Moving quickly, he arranged the khorasrani on their golden tripods. The incantations of power were spoken. Fires brighter than the sun leaped and flared and formed a cage. The summoning was cried and with a thunderous clap, Masrok floated before him in the bound void, weapons glowing in five of its eight obsidian fists.
"It is long, O man," the demon cried angrily, "since you have summoned me. Have you not felt the stone pulse against your flesh?"
"I have been busy. Perhaps I did not notice." Days since, Naipal had removed the black opal from about his neck to escape that furious throbbing. Masrok had to be allowed to ripen. "Besides, you yourself said that time did not matter to one such as you."
Masrok's huge form quivered as though on the point of leaping at the fiery barriers constraining it. "Be not a fool, O man! Within the limits of my prison have I been confined, and only its empty vastness on levels beyond your knowing has saved me. My other selves know that one of the Sivani's no more! How long can I flee them?"
"Perhaps there is no need to flee them. Perhaps your day of freedom is close, leaving those others bound for eternity. Bound away from you as well as from the world."
"How, O man? When?"
Naipal smiled as he did when a man brought to hopeless despair by his maneuverings displayed the first cracks before shattering. "Give me the location of King Orissa's tomb," he said quietly. "Where lies the centuries-lost city of Maharastra?"
"No!" The word echoed ten thousand times as Masrok spun into an ebon blur, and the burning walls of its cage howled with the demon's rage.
"I will never betray! Never!"
The wizard sat, silent and waiting, until the fury had quieted. "Tell me, Masrok," he commanded.
"Never, O man! Many times have I told you there are limits to your binding of me. Take the dagger that I gave you and strike at me. Slay me, O man, if that is your wish. But I will never betray that secret."
"Never?" Naipal tilted his head quizzically, and the cruel smile returned to his lips. "Perhaps not." He touched the golden coffer, but only for an instant. "I will not slay you, however. I will only send you back and leave you there for all of time."
"What foolishness is this, O man?"
"I will not send you back to those levels vaster than my mind can know, but to that prison you share with your remaining other selves. Can even a demon know fear if its pursuers are also demons? I can only slay you, Masrok. Will they slay you when at last they overtake you? Or can demons devise tortures for demons? Will they kill you, or will you continue to live, to live until the end of time under tortures that will make you remember your prison as the most sublime of paradises?
Well, Masrok?"
The huge demon stared at him malevolently, unblinking, unmoving. Yet Naipal knew. Were Masrok a man, that man would be licking his lips and sweating. He knew!
"My freedom, O man?" the demon said at last. "Free of serving you as well?"
"When the tomb is located," Naipal replied, "and the army buried there is within my grasp, you will have your freedom. With, of course, a binding spell to make certain you can neither harm nor hinder me in the future."
"Of course," Masrok said slowly.
The part about the binding spell was perfect, Naipal thought. A concern for his own future safety was certain to convince the demon he meant to go through with the bargain.
"Very well, O man. The ruins of Maharastra lie ten leagues to the west of Gwandiakan, swallowed ages past by the Forests of Ghendai." Victory!
Naipal wanted to jump to his feet and dance. Gwandiakan! It must be an omen, for the first city at which Karim Singh's caravan would rest once across the Himelias was Gwandiakan. He must contact the wazam with the scrying glass. He would race to meet the chests there and go immediately to the tomb. But no wonder the ruins had never been found.
No road had ever been seen through the Forests of Ghendai, and few had ever tried to cut its tall trees for their wood. Huge swarms of tiny, stinging flies drove men mad and those who escaped the flies succumbed to a hundred different fevers that wracked the body with pain before they killed. Some men would rather die than enter those forests.
"Maps," he said suddenly. "I will need maps so my men will not go astray. You will draw them for me."
"As you command, O man."
The demon's weary defeat was triumphal music to Naipal's ears.
Chapter XVIII
From the hills overlooking Gwandiakan, Conan stared at the city in amazement. Alabaster towers and golden domes and columned temples atop tiered, man-made hills of stone spread in vast profusion, surrounded by a towering stone wall leagues in circumference.
