight began how could it end? The enemy would come at last, and victory or death would be decided then at a time and place of the foe's choosing. While there was yet life and will, the enemy must be sought.
Reaching his chamber, Conan put his hand to the door; it shifted at his touch. The latch had been drawn.
Warily he drew his blade and stepped aside. With swordpoint he thrust the door open. It swung back to crash against the wall, but there was no other sound, no hint of movement within.
Snarling, the big Cimmerian threw himself through the open door in a long dive, tucking his shoulder under as he hit the floor to roll to his feet, sword at the ready.
Sularia sat up on his bed, crossing her long legs sensuously beneath her and clapping her hands with delight. "Horseman, bowman, swordsman, and now tumbler. What other tricks have you, barbarian?"
Keeping a tight rein on his anger, Conan closed the door. He was no man to enjoy making a fool of himself before a woman, most especially not a beautiful woman. When he turned back to her his eyes were blue glacier ice.
"Why are you here, woman?"
"How magnificent you are," she breathed, "with the sweat of combat still on you. You defeated him, didn't you? Garian could not stand against one such as you."
Hastily he searched the room, flipping aside each tapestry on the wall, putting his head out of the window to make sure no assassin clung to the copings. Even did he look under the bed, before her amused smile made him throw the coverlet back down with an oath.
"What do you look for, Conan? I have no husband to jump out accusing."
"You have a king," he growled. One look at her, golden breastplates barely containing her swelling orbs, narrow strips of golden silk tangled about her thighs, proved she could carry no weapon greater than a pin.
"A king who can talk of nothing but tariffs and grain and things even more boring." A sultry smile caressed her lips, and she let herself fall backward on the bed, breathing deep. "But you, barbarian, are not boring. I sense power in you, though afar as yet. Will you become a king, I wonder?"
Conan frowned. That sequence of words seemed to touch some deep buried memory. Power. That he would be a king. He thrust it all from his mind. A fancy for children, no more.
He laid his sword across the bed above Sularia's head. It would be close to hand there, let come who would. The blonde twisted to gaze at the bare blade, wetting her lips as if its closeness excited her.
Conan clutched the golden links that joined her breastplates in his fist and tore them from her. Her eyes darted back to him, the icy sapphire of his commanding the smoldering blue of hers.
"You have played a game with me, woman," he said softly. "Now 'tis my turn to play."
Neither of them saw the door move ajar, nor the woman in gray veils who stood there a time, watching them with eyes of emerald fire.
Chapter XV
As Conan walked through the Palace the next afternoon, Hordo ran to join him.
"'Tis well to see you, Cimmerian. I had some niggling fears when I did not meet you in the taverns last night."
"I found something else to do," Conan smiled.
Hurrying slaves thronged the corridors, keeping near the walls to leave the center free for strolling lords and ladies, of which there were some few in richly embroidered velvets and satins, hung about with gold chains and emeralds and rubies on necks and wrists and waists. Nobles gave the warrior pair curious looks, men haughtily disdainful, women thoughtful.
Hordo eyed them all suspiciously, then dropped his voice and leaned closer to Conan as they walked.
"Mayhap you took time last night to reconsider what occurred yesterday. Even now Garian's torturers may be heating their irons. Let us to horse and away while we can."
"Cease this foolish prattle," Conan laughed. "Not two glasses ago I exercised at swords with Garian, and he said no ill word to me. In fact, he laughed often, except when his head was thumped."
The one-eyed man's stride faltered. "Cimmerian, you didn't .... Mitra! You do not crack the pate of a king!"
"I cracked no pate, Hordo. Garian's foot slipped on leaves blown by the breeze, and he struck his face with his own hilt in falling. A bruise, no more."
"What men like you and me account a bruise," Hordo said, r
aising a finger like one of the philosophers at the Thestis, "Kings account a mortal insult to dignity."
"I fear you are right," Conan sighed. "You do grow old."
"I am too," Hordo began, and snapped his mouth shut with a glare as he realized what the big Cimmerian had said.
Conan suppressed the laughter that wanted to escape at the look on the bearded man's face. Hordo might call himself old, but he was very ready to thump anyone else who named him so. Then the Cimmerians mirth faded.
