Conan Chronicles 2 Read online

  Servants and slaves ran hysterically, shrieking and waving their arms at his shouts. Men of the company knocked them aside without compunction as they poured out of the corners where they had been taking their ease. Helmets were tugged on and swords waved as a growing knot of warriors followed the big Cimmerian up marble stairs.

  In the corridor outside Timeon’s chamber the two guards Conan had caused to be set there stood staring dumbfounded at the ornately carved door. Conan slammed into that door at a dead run, smashing it open.

  Timeon lay in the middle of a multi-hued Iranistani carpet, his body wracked by convulsions, heels drumming, plump hands clawing at his throat. His head was thrown back, and every time he managed to fight a breath he loosed it again in a scream. Tivia, his leman, stood with her back to a wall, clutching a cloak about her tightly, her eyes, large and dark, fixed on the helplessly jerking man in an expression of horror. An overturned goblet lay near Timeon, and a puddle of wine soaking into the rug.

  “Zandru’s Hells!” Conan growled. His eye lit on Machaon, forcing his way through the men crowding the hall. “A physician, Machaon. Quickly! Timeon’s poisoned!”

  “Boros is in the kitchens,” the tattoed man called back. Conan hesitated, and the other saw it. “Curse it, Cimmerian, it’ll take half the day to get another.”

  Timeon’s struggles were growing weaker, his screams had become moans of agony. Conan nodded. “Fetch him, then.”

  Machaon disappeared, and Conan turned back to the man on the floor. How had the fool gotten himself poisoned? The answer might mean life or death to him and the rest of the company. And he had to have the answer before the matter was turned over to the King’s torturers. Valdric might ignore the great part of what was happening in his country, but he would not ignore the murder of a noble in the very shadow of his throne.

  “Narus!” Conan shouted. The hollow-faced man stuck his head into the room. “Secure the palace. No one leaves, nor any message, till I say. Hurry, man!”

  As Narus left Machaon hurried Boros into the room. The former mage’s apprentice looked sober at least, Conan was glad to see.

  “He’s poisoned,” the Cimmerian said.

  Boros looked at him as he might at a child. “I can see that.”

  Fumbling in his pouch the gray-bearded man knelt beside Timeon. Quickly he produced a smooth white stone the size of a man’s fist and a small knife. With difficulty he straightened one of the baron’s arms, pushed up the sleeve of his robe, and made a deep cut. As blood welled up he pressed the white stone to the cut. When he took his hand away the stone remained, tendrils of black appearing in it.

  “Bezoar-stone,” Boros announced to the room. “Sovereign for poison. A physician’s tool, strictly speaking, but I find it useful. Yes.”

  He tugged at his full beard and bent to study the stone. It was full black, now, and as they watched it became blacker, as a burned cinder, as a raven’s wing, and blacker still. Suddenly the stone shattered. In the same moment a last breath rattled in Timeon’s throat, and the fat baron was still.

  “He’s dead,” Conan breathed. “I thought you said that accursed stone was sovereign for poison!”

  “Look at it!” Boros wailed. “My stone is ruined. ’Twould take poison enough to kill ten men to do that. I could not have saved him with a sack full of bezoar-stones.”

  “It is murder, then,” Narus breathed. A murmur of disquiet rippled through the men in the corridor.

  Conan’s hand tightened on his sword. Most of the three-score who followed him now he had recruited in Ophir, a polyglot crew from half a dozen lands, and their allegiance to him was not as strong as that of the original few. They had faced battle with him often—such was the way of the life they led, and accepted by them—but unless he found the murderer quickly fear of being put to the question would do what no enemy had ever been able to. Send them scattering to the four winds.

  “Do you want me to find who put the poison in the wine?” Boros asked.

  For a moment Conan could only gape. “You can do that?” he demanded finally. “Erlik blast you, are you sober enough? An you make some drunkard’s mistake, I’ll shave your corpse.”

  “I’m as sober as a priest of Mitra,” Boros replied. “More so than most. You, girl. The wine came from that?” He pointed to a crystal flagon, half-filled with ruby wine, on a table near the bed. Tivia’s mouth opened, but no words came out. Boros shook his head. “No matter. I see no other, so the wine must have come from there.” Climbing to his feet with a grunt, he delved into his pouch once more.