"'Tis bigger than Sultanapur," Enam said in awe.
"'Tis bigger than Sultanapur and Aghrapur together," Hordo said. Kang Hou and his nieces seemed to take the city's size as a matter of course, while Hasan and Shamil had eyes only for the Khitan women. "You judge by the smallness of your own lands," Vyndra mocked. She sat her horse unbound, for Conan had seen no reason to keep her tied once they were away from the caravan. She wore robes of green silk from bundles of clothing the Khitan women had gathered for themselves. They were smaller women than she, and the tightness of her current garb delineated her curves to perhaps greater perfection than she might have wished. "Many cities in Vendhya are as large or larger," she went on.
"Why, Ayodhya is three times so great."
"Are we to sit here all day?" Ghurran demanded grumpily. As the others had grown tired with journeying, the herbalist had seemed to gain energy, but all of it went to irritability.
Prytanis jumped in with still nastier tones. "What of this palace she has been telling us of? After days of living on what we can snare, with naught to drink but water, I look forward to wine and delicacies served by a willing wench. Especially as the Cimmerian wants to keep this one for himself."
Vyndra's face colored, but she merely said, "I will take you there."
Conan let her take the lead, though he kept his horse close behind hers as they wended their way out of the hills. He was far from sure of what to make of the Vendhyan woman or her actions. She had made no attempt to escape and ride to the caravan, even when she knew it was just out of sight ahead of them, with a plain trail showing the way. And he often caught her watching him, a strange, unreadable look in her dark eyes. He had made no advances to her, for it seemed wrong after he had carried her away bodily. She would see a threat behind any words he might say, and she had done nothing to earn that. So he watched her in turn, uneasily, wondering when this strange calm she affected would end.
Their way led toward the city for only a short time, then turned to the west. Before they came out of the hills, Conan could see many palaces in that direction, great blocks of pale, columned marble gleaming in the sun in the midst of open spaces scattered over leagues of forest to the north and south. Still farther to the west, the trees grew taller, and there were no palaces there that he could see.
Suddenly the trees through which they rode were gone, and before them was a huge structure of ivory spires and alabaster domes, with rising terraces of fluted columns and marble stairs at the front a hundred paces wide. On each side was a long pool bordered by broad marble walks and reflecting the palace in its mirror-smooth waters.
As they rode toward the great expanse of deep-run stairs, Vyndra spoke suddenly. "Once Gwandiakan was a favored summer resort of the court, but many came to fear the fevers of the forests to the west. I have not been here since I was a child, but I know there are a few servants still, so perhaps it is habitable." She bounced from her saddle and bounded up the broad stairs, needing two paces to a single stairstep.
Conan climbed down from his horse more slowly, and Hordo with him.
"Does she play some Vendhyan game with us?" the one-eyed man asked.
Conan shook his head silently; he was as uncertain as his friend.
Abruptly a score of men in white turbans and pale cotton tunics appeared at the head of the stairs. The Cimmerian's hand we
nt to his sword, but the men ignored those at the foot of the stair and bent themselves almost double bowing to Vyndra, murmuring words that did not quite reach Conan's ear.
Vyndra turned back to the others. "They remember me. It is as I feared.
There are only a few servants, and the palace is much deteriorated, but we may find some bare comforts."
"I know the comforts I want," Prytanis announced loudly. "The three prettiest wenches I can find. Strip them all and I'll choose."
"My serving women are to be gently treated," Vyndra said angrily.
"You forget you are a prisoner, wench!" the slitnosed man snarled.
"Were the Cimmerian not here, I would-"
"But I am here," Conan said in hard tones. "And if she wants her serving girls treated gently, then you will treat them like your own sisters."
Prytanis met the Cimmerian's iron gaze for only a moment, then his dark eyes slid away. "There are tavern wenches in the city, I'll wager," he muttered. "Or do you wish them treated like sisters as well?"
