IV
Soul of the Cimmerian
Conan, Shubal and Lady Khashtris occupied a camp in which they were the only humans alive-though they now possessed two additional horses, bridled and saddled. All four bearers lay dead, the Ophireans murdered and the two hired by Khashtris slain by Conan. One lay under the woman's collapsed tent; the other two men there were unknown to Conan.
They were known to Khashtris and Shubal. The corpses were of her other two bodyguards, he who had been 'ill' and he had fled the thieves' attack in Shadizar.
'These two plotted it,' Conan mused aloud. 'Both of you and your bearers were to die. Perhaps these dogs made agreement with those thieves of Shadizar, or hired them. You travel with too much wealth and not enough protection, Khashtris.' He had called her by name without giving it a thought; Shubal noted, but made no comment. The noblewoman did not so much as compress her lips. 'That failed, and so they put two likely bearers in your way. You hired them-'
'Foolishly!' Khashtris said, in bitter self-accusation.
'Aye, foolishly Conan said, as though she were not his noble and wealthy employer. 'The two traitors followed us. Those tik-nuts the Stygian half-breed gave Shubal were a drug, or drugged. I didn't like the things, but he didn't know I'd spat them out, for I had no desire to insult him. I spat about ten times more to rid my mouth of their foul brown taste! Both Shubal and I were to sleep through your murder and robbery. Who can be sure why they first slew the Ophirean bearers?'
'Ishtar damn me for a fool!' Shubal blurted. 'Beat me with your sword, Conan!'
'Better we both beat our employer for hiring only two trustworthy men-and four treacherous midden-heap rats I
Better still, let us beat no one or our breasts either, but be on our way. Men have died afore, and I have killed afore. I reckon I will again. I may even make a mistake or two, some day. My noble lady: this time we leave that silly chair-on-poles. You will ride like a human and not a priest of Set, or you will walk while Shubal and I ride. Crom's name, we now have eight horses! Shall I tie you to one, or help you to mount?'
She gazed at him, large-eyed and blinking. 'I – I've never – my legs -'
"The legs of Noble Khashtris are better than those of any girl of fifteen or of twenty! Come, be human; be a wench, for once! You might enjoy it.'
Khashtris stared at him, and chewed her lip, and then suddenly she was smiling.
Thus rode the three into the walled city of Khauran, capital of Khauran, and along its broad main thoroughfare. All bestrode good mounts, and Khashtris sat tall with much display of fine bare leg. People stared; the noble lady held high her chin and her brows, and looked straight before her.
Between marble-walled structures the trio rode, leading five other horses. One was laden with the weapons of dead men. Conan was no stripper of corpses, but neither was he one to leave good weapons lying about to rust or fall into the hands of farm children.
They rode to a house of greenish marble and black pillars near the palace, and here was the Lady Khashtris made welcome by her household. A restive Conan suffered himself to be bathed while his armour and tunic were dusted. Nothing here was large enough to fit the Cimmerian, who clad himself again in the same tunic, over which he drew his padded jack and new shirt of mesh-mail. His lady employer still was not ready. He occupied the time of waiting in the downing of a huge cup of wine and the hurling of japery at Shubal, who wore a silver-bordered tunic of snowy white and a brocaded short-cloak for which Conan saw no purpose.
Once Khashtris had bathed and been coiffed anew and clothed she appeared-and at once pointed out how filthy
Conan's voluminous white cloak was. Rather than wear a cape such as Shubal's – who was smirking – Conan doffed the travel-soiled garment and refused to don the one she proffered.
Lady Khashtris and her bodyguards went to the palace, where a messenger had already carried word of her coming. Many eyes watched the strapping near-giant with the hot blue eyes and the mop of square-trimmed black hair as he accompanied his gemmed employer and fellow bodyguard to the lofty structure housing Khauran's royalty. Despite the popularity of beards in Khauran, Conan had scraped his face smooth. The new mail-vest had been polished, and shone. Though its owner had slain four since purchasing it, the armour had yet to turn a blade or be blood-splashed. Through the lofty marble halls of the palace they paced, accompanied by the clack-clack of Khashtris's shoes. Her yellow skirts rustled. Past doors arabesqued in gold they walked; past bronze-cuirassed guards who seemed to see nothing; past servants whose eyes rounded while they stared at the trio; by all these they passed in silence. They came to two tall doors plated with silver. On them some watery-eyed fellow had doubtless spent a year of his life inditing various scenes from the past of the Askhaurian dynasty.