  “Is he truly sober?” Conan said quietly to Machaon.

  The grizzled man tugged nervously at the three thin gold rings dangling from the lobe of his right ear. “I think so. Fabio likes his company, but doesn’t let him drink. Usually.”

  The Cimmerian sighed. Avoiding the hot irons meant trusting a man who might give them all leprosy by mistake.

  With a stick of charcoal Boros scribed figures on the tabletop around the flagon of wine. Slowly he began to chant, so softly that the words were inaudible to the others in the room. With his left hand he sprinkled powder from a twist of parchment over the flagon; his right traced obscure patterns in the air. A red glow grew in the crystal container.

  “There,” Boros said, dropping his hands. “A simple thing, really.” He stared at the flagon and frowned. “Cimmerian, the poisoner is close by. The glow tells.”

  “Crom,” Conan muttered. The men who had been in the doorway crowded back into the hall.

  “The closer the wine is the one who poisoned it,” Boros said, “the more strongly it will glow.”

  “Get on with it,” Conan commanded.

  Picking up the flask, Boros moved closer to Machaon. The glow remained unchanged. As he moved past the door, briefly thrusting the flask toward the men outside, it dimmed. Abruptly the bearded man pressed the wine-filled vessel against Narus’ chest. The hollow-cheeked man started back; the glow did not brighten.

  “A pity,” Boros murmured. “You look the part. And that leaves only …”

  All eyes in the room went to Tivia, still standing with her back pressed against the wall. Under their gaze she started, then shook her head vigorously, but still said nothing. Boros padded toward her, holding the flagon of glowing wine before him. With each step the light from the wine became brighter until, as he stopped not a pace from the girl, the crystal he held seemed to contain red fire.

  She avoided looking at the luminous vessel. “No,” she cried. “Tis a trick of some sort. He who placed the poison in the wine put a spell on it.”

  “Sorcerer as well as poisoner?” Boros asked mildly.

  With an oath Conan strode across the room. “The truth, girl! Who paid you?” She shook her head in denial. “I’ve no stomach for torturing woman,” he continued, “but mayhap Boros has some spell to force the truth from you.”

  “Well, let me see,” the old man mused. “Why, yes, I believe I have just the thing. Aging. The longer you take to tell the truth, the older you’ll become. But it works rapidly, child. I should speak quickly, were I you, or you may well leave this room a toothless crone. Pity.”

  Tivia’s eyes swiveled desperately from the grim-faced Cimmerian to the kindly-appearing man, calmly stroking his beard, who had voiced the awful threat. “I do not know his name,” she said, sagging against the wall. “He wore a mask. I was given fifty pieces of gold and the powder, with fifty more to come when Timeon was dead. I can tell you no more.” Sobbing, she slid to the floor. “Whatever you do to me, I can tell you no more.”

  “What do we do with her now?” Machaon asked. “Give her over to the judges?”

  “They’ll have her beheaded for slaying a noble,” Narus said. “A shame, that. She’s too pretty to die like that, and it should hardly count a crime to kill a fool like Timeon.”

  “Giving her to the judges won’t help us,” Conan said. He wished he could carry on this conversation with Machaon and Narus in privacy, but the d
oor was open and most of the company had jammed themselves into the corridor. Shut them out now and there might not be a dozen left when the door was opened again. He took a deep breath and went on. “We’ve lost our patron to an assassin. Ordinarily that would be the death knell for a Free-Company.” Uneasy mutters rose in the hall, and he lifted his voice to a roar. “Ordinarily, I said. But Timeon was a supporter of Count Antimides to succeed Valdric. Perhaps we can take service with Antimides, if I deliver the murderer to his hands.” At least it was a chance, he thought. Antimides might well find them employment simply to keep secret his own ambitions.

  “Antimides?” Machaon said doubtfully. “Cimmerian, ’tis said he’s one of the few nobles who does not seek the throne at Valdric’s death.” There were murmured agreements from the hall.

  “Timeon spoke too freely in his cups,” Conan said. “Of how Antimides was so clever he had fooled everyone. Of how he himself would be one of the most powerful lords of Ophir once Antimides took the throne.”

  “Well enough,” Machaon said, “but will Antimides take us in service? If he pretends to be aloof from the struggle to succeed Valdric, how will he have need for a Free-Company?”

