I don't remember seeing your commission from King Yildiz―"
"You may remember seeing one from a certain Lord Mishrak," Conan growled. "Or did some buffet on the head last night take your memory?"
The silence gave Conan time to reach for his sword, time to fear he might need to draw it. Then all Khezal's breath left him in a gusty sigh.
"Don't tell anyone, but I've been thinking of returning to the Fort also. There are too cursed many villagers to guard in the open field. Behind walls, at least those monsters will have to climb to come at us!"
Eighteen
THE TOWER OF Fort Zheman had thrust itself above the horizon, when Bora rode up on Windmaster.
Raihna patted the gray's neck. "A fine steed. I am glad he is in fettle again.
Also, that he still has a master worthy of him."
All were silent for a moment. Kemal had survived the battle, but with wounds
that took his life before dawn. He had some measure of good fortune; he was senseless and felt no pain.
"Thank you, Raihna," Bora said. "But I did not ride up here to seek praise for Windmaster. I seek Yakoub. He seems to have vanished."
Conan and Raihna exchanged looks that did not include Illyana. This was no matter for her, they had both agreed. Moreover, she was in the saddle at all by sheer force of will. The less she was troubled without cause, the better. "I thought you did not much care for him," Conan said.
"I did not and I do not," Bora replied. "My sister Caraya thinks otherwise."
"You're the head of the family, until your father is freed," Conan said. "I thought that gave you the right to say yea or nay to anyone's courting your sister."
Bora laughed harshly. "You do not know Caraya. She can smite as heavily with her tongue as Mistress Raihna can with her blades." He frowned. "Also, Yakoub has labored to secure my father's release. He has not yet succeeded, but who knows if this is his fault?"
"You have a great sense of justice in you, Bora," Raihna said. "The gods love such."
"Best pray the gods keep you alive long enough to practice that justice," Conan said. "And spare a prayer or two for Yakoub as well. He may have left the villagers once the demon master's scouts were driven off, hoping to join the soldiers. If he met some of those scouts on the road―well, I am sure the scouts are fewer, but I'd not wager on your sister marrying Yakoub."
"Yes, and that means you do not ride about alone, either," Raihna said. "We have some cheese and bread, if you have not eaten."
Bora devoured half a cheese, then took his place in the column behind Raihna.
Conan mused on the mystery of Yakoub. Could he really be what his face hinted, Khadjar's bastard son? If so, one mystery lay behind his being alive, another behind what he was doing. Best if honest folk like Bora and Caraya kept well clear of either mystery, particularly with a father already arrested as a suspected rebel.
Best also to say nothing of that to Bora. And best of all for Conan not to think too much on the matter himself. If the mystery was deep enough for High Captain Khadjar to be part of it―Very surely, best to think of other matters, such as how to make some of the Powder of Zayan and how to contrive a night with Raihna.
Again Yakoub lowered himself down a small cliff. This time he landed silently, on firm ground, behind those he sought. He also left his knife and sword sheathed and held out his empty hands.
"Hssst! Servants of the master."
Had he stabbed them, the two scouts could not have whirled faster. Both drew their swords, but did not advance. Instead they stood in silence, gape-jawed and dull-eyed.
The silence went on so long that Yakoub half-expected to see the sun touching the western horizon. At last one of the men spoke. His words were slurred and
indistinct, as though he spoke with a mouthful of nutmeats.
"We serve the master. You do not."
"I wish to serve him."
This brought on another long silence. Yakoub began to consider whether decent fighting men could be made out of such dullards. Perhaps they were only tired, or some had more wits than others?
"Show us a sign," one said at last.
What they would take as a sign, Yakoub could only guess. It hardly mattered, as he had only one thing that might serve. He opened the secret pouch in his belt and held out the ring with his father's seal.
The scout who had spoken took the ring, with such fumbling hands that Yakoub half-expected him to drop it. At last he returned it to Yakoub.
"We do not know this sign."
"Your master will know it."
