Sabaninus lifted his hands and regarded them, turning them. 'My-'
'Smooth and strong. The hands of a man of ... I can remove two of each three years of your age, Baron. Yours will be the hands and hair and teeth-and the sight-of a man of thirty. Are these enough, Baron of Korveka?'
The old nobleman swallowed hard. 'Baron of the Mountains of Gloom; Baron of the Farms; My Lord Sheep-herder.' Perhaps his eyes were rheumy as he uttered the harsh words so softly spoken; perhaps tears sparkled there. He closed those eyes in a long, long blink.
'To me ... to be the age of thirty is ... is as adolescence to others, Khi Zang.'
The yellow-skinned man sat in silence. They two sat alone in the baron's room of office, and would not be interrupted. Light flickered on bald head and on the visitor's old-gold skin.
'You are ... certain, Khi Zang, that this can be accomplished ?'
'I am. It is not without cost.'
The baron showed attentiveness while maintaining silence. The Khitan made a brief, dismissive gesture.
'It will cost a life; one life for Koth! There is no danger to you: none. Once the transformation is accomplished, you will of course be wise to move swiftly, for though your appearance will be that of such a younger man, you will still be ... you.'
'It is not enough, of course.'
'Of course it is not. Youth is the goal of all; its semblance : but a mocking reminder of what was. Yet you do not need me to remind you that neither is death enough, nor of proper recognition for one such as you.'
'Aye. After fourscore and two years. But to seem to be thirty . . .'
'Aye, Baron. It is not enough. But what man has even much as the appearance of being younger?'
The baron stared at the man whom he saw as through . thick morning gaze, or through an ell of water, however .ear. 'Khitan . . . Khi Zang . . . you? How old are you?'
Strong white teeth flashed in a yellow-bronze face as the Khitan laughed. 'I wondered when you would be minded of that! How old do you think I am?'
'I-'
'Do not dissemble with me, Sabaninus,' Khi Zang said, the first in many years to call the other by his name. 'I know you see but poorly, and strain even for that!'
Sabaninus was a while assimilating that, and wondering if others knew. Probably. He had lied even to himself. And now . . . was this young visitor from a land so far away as to be considered legend by many . . . was he lying? Was it a trick? Was Sabaninus of Korveka once again but the butt of a joke, of contempt?
Most desperately, he did not want to believe that he was; he wanted to believe Khi Zang of Khitai. 'You appear . . . little more than . . . thirty.'
The Khitan said equably, 'the son is older than that, Baron.' Indeed, Zang is nearly fifty. And aye, I have come thousands of miles to visit you. My years are not gone from me; they are no longer visible. Nor do I feel them —save in the mind.'
'You remember all?'
'I do.'
'And you have journeyed all this way to offer me y-the appearance of youth?'
'I have.'
Why?'
Khi Zang sat forward. 'At some time in future, Sabaninus of Korveka, I or my son will have, business in Khauran. We will ask nothing that you-or your son? -cannot give, in willingness. A temple. That is in future, Sabaninus; how much future have you? Presently, I will have a saddlebag of you-one saddlebag, Baron-filled with that which you have hidden here in quantity. Gold.'
'Gold! You know even of-'
'I do. The fortune of the House of Saban, and of what value is gold to a man who dies old and alone and heiress?'
'You are in my home, and you are cruel, Khitan I'
Khi Zang saw that there was strength and fire in the baron yet, and he bowed his head. 'Cruel. Aye, honesty is cruelty, to the old. What need is there for men so old as we to avoid facts lest they be 'cruel', Baron of Korveka? Come, Sabaninus. Had I said, 'What would you pay for youth?' you'd have blurted, 'All I have!' For the appearance of youth, then, and the opportunity it brings . . . what? The twentieth part of all you possess? A deed of gratitude to be paid by the queen and prince you leave upon dying; a debt to be paid by architecture? Your soul and your fortune, remain yours. Sabaninus of Korveka.'
Do they? Sabaninus thought, and his brain was turmoil. He said, 'O Lady Ishtar! How can I refuse you?'