  “He’ll take us,” Conan said with more confidence than he felt. “Or find us service. I’ll take oath on it.” Besides, he thought, it was the only course they had open.

  “That aging spell,” Narus said suddenly. “It seems a strange sort of spell, even for folk as strange as sorcerers are reputed to be. Why would you learn a thing like that?”

  “Cheese,” Boros replied with a chuckle. “I had a taste for well-aged cheese when I was young, and I created the spell for that. My master flogged me for wasting time. In truth, I doubt it would work on a human.”

  “You tricked me,” Tivia gasped. “Whoreson dog!” she shrieked, launching herself at the bearded man with fingernails clawed. Conan caught her by the arms, but she still struggled to get to the old man, who stared at her in amazement. “I’ll pluck your eyes, you old fraud! You dung beetle’s offspring! I’ll take your manhood off in slices! Your mother was a drunken trull, and your father a poxed goat!”

  “Get me a cord to tie her wrists,” Conan said, then added, “And a gag.” Her tirade was becoming obscene to the point where Machaon was listening with interest. The Cimmerian glared at Narus, who looked abashed as he hurried to fetch what Conan required. It was all he needed, to have to carry a shrieking girl through the streets. Narus returned with strips of cloth, and, muttering to himself, Conan bound his writhing prisoner.

  VII

  Conan drew few stares as he made his way through Ianthe, even with a wiggling, cloak-wrapped woman over his massive shoulder. Or because of the woman. In the streets of the capital, eaten by fear and riddled with suspicion, no one wanted to interfere in something that might even possibly involve them in the troubles beyond the walls of the city. They could see a kidnapping take place or murder done and walk by looking the other way. Who the young giant might be, or why he carried a woman like a sack of grain, no one wanted to know. It could be dangerous to know. It could be dangerous even to appear curious. Therefore none looked too closely at the big Cimmerian or his burden.

  He had already been to Antimides’ palace. With more than a little difficulty—for the well-fed chamberlain, as proud in his manner as any noble of the land, had seen no reason to give any information whatsoever to a stranger, and a barbarian at that—he learned that the count was a guest of the King. King Valdric liked Antimides’ conversation, claiming it was better tonic than any of his physicians or sorcerers could compound. Lord Antimides would be remaining at the royal palace for several days. It was remarkable how free the chamberlain had become with his tongue once a big hand had lifted him until his velvet shoes dangled clear of the floor.

  The royal palace of Ophir was a fortress rather than the marble and alabaster edifices erected in the city by nobles. It was not by chance that the King dwelt behind massive granite walls while his lords spent their days in the capital in manors more suited to pleasure than defense. More than once the throne of Ophir had only been held secure by a King taking refuge behind those walls, betimes even refuge from his own nobles. They, having no strong points within Ianthe, had always been forced to abandon the city to the King. And as control of Ianthe was the key to keeping the crown, it was said that whoever held the royal palace held Ophir.

  The guards at the towering barbican gate before the royal palace stirred themselves at Conan’s approach. A paunch-bellied sergeant, the small triangular beard that was in favor among the nobles waggling on his chins, stepped forward and raised a hand for the Cimmerian to halt.

  “What’s this, then? Do you mercenaries now think to give us your leftover women?” He chuckled over his shoulder to the pikemen behind him, enjoying his own wit. “Off with you. The royal palace is no place for your drunken carousing. And if you must bind your women, keep them from sight of the army or we will be forced to take cognizance of it.”

  “She’s a gift for Count Antimides,” Conan replied, and managed a conspiratorial wink. “A tasty pastry from my patron. Perhaps he wishes to curry favor with a great lord.” Tivia redoubled her squirming; unintelligible noises came from behind the twist of rag gagging her.

  “She seems not to like the idea,” the sergeant chortled.

  Conan grinned back at him. “I wager Lord Antimides will know what to do with her, whether she likes it or not.”

  “That he will. Wait you here.” Belly shaking with mirth, the soldier disappeared through the gate. In a few moments he was back with a slender man, his black hair streaked with gray, in a tabard of gold and green, Antimides’ colors.