"Our master is not here."
"Is there some reason I cannot go to him?"
"We would have to lead you."
"Is that forbidden?" Yakoub knew that to shout at these wretches would gain little and might lose much. He still felt his patience being rubbed thin.
The two scouts looked at each other. At last they shook their heads together, like two puppets with the same master.
"It is not forbidden."
"Then I ask you, in the name of the master's victory, to take me to him."
Yet another long silence followed. This time it ended without words. The two scouts grunted and together turned away eastward, beckoning Yakoub to follow.
Khezal pushed himself back from the table and began to pace up and down the chamber. Outside, the villagers camped in Fort Zheman had begun to lose their fear and find their tongues. Women quarreled over a place in the line for water, children shrieked in delight or wailed for their parents, dogs barked and howled.
"Thank the gods we were able to keep what livestock they brought outside,"
Khezal said. He strode to the window and slammed the shutter. "They may not survive the coming of the de―the Transformed. But this is a fort I have to defend, not the Royal Menagerie!
"I'll have to send them on to Haruk when I've called in all the outpost garrisons. There won't be room and we'd be courting fevers and fluxes. The gods have spared us that, so far."
"What does Mughra Khan say to all this?" Illyana asked. "Not that I complain, you understand. You are a gift from the gods, compared to Captain Shamil."
Khezal's face twisted. "I have looked into Shamil's letters. He was so deep in the toils of those who plot with Lord Houma, the gods themselves could not have pulled him out! Hie Transformed gave him a more honorable end than he deserved.
"As for Mughra Khan, anything he says will be said after I have done what I know is needed. I have sent the messengers to the outposts this very afternoon. A messenger to Mughra Khan will follow tomorrow."
Conan laughed. "I'd wager you'll one day command an army, Khezal. If not, then Turan's wasting a good man."
"I could do with less praise and more weapons fit to stand against magic,"
Khezal said. "But the Powder of Zayan will be better than nothing. How long will Lady Illyana need, to make enough of it?"
"I will need two days, to enspell sufficient bowls for mixing the Powder,"
Illyana said. "Once the bowls are fit, I must then mix the first bowlful and test it. If that proves fit, I can leave matters in other hands for a month or more. I would urge Maryam, the niece of Ivram, as the best hands."
"So you cast the spells on the cooking pots, not on the food?" Khezal said.
"Well put. The spell of the Powder is little-known, otherwise we would have much less peril from evil magic. Also, to place it upon the bowls will call less heavily upon the Jewel."
"What if it doesn't play at all?" Conan put in. The four in the chamber had no secrets, including the self-will of the Jewels.
"Then Fort Zheman must trust to the valor of its men under the leadership of Captain Khezal," Raihna said.
"Remember what I said about less praise and more weapons?" Khezal shrugged. "How long do you need after the Powder is done, before you march into the mountains?"
"A day for the Jewel to regain its strength, another day for gathering mounts and supplies," Illyana said.
"Tell me w
hat you will need and I will see about gathering it now," Khezal said.
"The faster you move, the better your chances of catching Eremius before he
returns to his stronghold. If that makes any difference in this kind of war?"
"It does. Thank you, Captain."
"I'm also sending ten picked veterans with you. Yes, I know the smaller the party, the less chance of discovery. Once you reach the mountains, you can order them to stay behind. But Eremius's scouts, bandits, starving villagers, wild animals―you need guarding against all of these."
"We do?" Conan growled.
"You do, and more of it than even a Cimmerian can offer," Khezal said. He rang a bell on the table. From outside the door came a girl's voice.
"Yes, Captain?"
"Wine and four cups. Then go heat me a bath, with enough water for two."
"At your pleasure, Captain."
This time Conan recognized the voice as Dessa's. He looked a question at Khezal.
The man grinned.
"I've inherited Shamil's responsibilities. Why shouldn't I inherit a few of his comforts as well?"
Bora shifted the sack of charcoal to his left arm and knocked on the door.
