Conan the Triumphant Read online

  Her clear green eyes, still tremulous, fluttered open. “What are you doing?” she demanded unsteadily.

  He lifted the tattered tunic from her and threw it aside.

  Small white teeth bit into her full underlip, and she shook her head. “No,” she said breathlessly. “I will not. No. Please.”

  Easily he lifted her to the bed, disposed of her soft boots, peeled the tight breeches from her long legs.

  “I hate you, Conan.” But there was a curious note of pleading in her voice for such a statement. “I came to kill you. Do you not realize that?”

  He plucked her dagger from his mattress and held it in two fingers before her gaze. “Take it, if you truly wish me dead.”

  For the space of three breaths his eyes held hers. Convulsively she turned her face aside. Conan smiled and, casually tossing the dagger to the floor, set about producing cries from her that had naught to do with pain.

  6

  Sunlight steaming through the windows woke Conan. He opened his eyes and found himself staring at Karela’s dagger, once more driven to the hilt into his mattress. The blade held a fragment of parchment. Karela was gone.

  “Blast the woman,” he muttered, ripping the parchment free. It was covered with a bold, sprawling hand.

  Another debt added to those you already owe me. The next time you will die, Cimmerian. I will not run from another country because of you. By the Teats of Derketo I swear, I will not.

  Frowning, he crumpled the parchment in his fist. It was like the woman, leaving before he woke, with threats but without answers to any of his questions. He had thought she was done with threats altogether; she had enjoyed the night as well as he, of that she had left no doubt.

  Hurriedly he dressed and headed into the bowels of the palace. He was still settling his swordbelt about his waist when he entered the long room where his company took their meals, near the kitchen Timeon had given over to them. The simple hearty provender Fabio prepared offended his own cooks, so the lord said. Some score and a half of the mercenary warriors, unarmored but weapons as always belted on, were scattered among crude trestle-tables that had been rooted out of storage in the stables. Machaon and Narus sat by themselves, their attention to the leather jacks of ale in their fists and the wooden bowls of stew before them not so great that they did not note his entrance.

  “Ho, Cimmerian,” Machaon called out loudly. “How was that, ah, unruly wench last night?” A sprinkling of rough laughter made it clear he had shared his story with the rest.

  Could not the accursed fool keep his tongue behind his teeth, Conan thought. Aloud he said, “Double the guards on the roof, Machaon. And see they keep eyes and ears open. A parade of temple virgins would be undetected up there as it is.”

  Narus laughed dolefully into his ale as Conan straddled a bench across from them. “The wench was too unruly, was she? ’Tis the way of all women, to be least accomodating when you want them most.”

  “Do you have to beat all of them?” Taurianus called, a jealous edge to his bantering tone. “I thought her shrieks would bring the roof down.”

  “Food!” Conan bellowed. “Must I die of hunger?”

  “There’s a morsel in that kitchen,” Machaon chuckled, “I could consume whole.” He nudged Narus as Julia hurried from the kitchen, balancing with some difficulty a bowl of stew, a loaf of bread and a mug of ale.

  She was much changed from the last time Conan had seen her. Her long auburn hair was tied with a green ribbon, and pulled back from a face bare of rouge or kohl but streaked with sweat from the heat of the kitchen fires. Her long robe of soft white wool, soot smudged and damp with soapy water, was meant to be modest, he assumed, but it clung to her curves in a way that drew the eye of every man in the room.

  “You must speak to that man,” she said as she set Conan’s meal before him. He stared at her questioningly, and she flung out an arm dramatically toward the kitchen. “That man. Fabio. He threatened me … with a switch. Tell him who I am.”

  Conan scooped up a horn spoon full of stew. In one form or another it served the men of the company for both meals of the day, morning and night. “You work in the kitchens,” he said. “That is Fabio’s domain. Did a queen somehow come to scrub his pots he’d switch her an she did it badly. You’d best learn to do as he tells you.”

  Julia sputtered in indignation, the more so when Machaon laughed.

