Conan Chronicles 2 Read online

  “… And on my last hunt,” Amaranides was saying, “I killed a truly magnificent leopard. Finer than any you’ve taken, I fancy. It will be a pleasure for me to teach you the finer points of hunting, my little sweetmeat I …”

  Jondra ground her teeth as he rattled blithely on. Still, he was a hunter, not to mention nobly born. If he was a fool—and of that there was little doubt in her mind—then he would be all the more easily managed.

  “I know why you’ve come, Ama,” she said.

  “… Claws as big as …” The nobleman’s voice trailed off, and he blinked uncertainly. “You know?”

  She could not keep impatience from her voice. “You want me for your wife. Is that not it? Come.” Briskly she set out through the garden toward the fletcher’s mound.

  Amaranides hesitated, then ran after her. “You don’t know how happy you’ve made me, sweetling. Sweetling? Jondra? Where are you … ah!”

  Jondra fended off the arms he tried to throw around her with a recurved bow she had taken from a gilded rack standing on a grassy sward. Calmly she slipped a leather bracer onto her left arm for protection from the bowstring. Another bow, a second bracer, and two quivers, clustered fletchings rising above their black-lacquered sides, hung on the rack.

  “You must … equal me,” she said, gesturing toward a small round target of thickly woven straw hanging at the top of a wide wooden frame, which was three times the height of a man, a hundred paces distant. She had intended to say “best,” but at the last could not bring herself to it. In truth, she did not believe any man could best her, either with a bow or on horseback. “I can marry no man who is not my equal as an archer.”

  Amaranides eyed the target, then took the second bow with a smug smile. “Why so high? No matter. I wager I’ll beat you at it.” He laughed then, a shocking bray at odds with his handsome features. “I’ve won many a purse with a bow, but you will be my finest prize.”

  Jondra’s mouth tightened. Shaking back the hanging sleeves of her robes, she nocked an arrow and called, “Mineus!”

  A balding man, in the short white tunic of a servant, came from the bushes near the frame and tugged at a rope attached near the target. Immediately the target, no bigger than a man’s head, began to slide down a diagonal, and as it slid it swung from side to side on a long wooden arm. Clearly it would take a zig-zag path, at increasing speed, all the way to the ground.

  Jondra did not raise her bow until the target had traversed half the first diagonal. Then, in one motion, she raised, drew and released. With a solid thwack her shaft struck, not slowing the target’s descent. Before that arrow had gone home her second was loosed, and a third followed on its heels. As the straw target struck the ground, she lowered her bow with an arrow nocked but unreleased. It was her seventh. Six feathered shafts decorated the target. “The robes hamper me somewhat,” she said ruefully. “With your tunic, you may well get more than my six. Let me clothe myself in hunting garb—are you ill, Ama?”

  Amaranides’ bow hung from a limp hand. He stared, pale of face, at the target. As he turned to her, high color replaced the pallor of his cheeks. His mouth twisted around his words. “I have heard that you delight in besting men, but I had not thought you would claim yourself ready to wed just to lure me to … this!” He spat the last word, hurling the bow at the riddled target. “What Brythunian witch-work did you use to magic your arrows?”

  Her hands shook with rage as she raised her bow and drew the nocked arrow back to her cheek, but she forced them to be steady. “Remove yourself!” she said grimly.

  Mouth falling open, the dark-faced nobleman stared at the arrow pointed at his face. Abruptly he spun about and ran, dodging from side to side, shoulders hunched, as if simultaneously attempting to avoid her arrow and steel himself against its strike.

  She followed every skip and leap, keeping the arrow centered on him until he had disappeared among the shrubs. Then she released the breath in her tight lungs and the tension on her bowstring together. Thoughts she had disciplined from her mind came flooding back.

  Lord Karentides, her father, had been a general of the Zamoran Army, as well as the last scion of an ancient house. Campaigning on the Brythunian border he chose a woman from among the prisoners, Camardica, tall and gray-eyed, who claimed to be a priestess. In the normal course of events there would have been nothing strange in this, for Zamoran soldiers often enjoyed themselves with captive Brythunian women, and the Brythunian slaves in Zamora were beyond counting. But Karentides married his captive. Married her and accepted the ostracism that became his.