They had come on a courtyard in which a score of the Golden Leopards stood in a large circle about Vegentius, all including the Commander stripped to the waist. A small knot of nobles stood discreetly within an arcade on the far side, watching. Apart from them, but also among those columns so she should not seem to watch, was Sularia.
Vegentius turned within the circle, arms flexing over his head. "Who will be next?" he called to the men around him. "I've not worked up a sweat as yet." His bare chest was deep, his shoulders broad and covered with thick muscle. "Am I to get no exercise? You, Oaxis."
A man stepped forward, dropping into a crouch. As tall as Vegentius, he was not so heavily muscled, though no stripling. Vegentius laughed, crouching and circling. Oaxis circled with him, but not laughing.
Abruptly they rushed together, grappling, feet shuffling for position and leverage. Conan could see that the slighter man had knowledge, and agility. Even as the Cimmerian thought, Oaxis slipped an arm free, his fist streaking for Vegentius' corded stomach. Perhaps he remembered who it was he struck, for at the last instant the blow slowed, the impact bringing not even a grunt from the grinning Vegentius.
The bigger man was under no such restraints. His free hand axed into the side of Oaxis' neck with a sound like stone striking wood. Oaxis staggered and sagged, but Vegentius held him up yet a moment.
Twice his fist rose and fell, clubbing the back of the other's neck. The first time Oaxis jerked, the second he hung limp. Vegentius released him to crumple in a heap on the flagstones.
"Who comes next?" the huge Commander of the Golden Leopards roared. "Is there none among you to give me a struggle?"
Two of the bare-chested soldiers ran out to drag their companion away. None of them seemed anxious to feel Vegentius' power. The big man continued turning, smiling his taunting smile, until he found himself facing Conan. There he stopped, his smile becoming grim.
"You, barbar. Will you try a fall, or has that northern cold frozen all the guts out of you?"
Conan's face tightened. He became aware of Sularia's gaze on him. The arrogance of a prideful man under the eyes of a beautiful woman spurred him. Unfastening his swordbelt, he handed it to Hordo. A murmur rose among the nobles; wagers began to be made.
"You've more courage than sense," the one-eyed man grumbled. "What gain you, an you defeat him, except a powerful enemy?"
"He is my enemy already," Conan replied, and added with a laugh, "One of them, at least."
The Cimmerian pulled his tunic over his head and, dropping it to the ground, approached the circle of men. The nobles measured the breadth of his shoulders, and the odds changed. Vegentius, sure that the barbarian's laughter had held some slur against him, waited with a snarl on his face. The soldiers moved back, widening the circle as Conan entered.
Abruptly Vegentius charged, arms outstretched to crush and destroy. Conan's massive fist slammed into the side of his head, jarring him to a halt. Crouching slightly, the Cimmerian dug his other fist under the big soldier's ribs, driving breath from him. Before Vegentius could recover Conan seized him by throat and belt, heaving him into the air, swinging the bulk of the man over his head to send him crashing to his back.
Awe grew in the eyes of the watching soldiers. Never had they seen Vegentius taken from his feet before. Among the nobles the odds changed again.
Conan waited, breathing easily, well balanced on his feet, while Vegentius staggered up, shock writ clear on his face. Then rage washed shock away.
"Barbar bastard!" the big soldier howled. "I spit on your mother's unmarked grave!" And he swung a blow that would have felled any normal man.
But Conan's face was painted now with rage, too. Eyes like icy, windswept death, too full of fury to allow thought of defense, he took the blow, and it rocked him to his heels. Yet in that same instant his fist splintered teeth in Vegentius' mouth. For long moments the two huge men stood toe to toe, giving and absorbing blows which would have been enough to destroy an ordinary man.
Then Conan took a step forward. And Vegentius took a step back. Desperation came on the soldier's face; on Conan's eyes was the cold glint of destruction. Back the Cimmerian forced the other. Back, fists pounding relentlessly, toward the arcade where an ever-growing crowd of nobles watched, dignity forgotten as they yelled excitedly. Then, with a mighty blow, he sent the brawny man staggering.
Struggling to remain on his feet, Vegentius stumbled back, nobles parting before him until he stopped at last against the wall in the shadows of the arcade. Straining, he pushed himself erect, tottered forward and fell at the edge of the arcade. One leg moved as if some part of his brain still fought to rise, and then he was still.