"Have a care if you go into the city," Conan told him. "Remember, foreigners are all considered spies in this land."
"I can look after myself," the Nemedian growled. Sawing at the reins, he jerked his horse around and galloped off in the direction of Gwandiakan.
"Another must go as well," Conan said as he watched Prytanis disappear.
"I'd not trust him to discover what we must know, but information is needed. The caravan entered the city, but how long will it remain? And what does Karim Singh do? Hordo, you see that none of Vyndra's servants run off to tell of strangers here. There has been nothing to indicate Karim Singh knows we follow, so let us see that that does not change. I will go into-"
"Your pardon," Kang Hou broke in. "It will take long for an obvious outlander such as yourself to learn anything of interest, for talk will die in your presence. On the other hand, my niece, Kuie Hsi, has often passed as a Vendhyan woman in aid of my business. If she can obtain the proper clothing here . . ."
"I cannot like sending a woman in my place," Conan said but the Khitan only smiled.
"I assure you I would not send her if I thought the danger were too great for her."
Conan looked at Kuie Hsi, standing straight and serene beside Shamil.
In her embroidered robes she looked plainly Khitan, but with her dusky coloring and the near lack of an epicanthic fold on her eyes, it seemed barely possible. "Very well," he said reluctantly. "But she is only to look and listen. Asking questions could draw the wrong eyes to her and I'll not let her take that chance."
"I will tell her of your concern," the merchant said.
Servants came-silent turbaned men bowing as they took away the horses, even more deeply bowing men and women, smiling as they proffered silver goblets of cool wine and golden trays with damp towels for dusty hands and faces.
A round-faced, swarthy man appeared before Conan, bobbing quick bows as he spoke. "I am Punjar, master, steward of the palace. My mistress has commanded me to see personally to your wishes."
Conan looked for Vyndra and could not see her. The servants made a milling mass about the Cimmerian's party on the stairs, asking how they might serve, speaking of baths and beds. Momentary thoughts of devious traps flitted through his mind. But Kang Hou was following a serving girl in one direction while his nieces were led in another and Conan had few remaining doubts of the merchant's ability to avoid a snare.
Ghurran, he saw, had retained his horse.
"Do you mistrust this place, herbalist?" Conan asked.
"Less than you, apparently. Of course she is both a woman and a Vendhyan, which means that she will either guard you with her life or kill you in your sleep." Days in the open had darkened and weathered the old man's skin, making it less parchmentlike, and his teeth gleamed whitely as he grinned at Conan's discomfort. "I intend to ride into Gwandiakan. It is possible I might find the ingredients for your antidote there."
"That old man," Hordo grumbled as the herbalist rode away, "seems to live on sunlight and water, like a tree. I do not think he even sleeps."
"You merely grow jealous as you catch up to him in age," Conan said and laughed as the one-eyed man scowled into his beard.
The corridors through which Punjar led him made the Cimmerian wonder at Vyndra's comment that the palace was barely habitable. The varicolored carpets scattered on polished marble floors, the great tapestries lining the walls, were finer than any he had seen in palaces in Nemedia or Zamora, lands noted in the West for their luxury. Golden lamps set with amethyst and opal hung on silver chains from ceilings painted with scenes of ancient heroes and leopard hunts and fanciful winged creatures. Cunningly wrought ornaments of delicate crystal and gold sat on tables of ebony and ivory inlaid with turquoise and silver.
The baths were pools mosaicked. in geometric patterns, but among the multi-hued marble tiles were others of agate and lapis lazuli. The waters were warm in one pool, cool in another, and veiled serving girls in their servant's pristine white scurried to pour perfumed oils into the water, to bring him soaps and soft toweling. He kept his broadsword close at hand, moving it from the side of one pool to the side of the next as he changed temperatures, and this set the women twittering softly to one another behind their veils. He ignored their shocked looks; to disarm himself was to show more trust than he could muster.