  Jondra remembered his body—his and … that woman’s—lying in state after the fever that slew so many in the city, sparing neither noble nor beggar. She had been raised, educated, protected as what she was, heiress to vast wealth, to blood of ancient nobility. The marks were on her, though—the height and the accursed eyes of gray—and she had heard the whispers. Half-breed. Savage. Brythunian. She had heard them until her skill with a bow, her ready temper and her disregard of consequences silenced even whispers in her hearing. She was the Lady Jondra of the House Perashanid, daughter of General Lord Karentides, last of a lineage to rival that of King Tiridates himself, and ware to anyone who mentioned aught else.

  “He would not have hit it once, my lady,” a quiet voice said at her elbow.

  Jondra glanced at the balding servant, at the concern on his wrinkled face. “It is not your place to speak so, Mineus,” she said, but there was no rebuke in her voice.

  Mineus’ expression folded into deference. “As you say, my lady. If my lady pleases, the girl sent by the Lady Roxana is here. I put her in the second waiting room, but I can send her away if that is still your wish.”

  “If I am not to wed,” she said, replacing her bow carefully on the rack, “I shall have need of her after all.”

  The second waiting room was floored with a mosaic of arabesques in green and gold, in the middle of which stood a short, slender girl in a short tunic of dark blue, the color Lady Roxana put on her serving maids. Her dark hair was worked in a simple plait that fell to the small of her back. She kept her eyes on the tiles beneath her small feet as Jondra entered the room.

  An ebony table inlaid with ivory held two wax tablets fastened face-to-face with silken cords. Jondra examined the seals on the cords carefully. Few outside the nobility or the merchant classes could write, but servants had been known to try altering their recommendations. There were no signs of tampering here. She cut the cords and read.

  “Why do you wish to leave the Lady Roxana’s service?” she asked abruptly. “Lyana? That’s your name?”

  “Yes, my lady,” the girl answered without raising her head. “I want to become a lady’s maid, my lady. I worked in the Lady Roxana’s kitchens, but her handmaidens trained me. The Lady Roxana had no place for another handmaiden, but she said that you sought one.”

  Jondra frowned. Did the chit not even have enough spirit to meet her eyes? She abhorred a lack of spirit, whether in dogs or horses or servants. “I need a girl to tend my needs on the hunt. The last two found the rigors too great. Do you think your desire to be a lady’s maid will survive heat and flies and sand?”

  “Oh, yes, my lady.”

  Slowly Jondra walked around the girl studying her from every angle. She certainly looked sturdy enough to withstand a hunting camp. With fingertips she raised the girl’s chin. “Lovely,” she said, and thought she saw a spark in those large, dark eyes. Perhaps there was some spirit here after all. “I’ll not have my hunts disrupted by spearmen panting after a pretty face, girl. See you cast no eyes at my hunters.” Jondra smiled. There had definitely been a flash of anger that time.

  “I am a maiden, my lady,” the girl said with the faintest trace of tightness in her voice.

  “Of course,” Jondra said noncommittally. Few serving girls were, though all seemed to think the condition made them more acceptable to their mistresses. “I’m surprised the Lady Roxana allowed you to leave her, consid
ering the praises she heaps on your head.” She tapped the wax tablet with a fingernail. “In time I will discover if you deserve them. In any case, know that I will allow no hint of disobedience, lying, stealing or laziness. I do not beat my servants as often as some, but trangression in these areas will earn you stripes.” She watched the sparks in the girl’s eyes replaced with eagerness as the meaning of her words broke through.

  “My lady, I swear that I will serve you as such a great lady deserves to be served.”

  Jondra nodded. “Mineus, show her to the servants’ quarters. And summon Arvaneus.”

  “It shall be done, my lady.”

  She dismissed the matter from her mind then, the sounds of Mineus leading the girl from the room seeming to fade to insignificance. Replacing the tablets on the ebony table, she crossed the room to a tall, narrow cabinet of profusely carved rosewood. The doors opened to reveal shelves piled with scrolls of parchment, each bound with a ribbon. Hastily she pawed through the pale cylinders.