This he asked helplessly, feeling that he should. The Khitan was right. His life was all that a man possessed of real value; that and his honour and his dreams. Gold and some future claim; these were not comparable. Nor even was wisdom and further reflection. Tonight, tomorrow, next month might bring the fulfilling of his years on this plane. Sabaninus considered, and reflected, and cast consideration and reflection from him with a saddlebag full of gold.
What was gold? But-what was this about ... a life? Immediately he became wary again; surely the man would not demand the son he hoped to get on Queen lalamis?
He had said, 'How can I refuse you ?' and Khi Zang said nothing.
'I will do it. What must be done? Tell me in detail. Life? What life is demanded?'
'Open to us the final keep of this keep; your underground of final refuge. Fetch, bring, lure to us there-for now it does not matter-a maiden. You will be I... and you must be careful to do as I direct.'
'I ... I am not to slay . . .'
'You are to be still, and silent, and to observe. You contend with a concept of what is Good, and what is not. Tonight you must put such superstitions from you. You sacrifice yourself, for Koth! These things that I have stated and are only are required of you, Baron of Korveka. Of me: my skills. Of her: her unimportant life.'
'You keep reminding me . . .'
'Yes. I will not lie or dissemble to you, Sabaninus. I have not found that which is free in this world; have you, in score and two years? Your gain-perhaps Koth's gain can be bought at the cost of another life. So it must be, you must understand.'
The baron raised tremulous, liver-spotted, spindly hands over his sunken old face. I am not a bad man. I have been a bad man. It is for Korveka, and for Koth!
Through his hands his voice was low, muffled:
'I will do it.'
Nateela of Ophir was eighteen and she had been slave for fifteen years.
Happiness had begun for her the day a man in rustic allure had bought her in Khorshemish. Knowing then only that he smelled of sheep and was some far lord's steward, she had been more than apprehensive on the long trek east .Hid north. Beyond those menacing, difficult mountains she had gazed upon a land of lovely lakes and rolling greenlands allotted with sheep and kine. As the party of her new owners descended, she saw that laboriously constructed fences of grey rock blocked the grazing animals from the land under cultivation. There grew crops and the people seemed happy enough. Then she knew new fear, when her escort headed for the great baronial manse, bearing city-bought supplies, linking saddlebags, and . . . the new human property: Nateela.
There had been no need of fear. She had been eleven then, and for seven years Nateela had known happiness and peace, good food and adequate rest, and never a beating.
Now she did not care ever to leave the domain of the burn of Korveka. She secretly loved the man, as an uncle or father. Her woman's love was an altogether different form and was reserved for Vanirius, son of the steward. Not that the handsome young free man took note.
This night Nateela did not know why the baron had been so long below, in that mouldy keep of keeps, with M strange guest. Nor did she question, or much care. She had been told-by the baron himself-to fetch them nothing but cider, about the time the moon was over the shear in enclosure.
She was not anxious to descend into the darkness of till underground chamber designed so long ago as final haven for the baronial family in the event of siege. She went. Her lord was below; she trusted her lord and served him willingly. He was no bad man and now surely had but few years left him. It was strange that he'd wanted wine, down there in the dark and the damp, to allay such pains as those in his left leg and his right elb
ow and left shoulder. The? plagued him much, she knew. She wished she were sorcerer, to rid him of his pain.
He was so old. It was stupid to talk, as some philosopher! were said to do, of 'average life expectancy' for the number of years thus arrived at averaged in the many many who died in the first year or two of their lives-and the women who succumbed to childbed fever. Even so the lord baron of Korveka had lived beyond the span gained by very few men, and fewer women. Nateela was aware this, and the only apprehension she now knew was what might befall her after his inevitable death. Inexplicably he had chosen no successor, adopted no one; the King of Khorshemish would surely take the lands and send another lord to preside over them. Or perhaps one would accept the lands and their revenues, but remain on the other side of tin mountains rather than live so far from the capital. Then nothing would change, for the steward was no mean man and his son Vanirius ...
Nateela did not think on it. She but served Sabaninus well and loyally, and with love.