Khashtris was expected. She hardly gave the annunciator time to call out her name before she swept within. Conan followed her into a large chamber of pennon-hung walls of pink marble veined with red and grey, tiled floor strewn with carpets brought from the east, and an impressive number of burning lamps in ornate cressets of brass enhanced with gold and onyx.
Here were no guardsmen. Here were gathered six adults and a child of six or so years, who was gowned like a miniature queen. Her Conan saw but briefly, as she departed the audience chamber in the company of her nurse. He gave her but a glance: the child-sister of a dead witch, her hair black as that of her Cousin Khashtris's, though not piled and teased up into the Khaurani cone.
Cousin or no, Khashtris genuflected to the woman seated on the dais carpeted in scarlet. Just behind their employer, Conan and Shubal bowed. The woman on the throne of Khauran bore signal resemblance to her cousin. Her black hair was coiffed identically to Khashtris's, if more ornately dressed; so was the hair ' every noblewoman of this land. The queen's crown sur-minded her high-spiring hair and its gems, yellow and smoky topaz, twinkled as if winking at Conan. Only her face and palms and fingers were unclothed; the youngish woman was draped in a pile of brocaded velvet and shining mantle of rich hues. As to her form Conan could be sure only that she was of a broad-hipped plumpness.
High of forehead, the queen of Khauran affected tiny lines of eyebrows that were hardly the preference of the barbaric hillmen of cold Cimmeria. He liked her wine-coloured lips well enough, and her fine nose with its thin wings, even as he saw that her face was that of no happy woman.
Her attire was magnificent. Embroidery of cloth-of-gold billowed inward from her shoulders in arabesque loops to the high collar of her bodice of mauve velvet, and up on to the high, stiffened collar. Bare round arms flashed from sleeves slashed from shoulder to wrist; each was cleverly caught just above the elbow by a few stitches and encircling bands of beaten gold. Thence each sleeve flowed down into a tight cuff that descended in points on to the backs of her hands. Ending in loops, the points were secured to the bases of her middle fingers, so that she seemed to be wearing matching rings of red-violet.
Below swept many yards of shimmering satin the colour of ice seen through turquoise. Over it the mauve bodice continued downward in a broad central panel. This fell to the skirt's hem, where it was purfled in silver in the Finquese style of Bakhaurus. A bandeau of scintillant cloth-of-silver circled the bodice over the bosom, sewn there and clasped with an ornate pin of shell and pearls and silver wire. From this outer bandeau draped a sort of third skirt, long behind; in front it formed a deep, inverted V whose arms flowed down the queen's legs and thighs like folded wings of mesh-mail.
From the royal lobes cascaded prodigiously ornate ear drops like bursts of incandescent light. Else-wise her jewellery was but a single ring formed of a serpent of gold and another of silver, intertwined.
Conan swallowed. She was only a few years older than he, and the mercenary who was bodyguard to her older cousin did entertain an interesting if silly dream or two...
Gathered with the queen were the City Governor, Acrallidus, whose beard was grey though his hair was not, and his son of about fourteen years; Krall
The young noble from afar was enamoured of the queen and attached to her, Conan saw almost at a glance; he noted too how Queen lalamis looked at that same Sergianus. The queen had a suitor then, come down from a land well to the north-west. A smith's son forgot his dreams.
All gave listen while Khashtris told of the adventure in Shadizar, of the later plot, of the loyalty of Shubal and the heroism and prowess of the Cimmerian. Eyes appraised the big youth anew. Now Conan saw respect and interest in those gazes. He was silent. In this, his first visit with such a collection of high-placed personages, he sought to look older, the brave and noble bodyguard.
He hoped that wise-eyed Acrallidus could not recognise a thief when one stood before him, however mailed and lauded
Khashtris finished her glowing narrative, and all were silent while Queen lalamis the Sad gazed upon the tall newcomer.