  The incident with Amaranides had crystallized a decision. That the whispers about her parentage were still being bruited about was reason enough to end her consideration of marriage. Instead …

  Amaranides had said she liked to best men. Could she help it that men, with their foolish pride, could not accept the fact that she was better than they, whether with bow or horse or on the hunt? Well, now she would best them properly. She would do what none of them had either the skill or the courage to do.

  She untied the ribbon about a scroll and searched down the parchment until she found what she sought.

  The beast, my lady, is said to be scaled like a serpent, but to move on legs. Winnowing out obvious exaggerations caused by fear, I can reliably report that it has slain and eaten both men and cattle. Its habitat, my lady, seems, however, to be the Kezankian Mountains near the border between Zamora and Brythunia. With the current unrest of the hill tribes, I cannot suggest …

  The parchment crumpled in her hands. She would bring this strange beast’s hide back as her trophy. Let one of Amaranides’ ilk suggest he could do as much. Let him just dare.

  Tamira scurried down palace corridors in Mineus’ wake, barely hearing when the balding old man told her of her duties, or when he spoke to other servants. Until the very last moment she had not been certain her plan would work, even after so much planning and labor.

  Forty gold pieces she had obtained from Zayella, and all had gone in preparation for this. Most went to Roxana’s chamberlain, who provided the use of the Lady’s private seal. There would be no checking, though, to trip her up, for the Lady Roxana had departed the city a day past. Tamira allowed herself a smile. In a day or two she would have Jondra’s fabulous necklace and tiara.

  “Give attention, girl,” Mineus said impatiently. “You must know this to help prepare for the Lady Jondra’s hunt.”

  Tamira blinked. “Hunt? But she just returned from a hunt.”

  “You saw me speak to Arvaneus, the chief huntsman. No doubt you will depart as soon as supplies are gathered.”

  Panic flashed through her. It had been none of her intention to actually go on one of Jondra’s forays. There was no point to her sweating in a tent while the jewels remained in Shadizar. Of course, they would be there when she returned. But so might the Lady Roxana. “I—I have to see … about my belongings,” she stammered. “I left clothing at the Lady Roxana’s palace. And my favorite pin. I must fetch—”

  Mineus cut her short. “When you’ve had instructions as to your duties in preparing for the hunt. Not only must you see that my lady’s clothing and jewels are packed, but you must see to her perfumes, the soaps and oils for her bathing, and—”

  “She—my lady takes her jewels hunting?”

  “Yes, girl. Now pay attention. My lady’s rouges and powders—”

  “You mean a few bracelets and brooches,” Tamira insisted.

  The old man rubbed his bald spot and sighed. “I mean nothing of the sort, girl. Of an evening my lady often adorns herself to dine in her finest. Now, since you seem distracted for some reason, I will see you through your tasks.”

  For the rest of the morning and into the afternoon Tamira was prodded and pushed from one labor to the next, always under Mineus’ watchful eye. She folded Jondra’s garments of silks and laces—three times she folded them before reaching Mineus’ satisfaction—and packed them in wicker panniers. Rare perfumes from Vendhya and powders from far Khitai, rouges from Sultanapur, costly oils and unguents from the corners of the world, all she wrapped in soft cloths and packed, with the balding old man hovering close to remind her that every vial and jar must be handled as gently as a swaddling child. Then, staggering under the weighty panniers, she and another serving-woman carried them down to the stableyard, where the pack-animals would be loaded on the morrow.

  On each trip through Jondra’s chambers, the chests for transporting the noblewoman’s jewelry, thick-sided boxes of iron, made her mouth water. They sat so tantalizingly against a tapestry-hung wall. But they were empty iron now, for they would not be filled until the last instant. Still, the gems would be going with her. She could not help smiling.

  Aching from the unaccustomed labor, Tamira found that. Mineus had led her to a side door of the palace. “Fetch your belongings, girl,” he said, “and return quickly. There will be more work.”