  The slender man turned a supercilious gaze on the big Cimmerian. “I am Ludovic,” he said sharply, “Count Antimides’ steward. You’ve come to see the count? Who are you?” He appeared to ignore Conan’s burden.

  “I am Conan of Cimmeria, Captain of the Free-Company in service to Baron Timeon.”

  Ludovic stroked his beard thoughtfully with a single finger, his eyes traveling to the wriggling girl over Conan’s shoulder, then nodded. “Follow me,” he commanded. “Perhaps the count will grant you a brief time.”

  Conan’s mouth tightened. All this obsequiousness and play-acting was enough to turn his stomach. But he followed the slender man under the portcullis and into the royal palace.

  If a fortress from the outside, the seat of the Kings of Ophir was still a palace within. Gleaming white marble walls, floors covered with a profusion of many-hued mosaicks, fluted alabaster columns. Golden lamps depending on silver chains from high vaulted ceilings, painted with scenes from Ophir’s glorious history. Gardens, surrounded by shaded colonnades and filled with rare blossoms from the far corners of the world. Courtyards, tiled with greenstone, where ladies of the court in diaphanous gowns that concealed little of their curves dabbled pale fingers in the babbling waters of ornate fountains.

  Their passage left a wake of giggles and murmurs, and stares at the towering Cimmerian and the burden across his broad shoulder. No fear was there here in noticing the unusual, and commenting on it. High-born, hot-eyed women speculated loudly on the pleasures to be found in being carried so—without the cords, of course.

  The slender man scowled and increased his pace, muttering under his breath. Conan followed and wished the steward would go faster still.

  Finally Ludovic stopped before a wide door carved with the ancient arms of Ophir. “Wait,” he said. “I will see if the count will give you audience.”

  Conan opened his mouth, but before he could speak, the slender man disappeared through the door, carefully closing it behind him. Audience, he thought disgustedly. Antimides already acted as if he wore the crown.

  The door swung open, and Ludovic beckoned him. “Hurry, man. Count Antimides can spare you but a few moments.”

  Muttering to himself Conan bore his burden within. Immediately he saw the room, his eyebrows lifted in surprise. Perhaps to the casual observer t
he room would not seem odd, but to one who knew Antimides’ ambitions it was clearly a small throne room. An arras depicting a famous battle scene, Moranthes the Great defeating the last army of Acheron in the passes of the Karpash Mountains, hung across one wall. On a dais before the great tapestry was a massive chair with a high back, its dark wood carved with a profusion of leopards and eagles, the ancient symbols of Ophirean Kings.

  If the chair seemed not grand enough by itself for a throne, the man seated there made it so. Deep-seated, piercing black eyes flanked a strong, prominent nose. His mouth was hard above a firm chin with its precisely trimmed fashionable beard. Long fingers bearing swordsman’s callouses played with a ruby chain hanging across the chest of a robe of cloth-of-gold, slashed to show emerald silk beneath.

  “My lord count,” Ludovic said, bowing to the man on the dais, “this is the man calling himself Conan of Cimmeria.”

  “ ’Tis my name,” Conan said. He lowered Tivia to the thick-carpeted floor, layered in costly multi-colored rugs from Vendhya and Iranistan. She crouched there silently, fright seeming at last to have stilled her rage.

  “Count Antimides,” Ludovic pronounced grandly, “wishes to know why you have come to him.”

  “The girl is Tivia,” Conan replied, “late mistress of Baron Timeon. Until she did poison him this morn.”

  Antimides raised a finger, and Ludovic spoke again. “But why have you brought her to him? She should be given to the King’s justices.”

  Conan wondered why the count did not speak for himself. But the ways of nobles were as strange as those of sorcerers. And there were more troublesome matters to concern him. Time for his gamble had come. “As Baron Timeon supported Count Antimides in his quest to succeed Valdric, it seemed proper to bring her before the count. My Free-Company is now without a patron. Perhaps the count can find—”

  “My quest!” Antimides burst out, his face choleric with rage. “How dare you accuse me of …” He broke off, grinding his teeth. Ludovic stared at him in obvious surprise. Tivia, her mouth working futilely at her gag, seemed transfixed by his gaze. “You, jade,” he breathed. “So you poisoned your master, and were caught at it by this barbar mercenary. Pray that justice is mercifully swift for you. Take her away, Ludovic.”