The air as she descended was thick and musty, smelling of earth-though she smelled, strangely, the burning herb and tin rust. That was nice, though a bit thickly cloying. The old steps were dark. From below, candles or lamps were lit in invitation, and she heard the two men talking. Crouching a bit to avoid cobwebs, she descended slowly downward, with care though without stealth.
She heard the baron's voice, and then she could distinguish the words: 'My steward has been told that you and it will be very late tonight, alone, for Khorshemish. So have my household overseer. Both have retired, probably dunking to try to aid me on the morrow. Meanwhile, two wait the appearance of you and my nephew, Sergianus had better be at the stable, with horses and provisions prepared for us four.'
'You appear to have arranged well.' Nateela heard the accented voice of the strange, yellow man. 'And the drinks?'
'Ishtar forgive me,' the baron said in a low voice more tremulous than usual. 'She should be bringing us refreshment now. Your preparations are complete?'
'They are, Sabaninus.'
Nateela wondered at their words, but forgot them in her surprise at hearing her lord called by name. Never before had she heard that done in his presence. She descended, and bethought her that it were wise to make a sound. A good servant, she coughed.
'Just do remain by me within this circle,' the Khitan went on. 'Perhaps-'
'Save it, Baron of Korveka; that cough is a good servant's announcement of approach.'
Oh good, Nateela thought; the poor old baron probably hadn't heard.
The Khitan's voice rose in volume: 'And none too soon; the musty air below ground does dry a man's mouth and throat!'
The two men fell silent, then. Nateela was glad that the strange yellow man had heard her. The lord baron doubtless heard little more, these days, than he saw. Poor man, poor ill man with neither wife nor son nor daughter; how my heart goes out to him! And a good man, too!
She stepped down on to the floor of the keep within the
keep. A gasp escaped her, for the earth was cold and hard beneath her feet.
'Good sweet cider, my lords.'
'What a lovely gift from such a lovely child, my dear,' the Khitan said, and he smiled.
He was not unhandsome, she supposed. His colour, the glossy blackness of his coarse-looking hair, the strangeness of his almond shapes of eyes; these aspects of his appearance were new to her, and different and undreamt, so that Nateela could not be comfortable in his presence. She managed a tiny smile and was aware of his black eyes on her while she carried her salver to the baron.
The lord of Korveka wore a full-sleeved white blouse and a particularly loose scarlet riding- upon over leggings just as loose.
Both men watched her appreciatively. Though some slaves were left bare above the waist for the good of their spirits and the delectation of their masters, this was not true in the household of Sabaninus of Korveka. True, Nateela wore little. Just as true, that fact made her more interesting to look upon than had she been bare-chested. The yellow-trimmed halter of Kothian green swayed and jiggled with her steps, and the sway of her hips was sensuously visible above the low-slung drawstring of her long skirt of the same hue. Save for a copper bracelet and an amulet suspended on a simple cord about her neck, Nateela wore naught else.
'How beautifully made you are, my dear child,' the Khitan said, as if he were much older.
She flashed him a smile, her lashes lowered, while he took the large mug of cider from her tray.
He stepped back from her, one pace towards the baron. He spoke strange words in stranger inflections. Nothing he murmured was in any language she knew or knew of, but strangely fluid and not unlike a song.
'Thank you, Nateela,' the baron said in a quavery voice. He looked as if he were in mourning. 'You are loved, Nateela.'
'Thank you, my lord,' the Ophirean said while she felt her heart would burst with happiness. What a lovely thing for him to say! What a dear lord she had!'
I lairing a sound behind her, she took no note of how the Khitan swiftly knelt to draw a short arc; it completed the circle in which he and Baron Sabaninus stood. Nateela looked around. They were no longer alone in that underground chamber fitfully lit, and she was too fear-stricken even to shriek. Nor was the newcomer anything that approached the human form.
An awful croak boomed from the thing. Its bulk was missive, a huge dark form in which details were not clear; was a slice of night. All Nateela saw clearly were terrible alluring eyes and immense, gleaming fangs. It ... hopped, twice, towards her. Only then did the Ophirean cry out and back away —
A hand set itself between her shoulder blades, and she .v;is thrust violently forward.
'NO!' That from behind her; she recognised the baron's voice and though her brain was no longer working well, he knew gratitude that it could not have been he who pushed her.