'Conan of Cimmeria: you have twice saved the life of our beloved cousin, and we are more grateful than may be expressed in words. Name a boon, warrior: what would you ask of the Queen of Khauran?'
Perhaps Conan appeared disrespectful to some; it was merely that he spoke instantly: 'My soul!'
The queen blinked, stared. Some of those around her looked questioningly at each other, but still none other spoke.
'He speaks literally, Lady Queen,' Khashtris told her cousin. 'A certain Zamboulan sorcerer in Arenjun had the means of stealing souls from their living owners and lodging them in mirrors. Now the sorcerer is dead, but Conan and Ins soul remain separated. Should the mirror be broken, he will be... a horrid purposeless creature which he has Described to me.'
'Incredible,' Acrallidus murmured, while the queen all but whispered, 'Horrible!' And Sergianus lifted one eyebrow as if in doubt: 'Sorcery? Separate soul from body? is incredible, indeed!'
'So is the curse on the rulers of Khauran,' the ruler of Khauran said in a passing quiet voice. 'Conan: what is it you need us to do?'
The Cimmerian showed them the leathern package he had strapped to his belt; it resembled a well-stuffed pillow, covered in leather and criss-crossed with thongs, knotted and knotted again. He squatted to place it on the pink-tiled floor, a few feet before the three steps to the queen's dais.
'The mirror is contained here, Lady Queen. It must be placed in your hands.'
'Need I unwrap it?'
'No, Lady Queen,' Conan said.
While all watched, he untied, broke, and slipped the thongs. Next he unwrapped four folds of what was now revealed to be a large, broad strip of well-tanned and unusually supple leather. Within, thong-bound, were two plates of metal. Soon he separated them to withdraw a package wrapped in the dark green velvet that had draped a chamber of Hisarr Zul. There was much of the stuff, and while Conan unfolded its windings with care, the eyes of everyone present stared in expectation.
At last Conan had unwrapped that which he had protected so well against accidental breakage; the smallish mirror of Hisarr Zul.
'You had it wrapped well enough, Cimmerian!' Conan looked at the speaker, the man called Sergianus of Nemedia in his sleeved, long, wine-red overtunic belted over a slightly longer tunic of green.
'Nothing in the world has been of more importance to me, Lord Sergianus, save only my life.'
'Yet you risked that to rescue our cousin,' Queen lalamis said.
'Aye. And she has brought me to you, Lady Queen. Only the wearer of a royal crown can end the spell and return my soul to me. If the mirror is broken, I and my soul are parted forever. If it is broken by a crowned ruler, we are united.'
The queen was leaning forward, her gaze moving from the squatting man to his mirror and back again to his face. 'Then we must break it for you, Conan.'
Wait.' This from Arkhaurus, the royal adviser, and Conan's eyes narrowed. 'Wait, my queen. Suppose that all this is part of a sorcerous plot? —that some awful sorcery will be loosed on our lady queen by the breaking of the mirror? Dare we place faith in-'
'Lady cousin and Queen! I owe this man my life, twice over! I refuse to believe that he can be doubted, or that any plot is afoot against you. He is the unfortunate... and Arkhaurus wrongs both him and me.'
'Queen of Khauran -' Acrallidus began, and the queen lifted a hand. The City Governor broke off, and none spoke, for they'd been silently commanded to silence. The queen studied Conan in obvious contemplation. At last, with a brief nod, she straightened.
'Bring me the mirror, Conan of Cimmeria.' Taking up the small bit of wood-framed glass in both hands, Conan carried it to the foot of the dais. Standing on the floor at the base of the three-stepped marble platform, he did not have to look up to meet the eyes of the seated queen. lie held out the mirror with both hands; with both hers she took it. Royal fingers touched his. Conan noticed that they felt no different from any other fingers, unless softer. Conan's mind accommodated that intelligence by shifting a bit, and never again would he stand – much less kneel! - in awe of royalty.
Queen lalamis looked down into the glass of a dead sorcerer, and a wordless exclamation escaped her red-tinted lips. Then: "Why – there is a man in this glass, a tiny youth with – it is you, Conan!'
'Some think it more I than what stands here of me,' he
I. I, without himself fully understanding the twisted meaning of those words.
'Sorcery!' Arkhaurus said, in a low hiss.