"Maryam, it is Bora. I have the charcoal."
The sound of bare feet gave way to a bolt being drawn. Maryam peered out. She wore only a chamber robe of scarlet silk, belted lightly about her with a gold-tasseled cord. The color went well with her dark skin, Bora noticed. He also noticed how much of that skin was revealed. He knew he should not savor
such an immodest display, but found it hard to turn his eyes away.
"Come in, come in. Put the charcoal by the north wall."
Bora nearly stumbled over the dyed fleeces on the floor as he entered. Crimson, indigo, a rich green horribly like the emerald fire of the Jewels, they dazzled the eye but laid traps for unwary feet.
At least he needed no guidance to the north wall. It was piled high with sacks of charcoal and salt, pots of spices and herbs, and stacks of brass bowls. He dropped the charcoal on top of the nearest pile and straightened up, stretching to untwist his muscles.
"How much Powder do they plan to make? This looks like enough to baffle every spell from here to the Iranistani frontier!"
Maryam smiled. "Mistress Illyana keeps her tongue between her teeth, as well she should. Certainly no one will have an easy time, sending magic against Fort Zheman."
She knelt to open a small chest. As she did, her robe dropped away, to expose yet more skin, halfway down the ripe curves of her breasts. Bora twisted again, to look away.
When he looked back, Maryam was holding out two cups of wine. "Shall we drink a toast, to your victory?"
"Best make it to my safe return."
She embraced him, clumsily because she was still holding the wine cups. Her lips nuzzled the side of his neck and caressed his throat.
"So they have the sense to take you with them? The gods be praised!"
"I never thought they were fools, Maryam. That big Cimmerian above all. I'm the best guide they could find, without using magic."
They drank. It seemed to Bora that Maryam was using a trifle of magic of her own, for a single cup seemed to make his head lighter than usual. He noted that she only sipped her wine, and had yet to finish her first cup when he was nearly done with his second.
He would have drunk a third, but she put a hand over the mouth of his cup. "No more, Bora. No more. Young as you are, wine can still do you harm."
She set down her own cup and put her other hand over Bora's mouth. She drew her fingers along his lips and across his cheek, then thrust a hand into the open throat of his shirt.
"Maryam. This is not proper."
At least those were the words that formed themselves in Bora's mind. They seemed to stick in his throat, so that only a croak came out. Then he gasped as if he had run miles as Maryam undid the sash of her robe.
As she stood, she shrugged herself out of it. Bora had never imagined that a woman's breasts could be so splendid. Breasts, and all the rest of the dark lushness now revealed.
"Bora," she said, and the word itself was a caress. "Bora, you have never lain with a woman, have you?"
He had no words, but his eyes seemed to speak clearly. Maryam moved to him and pressed herself against him, from shoulder to knee.
"Then you must have a chance, before you ride into the mountains." She continued
to press herself against him, while her hands went deftly to work on his clothes.
Presently he had the wits to help her with that work, and at last to follow her to the bed.
Raihna rolled over in the bed as Conan entered. Bare shoulders alone showed above the blankets. He sat on the bed and ran his hand along the curves under the blankets. He knew that Raihna usually slept naked.
His hand ran back up to the edge of the blankets and started to dive under them.
Raihna rolled on her back, letting the blankets slide down to her waist. Before Conan could touch what this movement exposed, she caught his hands and held them against her breasts.
"You're all but healed, from that gash at the Red Falcon," Conan said.
"I heal quickly, Conan. I wish the same could be said of Massouf."
"His wound is elsewhere. Has he been whining again?"
"I would not call it that, Conan. He wants to come with us, into the mountains."
"He does?"
"He spoke to both me and Illyana."
"Supposing that he did, what will I hear that you said to him?"
"We will let him come."
"Crom! Where's the Powder?" Conan started to rise.
Raihna shifted her grip, so that he could not do so without some discomfort. She looked at his discomfited expression and laughed.