  Before she could speak she had been thrust outside, and the door closed in her face. For a long moment she stared wonderingly at the red-painted wood. She had forgotten her panic-induced invention of possessions. Her original plan called for remaining inside Jondra’s palace until the necklace and tiara were in her hands. In that way Conan would never discover what she was up to. The huge barbarian seemed intent on …

  It dawned on her that she was outside the palace, and she spun around to study the narrow street. A turbaned Kezankian hillman squatted disconsolately against a wall across the street, and a few ragged urchins played tag on the rough paving stones. She heaved a sigh of relief. There was neither a beggar nor a doxy in sight. Her uncles could provide a bundle to satisfy Mineus. Keeping a careful watch for Conan’s many eyes, she hurried down the street.

  Unseen by her, three of the urchins broke of their play and trailed after her.

  The hillman watched her go with lustful eyes, then reluctantly returned to his surveillance of the palace.

  V

  At a corner table in Abuletes’ common room, Conan glowered into a leathern jack half-filled with cheap Kothian wine. Semiramis, in a girdle of coins and two strips of thin scarlet silk, was seated in the lap of a Turanian coiner across the crowded room, but for once that was not the reason for the Cimmerian’s dour face. What remained of Baratses’ two gold pieces had been lessened at dice the previous night. With all of his mind on Tamira, he had given no thought to how to get more. And worst, he had had no word from Laeta. It was only a day since he had set the urchin to watch Tamira, but he was certain—as certain as if he had been told by the dark-eyed thief herself—that she moved already on the theft she planned. The theft he had vowed to beat her to. And he had no word!

  Grimacing, he raised his wine and gulped the remainder of it down. When he lowered the jack a tall, bony man stood across the table from him. A fine black Khauranian cloak, edged with cloth of gold, was pulled tightly around him as if to hide his identity.

  “What do you want, Baratses?” Conan grumbled. “I keep the two gold pieces for the attempt, and you should be thankful to have it made so cheaply.”

  “Do you have a room in this … establishment?” The spice merchant’s black eyes darted about the raucous tavern as if he expected to be attacked at any moment. “I would talk with you in privacy.”

  Conan shook his head in disbelief. The fool had obviously dressed himself in what he considered plain fashion, but just as obviously he was no denizen of the Desert. His passage had certainly been noted, and footpads no doubt awaited nine deep in the street for his departure, but here, where he was safe from s
uch, he feared robbery.

  “Come,” Conan said, and led the way up the rickety wooden stairs at the back of the common room.

  His own room was a simple box of rough wooden planks, with a narrow window shuttered in a vain attempt to keep out the stench of the alley behind the tavern. A wide, low bed, a table with one short leg, and a lone stool were all the furnishings. The Cimmerian’s few possessions—aside from the ancient broadsword he always wore—hung on pegs in one wall.

  Baratses glanced around the room disdainfully, and Conan bristled. “I cannot afford a palace. Yet. Now, why are you here? Something more to be stolen? You’ll give a fair price this time, or find someone else.”

  “You’ve not yet fulfilled your last commission, Cimmerian.” Though the door was closed, the merchant kept his cloak clutched about him. “I have the rest of your gold here, but where is my goblet? I know Samarides no longer possesses it.”

  “Nor do I,” Conan replied ruefully. “Another was there before me.” He hesitated, but could not rid himself of the belief that the man deserved at least some information for his two gold pieces. “I have heard the Lady Zayella has the goblet now.”

  “So she offered you more than I,” Baratses murmured. “I had heard you had some odd concept of honor, but I see I was wrong.”

  The Cimmerian’s eyes grew icy. “Do not call me liar, merchant. Another took the goblet.”

  “The room is close,” Baratses said. “I am hot.” He twitched the cloak from his shoulders, swirling it before him.

  Instinct flared a warning in Conan. As the cloak moved aside his big hand slapped down to grasp Baratses’ wrist, stopping a black-bladed Karpashian dagger a handspan from his middle. “Fool!” he said.

  Blood and teeth sprayed from the merchant’s face beneath Conan’s fist. The dagger dropped from nerveless fingers and struck the floor no more than an instant before Baratses himself.