Refusing the elaborate silken robes-including, he saw with some amusement, the long lengths of silk to wind into a turban-that they brought to replace his dusty, travel-stained garb, Conan chose out a plain tunic of dark blue and belted on his sword over that. Punjar appeared again, bowing deeply.
"If you will follow me, master?" The round-faced man seemed nervous and Conan kept a hand on his sword-hilt as he motioned the other to lead.
The chamber to which Conan was taken had a high vaulted ceiling and narrow columns worked in elaborate gilded frescoes. Surely such columns were too thin to be meant for support. At the top of the walls intricate latticework had been cut in the marble; the scrolled openings were tiny, Conan noted, but perhaps still large enough for a crossbow bolt.
The floor, of crimson and white diamond-shaped tile of marble, was largely bare, though a profusion of silken cushions was scattered to one side. Placed beside the cushions were low tables of hammered brass bearing golden trays of dates and figs, a ruby-studded golden goblet and a tall crystal flagon of wine. Conan wondered if it were poisoned and then almost laughed aloud at the thought of poisoning a man already dying of poison.
"Pray be seated, master," Punjar said, gesturing to the cushions. Conan lowered himself but demanded, "Where is Vyndra,"
"My mistress rests from her travels, master, but she has commanded an entertainment for you. My mistress begs that you excuse her absence, and begs also that you remember her request that her serving women be treated gently." Bowing once more, he was gone.
Abruptly music floated from the latticework near the ceiling-the thrum of citherns, the piping of flutes, the rhythmic thump of tambours.
Three women darted into the room with quick, tiny steps to stand in the center of the bare floor. Only their hands and feet were not covered by thick layers of many-colored silk, and opaque veils covered their faces from chin to eyes. To the sound of the music they began to dance, finger-cymbals clinking and tiny golden bells tinkling at their ankles.
Even for a Vendhyan, Conan thought, this was too elaborate a way to kill a man. Filling the goblet with wine, he reclined to watch and enjoy.
At first the dancers' steps were slow but by tiny increments their speed increased. In flowing movements they spun and leaped, and with each spin, with each leap, a bit of colorful silk drifted away from them. Graceful jumps in unison they made, with legs outstretched, or they writhed with feet planted and arms twined above their heads. The length and breadth of the floor they covered, now moving away from him, now gliding almost to the cushions. Then all the silks were gone save their veils, and the three lush-bodied women danced in onl
y their satiny skins, gleaming with a faint sheen of perspiration.
At the sharp clap of Conan's hands, the dancers froze, rounded breasts heaving from their exertions. The musicians, unseeing and unaware of what transpired, played on.
"You two go," the Cimmerian commanded, indicating his choices. "You stay and dance." Dark eyes exchanged uncertain glances above veils.
"Your mistress commanded an entertainment for me," he went on. "Must I drag the three of you through the palace in search of her to tell her you will not obey?" The looks that passed between the women were frightened now. The two he had pointed out ran from the chamber. The third woman stared after them as though on the point of running also.
"Dance for me," Conan said.
Hesitantly, reluctantly, she found her steps again. Before, the dancers had seemed, more aware of the music than of Conan, but now this woman's head turned constantly, independent of her dance, to keep her dark eyes on his face. She flowed across the floor, whirling and leaping as gracefully as before, but there was a nervousness, too, as though she felt his gaze as a palpable caress on her nudity.
As she came close to him, Conan grabbed a slim, belled ankle. With a squeal she toppled to the cushions and lay staring at him over her veil with wide eyes. For long moments there was no sound but the music and her agitated breathing.
"Please, master," she whispered finally. "My mistress asks that her serving women-"
"Am I your master then?" Conan asked. Idly he ran a finger from slender calf to rounded thigh, and she shivered. "What if I send for Punjar, saying you have not pleased me? What if I demand he switch you here and now?"
"Then I ... I would be switched, master," she whispered and swallowed hard.
Conan shook his head. "Truly, Vendhyans are mad. Would you really go so far to hide the truth from me?" Before she could flinch away, he snatched the veil from her face.
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