  “You’ve too many airs, wench,” the grizzled veteran chortled. “Besides, you’re well padded for it.” And he applied a full-fingered pinch to punctuate his claim.

  Squealing, the auburn-haired girl leaped. To seize Conan’s bowl and upend it over Machaon’s head. Narus convulsed with laughter so hard that he began coughing.

  “Fool girl,” Conan growled. “I was eating that. Fetch me another, and quick about it.”

  “Fetch your own,” she snapped back. “Or starve, if you wish to eat with the likes of him.” Spinning on her heel, she stalked into the kitchen, her back rigid.

  A stunned Machaon sat raking thick gobbets of stew from his face with his fingers. “I’ve a mind to take a switch to that conceited jade myself,” he muttered.

  “Go easy with her,” Conan said. “She’ll learn in time, whether she will or no. She is used to a gentler way of life than that which faces her now.”

  “I’d like to gentle her,” Machaon replied. “But I’ll keep my hands from her as she’s yours, Cimmerian.”

  Conan shook his head. “She’s not mine. Nor yours either, till she says she is. There are bawds aplenty in the town, is that your need.”

  The two men stared at him perplexedly, but they nodded, and he was satisfied. They might think he was in truth laying claim to the girl—though doubtless wondering why he wished to make a secret of it—but they would not demand more of her than she was willing to give. And they would speak it among the company, giving her protection with the others as well. He was not sure why he did not, save for Karela. It was difficult for him to think too much of other women when that fiery wench was about.

  In any case, she was likely to give him ten times the trouble Julia did, and without trying half so hard. Karela was a woman who kept her word. If he did not find a way to stop her she would put steel between his ribs yet. Worse, she had a mind for vengeance like a Stygian. It would be like her to destroy the Free-Company, if she could, before killing him.

  “Have either of you heard rumors of a woman bandit?” he asked in a carefully casual tone.

  “I’ll have to bathe to get clean of this,” Machaon growled, picking a lump of meat from his hair. He popped it into his mouth. “I’ve heard no such tales. Women are meant for other things than brigands.”

  “Nor I,” Narus said. “Women are not suited to the violent trades. Except perhaps that red-haired jade we encountered in Nemedia. She claimed to be a bandit, though I’d never heard of her. The buxom trull was offended I did not know her fame. Remember?”

  “She’s no trull,” Conan said, “and she’ll carve your liver does she hear you name her so.” Immediately the words were gone he wished he had held his tongue.

  “She’s here!” Machaon exclaimed. “What was her name?”

  “Karela,” Narus said. “A temper like a thornbush, that one has.”

  Machaon laughed suddenly. “She was the wench last night.” He shrugged at Conan’s glare. “Well, there’s no woman in the palace who’d need her bottom warmed to crawl into your blankets. It must have been her. I’d not bed her without my sword and armor, and mayhap a man to watch my back.”

  “It was her,” the Cimmerian said, and added grudgingly, “She tried to put a dagger in me.”

  “That sounds like the woman I remember,” Narus chortled. “From the yells, I’d say you taught her better manners.”

  “Twould be sport,” Machaon crowed, “to stuff her and our Julia into a sack together.”

  Tears ran down Narus’ face from his laughter. “I would pay coin to see that fight.”

  “Erlik t
ake the pair of you,” Conan snarled. “There’s more danger in that woman than sport. She thinks she has a grievance against me, and she will cause trouble for the company if she can.”

  “What can a woman do?” Narus said. “Nothing.”

  “I would not like to wager my life on that,” Conan told him. “Not when the woman is Karela. I want you to ask questions in the taverns and the brothels. ’Tis possible she’s changed her name, but she cannot change the way she looks. A red-haired woman bandit with a body like one of Derketo’s handmaidens will be known to someone. Tell the others to keep their eyes open as well.”

  “Why can you not manage her grievance as you did last night?” Machaon asked. “A smack on the bottom and to bed. Oh, very well—” he raised his hands in surrender as Conan opened his mouth for more angry words—“I will ask questions in the brothels. At least it gives me an excuse to spend more time at the House of the Doves.”