"Raihna, this is a poor jest. Massouf wants to kill himself."
"So we surmised. Since Dessa jumped lightly into Khezal's bed, he has known she is not for him."
"Then why, by Erlik's yard, can't he find another woman? That little trull isn't the only bedmate in the whole world for a lad like Massouf. He's a fool. It's like my pining away because I can't bed Illyana!"
Something passed over Raihna's face at those words. Jealousy? No, something different, more complicated, and likely to be revealed only in Raihna's own good time. Conan gently disengaged himself from Raihna's grasp and sat down at the foot of the bed.
"You don't love Illyana," Raihna said at last. "Massouf―well, he would not believe what you just said. He loves Dessa too much."
"Conan, Illyana and I―we have never been allowed love. It is our fate. How could we spit in Massouf's face? How, I ask you?" She turned her face to the pillow and wept softly.
Conan cursed under his breath. He could not imagine a world without women, and he would hardly want to live in it anyway. Certainly, though, such a world might be a trifle simpler!
All the sympathy in the world didn't make a man who seemed determined to die a good companion on a dangerous journey. Conan vowed he would do everything in his power to send Massouf back with the soldiers, when they left.
He also vowed that he would do everything in his power to make Raihna remember this night. Gripping her by the shoulders, he turned her over. Her tear-filled
eyes widened, but when his lips came down on hers her arms rose. Strong, sword-calloused hands locked behind his neck and drew him to her.
Nineteen
THE MOUNTAIN STREAM plunged from the little cliff, splashed on a flat rock, then flowed into a deep still pool. Where it went after that Conan neither knew nor cared. He knelt by the pool and lifted a cupped hand to his lips.
"Good and clean. Drink up, people, and refill your waterskins too."
"If it is so clean, I think we should bathe as well," Illyana said. She sat down, pulled off her boots, and flexed her long toes with a look of bliss.
"We had no chance to bathe while we marched with the soldiers. Nor will we have any between here and the valley, I fear."
Con
an looked beyond the little valley, toward the peaks of the Ibars Mountains.
Well to the fore, the Lord of the Winds rose silver-helmeted, its snowcap blazing in the noonday sun.
The Cimmerian sensed no danger lurking close by, but knew that it could not be far away. Precious little they could do about it, either. These mountains could hide enough enemies to overcome them had they still been guarded by a thousand soldiers instead of ten. The sergeant commanding their escort had swiftly realized this, and made no protest against his dismissal two days before. He had made none against their leaving their horses, either. Hillborn himself, he knew
a horse in such country gave neither speed nor stealth.
Speed, stealth (all were masters of it save Massouf, and he was learning), the mountains, and Illyana's magic―together these gave them a chance of reaching Eremius and defeating him.
How good that chance was, Conan would not have cared to wager.
"Well enough. Women first, then Bora and Massouf, then me."
The two young men hurried to posts at opposite ends of the pool. Raihna was the first to strip and plunge in. She vanished completely, then rose spluttering and cursing like a drillmaster.
"Gods, this is cold!"
Illyana laughed. "Have you forgotten our Bossonian streams? They were not quite Vanir bathhouses, as I remember."
Raihna ducked under again. This time when she came up, she was in reach of Illyana's bare legs. A mighty splash, and water cascaded over Illyana. She yelped and jumped up.
"You―!"
"I had not forgotten, mistress. But I thought you had, so I would remind you."
Illyana uttered what Conan suspected was an impolite description of Raihna in an unknown tongue. Then she stood up and drew off her tunic, her last garment. Clad only in sunlight and the Jewel-ring, she started to bind up her hair with her neck ribbon.
Conan sat sword across his lap, contemplating both women with pleasure but without desire. Apart from being younger, Raihna was definitely the comelier.
Yet had Illyana not been obliged to remain a maiden, she would not have had to sleep alone more often than she wished.
Certainly she could have had Massouf for snapping her fingers. He was trying so hard not to stare that it was more evident than if he had been doing so openly.
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