'I want to see!' That from young Krallides son of Acrallidus, and he pressed forward.
The queen did not afford him that privilege. Holding the mirror with care, she stood. Conan moved aside as she ascended the steps of the dais in a rustle of satin. Three steps she took along the carpet bisecting the floor of rose tiles and she stopped. Lifting the mirror with both hands, then looked at Conan.
'Lady Queen,' Sergianus said urgently, 'flying glass-'
Conan glanced angrily at the man just as lalamis hurled the mirror against a wall of stone.
The Cimmerian heard the crash, and jerked as if struck; for he felt a great surge within him; a sudden wholeness, as though his body had encompassed emptiness now filled. An alien he was staring at Sergianus, and Conan's eyes were huge and his face showing astonishment. The hairs stood up along his arms and on his nape. None other noted; all stared at the mirror.
Perhaps the others underwent similar reaction to Conan's; they saw the mirror shatter against the audience-chamber wall, and yet they saw no flying shards of glass. All floated, just before the wall whereon the mirror had shattered
three feet above the floor.
The gleaming slivers and bits of glass seemed to dance like refulgent dust-motes of many sizes, or spilled gem-.tones. And then gasps sounded, for each tiniest bit of glass burst into flame. All flared brightly so that every watching – squinted – and then flame and glass vanished.
On the floor near the wall lay the wooden frame of I Hisarr Zul's mirror of sorcery. Not one trace of flame could lo seen; not one particle of glass. No faintest hint of the scent of fire remained in the chamber.
Now all looked at the Cimmerian. They saw how he glared at Sergianus, who, also noting, frowned. Then Conan blinked. He seemed to stagger. He gave his shaggy head ii jerk. After shooting Sergianus a disbelieving look, the 'Cimmerian turned to the queen. When he lifted his head, Shubal and Khashtris saw Conan smile, naturally and far
from bestially, for the first time since the dark-maned giant had entered their lives.
'Lady Queen, it is done. T am in debt to Khauran and it royal house. felt my soul return to me!'
'I but repaid a debt, Conan,' the queen said, forgetting the royal pronoun. 'You are welcome in Khauran, saviour of – our cousin.'
V
In the Tavern of Hilides
Conan and Shubal had been walking about Khauran for a couple of hours when the Shemite guided his younger companion on to a street of taverns and inns. They approached the door under a broad-striped awning of orange and bright green. The awning was particularly horrid and hurt Conan's 'yes; the shop was not and did not. Small, cool and clean,
I barely housed two longish trestle tables and benches, and lour other tables: three-legged, for two people who wanted more intimate converse. The two bodyguards, their charge within the palace, sat at one of the latter tables.
'Shubal! You've not been here in awhile!'
'That's because I've been up in Shadizar with my lady,' Shubal told the burly, ruddy-faced man with the large pot belly and eyes like new-tanned cowhide. His brown hair and beard looked as if someone had recently hurled a handful of sand into each.
'Ah! Oho! Shadizar, eh? Eh? And you came back,' the fellow said. 'Why, from all the tales I've heard of that place, your return is a miracle! Just yesterday Verenus made his delivery, and said Pertes's son went off to Shadizar-a month ago! What was it Verenus said; how do we keep good Khaurani boys on the family farm after they've seen Shadizar City of the Wicked, eh? Eh?'
'The miracle that brought me back is this little fellow with me,' Shubal said, tapping Conan's shoulder. 'Since Verenus was just here, Hilides, fetch us a mug each of that watery ale of his.'
'Done. It was tapped this morning. What do you mean, he's a miracle? It's a miracle a lad that age grew so big, mayhap, and suffers himself to be seen in company with such as you! Is that it? Eh?'
'Shadizar wasn't hard for me to leave,' the Shemite implied. 'Noble Khashtris and I were nearly killed there.'
Hilides set glazed earthenware mugs before the two without so much as a thump. The fellow had the arms of a woodsman or warrior, Conan thought, and the belly of a king.
'Oh! Got a story to tell, do ye? How'd it come about, Shubal? Whorehouse brawl? Irate husband? Ho ho! Eh?'
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