  “Forget not the House of the Honeyed Virgins,” Narus added.

  Conan scowled wordlessly. The fools did not know Karela as he did. He hoped for the sake of the company that they had time to learn before it was too late. Abruptly he became aware of the horn spoon of stew he still held, and put it in his mouth. “Fabio’s cooking horse again,” he said when he’d swallowed.

  Narus froze with his own spoon half lifted. “Horse?” he gasped. Machaon stared at his bowl as if he expected it to leap from the table at him.

  “Horse,” Conan said, tossing his spoon to the rough planks. Narus gagged. Not until he was out of the room did the Cimmerian permit a smile to grow on his face. The meat tasted like beef to him, but those two deserved the worrying they were going to do over what Fabio was feeding them.

  “Conan!” Julia ran out of the door he had just exited, bouncing off his chest as he turned. Her hands clutched her robe at the waist, twisting nervously. “Conan, you didn’t … that is, last night … I mean … .” She stopped and took a deep breath. “Conan, you must speak to Fabio. He struck me. Look.” Half-turning she lifted her robe to expose the alabastrine rounds of her buttocks.

  Conan was barely able to make out a pink stripe across the undercurve. He raised his gaze to her face. Her eyes were closed; the tip of her tongue continually wetted her full lips.

  “I’ll speak to him,” he said gravely. Her eyes shot open, and a smile blossomed on her face. “I’ll tell him he must strike harder than that to make any impression on a stubborn pot-girl.”

  “Conan!” she wailed. Hastily she covered herself, smoothing the pale wool over her hips. Her eyes became as hard as sapphires. “You had a woman in your … your chamber last night. I … I was passing in the corridor, and I heard.”

  He smiled, and watched a blush spread over her cheeks. So she had had her ear pressed to his door, had she? “And what concern is that of yours?” he asked. “You are here to scrub pots and stir the stew, to fetch and carry for Fabio. Not to be wandering parts of the palace where you have no business.”

  “But you kissed me,” she protested. “And the way you kissed me! You cannot make me feel like that, then calmly walk away. I’m a woman, curse you! I’m eighteen! I will not be dismissed like a plaything.”

  For the second time in the space of hours, he mused, a woman was protesting her womanhood to him. But what a contrast between them. Karela was bold and defiant even as she melted with passion; Julia frightened despite her bluff front. Karela knew well the ways of men and women; Julia was ravaged by a kiss. Karela knew who she was and what she wanted; Julia … .

  “Do you want to come to my bed?” he said softly, taking her chin in his hand and tilting her face up. Scarlet suffused her face and neck, but she did not try to wrench free. “Say yes, and I’ll carry you there this moment.”

  “The others,” she whispered. “They’ll know.”

  “Forget them. ’Tis you must chose.”

  “I cannot, Conan.” She sobbed when he released her, and leaned toward him as if seeking his touch. “I want to say yes, but I fear to. Can you not just … take me? Men do such things, I know. Why must you put this burden I do not want on me?”

  Barely four years seperated them, yet at that moment he felt it could as well be four hundred. “Because you are not a slave, Julia. You say you are a woman, but when you are truly a woman you will be able to say yes or no, and know it is what you mean to say. But till then … well, I take only women to my bed, not frightened girls.”

  “Erlik curse you,” she said bitterly. Instantly she was contrite, one hand raised to touch his cheek. “No, I didn’t mean that. You confuse me so. When you kissed me you made me want to be a woman. Kiss me again, and make me remember. Kiss me, and give me the courage I need.”

  Conan reached for her, and at that instant a bellow of pain and rage echoed down the halls. He spun, grabbing instead for the leather-wrapped hilt of his sword. The cry came again, from above he was certain.

  “Timeon,” he muttered. His blade came into his hand, and he was running, shouting as he ran. “Rouse yourselves, you poxed rouges! ’Tis the baron screaming like a woman in birth! To arms, curse you!”

  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 corrider 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 beca
me 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 ripplied 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.