Cheering soldiers surrounded Conan, unheeding of their fallen Commander. Smiling nobles, men and women alike, rushed forward, trying to touch him diffidently, as they might reach to stroke a tiger.
Conan heard none of their praise. In that brief instant when Vegentius had stood within the shadows of the arcade, he had remembered where he had seen the man before. He pushed free of the adulation and acclaim, gathering his tunic and returning to Hordo.
"Do you remember," he asked the one-eyed man quietly, "what I told you of first seeing Taras, when I fell through the roof into his secret meeting, and the big man who stood in the shadows?"
Hordo's eye darted to Vegentius, now being lifted by his soldiers. The nobles were drifting away. "Him?"
he said incredulously.
Conan nodded, and the bearded man whistled sourly.
"Cimmerian, I say again that we should ride for Ophir, just as soon as we can assemble the company."
"No, Hordo." Conan's eyes still held the icy grimness of the fight, and his face wore the look of a wolf on the hunt. "We have the enemy's trail, now. It's time to attack, not run."
"Mitra!" Hordo breathed. "An you get me killed with this foolishness, I'll haunt you. Attack?"
Before Conan could reply, a slave girl appeared, bending knee to the Cimmerian. "I am to bid you to King Garian with all haste."
The one-eyed man stiffened.
"Be at ease," Conan told him. "Was it my head the King sought, he'd not send a pretty set of ankles to fetch me." The slave girl suddenly eyed him with interest.
"I trust no one," Hordo grumbled, "until we find out who wants you dead. Or until we leave Nemedia far behind."
"I'll tell you when it is time to ride for the border," Conan laughed. "Lead on, girl." She darted away, and the Cimmerian followed.
King Garian waited in a room hung with weapons and trophies of the chase, but his mind was not on the hunt. Scrolls and sheets of parchment littered the many tables that dotted the room, and even the floor.
As Conan entered, Garian hurled a scroll across the room with a sound of disgust. The bruise on his cheek stood out against the angry flush of his countenance.
"Never ask to be a king, Conan," were his first words.
Taken aback, Conan could only say. "And why not?"
Garian's bluff face was a picture of loathing as he swept his arms about to indicate all of the scrolls and parchments. "Think you these are the plans for some grand campaign? Some magnificent ceremony to honor my father's name and memory? Think you so?"
Conan shook his head. More times than one his life had been altered by the plans and strategies of one king or another, but he had never been party to those plannings. He eyed a parchment, lying almost at his feet. The sheet seemed covered with columns of numbers.
Garian stalked about the room liftin
g scrolls from tables, hurling them to the floor. "The city drains must be cleared or, so the Physicians' Guild claims, the miasmas will bring on a plague. It is recommended the ancient passages beneath the Palace be located and filled, to make the Palace more secure. Part of the city wall must be rebuilt. The army's pay is in arrears. Grain to be bought. Always more grain." He stopped, scowling at the spreading antlers of a great stag on the wall. "I took that in the wilderness on the Brythunian border. How I wish I were back there now."
"Can your counselors not deal with those things?" Conan asked.
The King laughed bitterly. "So they could, were it not for the gold. Gold, Conan. I am reduced to grubbing for it like a greedy merchant."
"The Treasury-"
"-is well nigh bare. The more grain I must buy in Ophir and Aquilonia, the higher the price goes, and I must try to replace an entire crop, with insane brigands burning those wagons that do not travel under army escort and many that do. Already have I ordered some ornaments to be melted, but even an I strip the Palace bare it would be barely enough."
"What will you do?" Conan asked. Always had he imagined the wealth of kings to be limitless. This was a new thing for him, that a king might have to worry about gold no less than he, if in greater amounts.
"Borrow," Garian replied. "A number of nobles and merchants have wealth to rival my own. Let them take a hand in preventing our nation from starving." He rooted among the parchments until he found one folded and sealed with the Dragon Seal of Nemedia. "You will carry this to Lord Cantaro Albanus. He is among the richest men in Nemedia, and so will be among the first to be asked to contribute." Face hardening, he handed the parchment to Conan and added, "Or be taxed if they will not lend."
The King motioned for Conan to go, but the big Cimmerian remained where he stood. It was a delicate thing he was about to do, but he was not a man used to delicacy, and he felt an unaccustomed awkwardness. Garian looked at him in obvious surprise that he did not leave.
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