'Hold, you fool!' the other man snapped. 'Move from this circle and you too will d-'
That was all Nateela heard. The thing blotted out all vision with the blackness of an utterly moonless, starless night, and then all sound too, and, after an instant of agony, all feeling as well; for it tore her in half before it bit her.
The Khitan had clamped a hand on one arm of the baron while he renewed the voicing of incantations. Abruptly the horrid thing vanished forever from the domain of Baron Sabaninus. Of Nateela there remained only the few splashes of blood the demon or Dark God had not had time to lap up, ere Khi Zang sent it back into whatever gulf of dreadful darkness it habited.
And then Baron Sabaninus, too, vanished.
The man who stood where he had been wore the baron's clothing, but on this erect, far younger man neither leggings nor jupon hung loose. Holding his arms crooked at the elbows, he stared at the hands he turned and turned before his face. Then his eyes lifted, to stare over his fingers at the Khitan.
'Ishtar's curls! I see you clearly!'
'And I see you clearly, Sergianus!'
'Every feature ... oh ye gods! Oh Lady Ishtar of my fathers ... I am I ... and I am not!'
'I see what a mirror would show you,' the man from Khitai said. 'A man of thirty, tall and straight. Chest and calves bulge with firm young muscle that tunic can barely contain. A shock of rich brown hair from which the' morrow's sun will strike glints of red. A face far from homely and far from old, and keen young eyes. None will know you!'
'Ish . . . tar . . .'
'The goddess of that ivory image in your room of office? Only she might recognise you now! Remember that horses await. They await . . . whom?'
'Me! No-I mean yes. Aye! The horses await Sergianus, my nephew —the nephew of Baron Sabaninus of Korveka. Sergianus . . . am Sergianus.'
'So are you then, my young lord Sergianus.' Khi Zang's sweeping gesture encompassed more than the dim-lit subterranean chamber. 'Nothing interests or keeps us here, Sergianus. Let us away— a queen awaits!'
'Aye!'
And Nateela was forgot in that instant. 'Aye!' Sergianus repeated in a strong voice that
was at once mature and far from old. 'A queen awaits!'
Laughing, trembling not with palsy but in excitement, Sergianus strode to the steps and mounted them. The smiling yellow wizard from Khitai followed. lie closed the door behind them.
The snowy ball of the moon moved but little before they were mounted. Accompanied by two young men whose ambition and greed would make them trustworthy long enough, they rode eastward across the nighted barony. Behind them they led, strangely, but two sumpter-beasts. All four men wore daggers, though only Khi Zang and Sergianus bore swords.
Eventually one of them would part to travel, somehow, the thousands of miles to his home, there to wait years for the accomplishment of his goal in Khauran: the future plantation of a ghastly god from the dark mists of Khitai's ancient most history. Of the other three, but one could complete the journey to the capital of Khauran of the unhappy Queens. By that time, three would have died for his dream.
I
Death in Shadizar
The tall youth walked the nighted streets lithe as a jungle cat on the hunt. The fingers of his big hands remained slightly curled, ready to draw sword or dagger or both. His eyes moved constantly in an effort to spy out the darkest shadows, pools of squid's ink on this poorly-lit street on the perimeter of the city's Watch-patrolled areas. For all his height and powerfully-constructed bulk, he moved almost silently. Eyes watched him from well back within a hallway dark as a well at midnight; the footpad appraised his probable lack of wealth, sized him up, and let the big youth pass.
The young man crossed that perimeter then, reaching the corner of Bazaar Way and, without hesitation, turning left into the Street of Erlik Enthroned. It was both narrower and darker.
The moment he'd rounded the corner, he grunted at impact of a rushing body. A lissome young woman had run full into him. Sleek and slippery, she jiggled wildly in a few strips of scarlet-dyed homespun and shameless gauze sewn with copper coins too small to tempt any but the very lowest of thieves. Her light panting and wild eyes told him she'd been running though not for long, all silent on bare, filthy-soled feet. His arms did not go around her; with a hand on each of her upper arms, he pushed her gently back a pace to look into her face.
The Conan Chronology Page 26