"Of course," muttered Zelandra as if speaking to herself, "without more lotus the rascal dies."
"With this damned amulet around my neck, I die in any case." Conan's voice grew louder. "Release me so that I may at least try to force the dog to remove it. Swear to give me that chance, and I shall help you against the Stygian who calls himself Ethram-Fal."
"Derketo, but you have gall," Zelandra grinned briefly in reluctant admiration. "And how might an unwashed savage like yourself be of assistance in a war of wizards?"
Conan tossed his black mane with manifest impatience. "The sorcerer who made himself appear upon the wall, the one who claimed mastery over the thing he called the Emerald Lotus, I know where he is to be found."
Heng Shih slid the scimitar into his wide yellow sash, then fluttered the fingers of his right hand as though drawing quick pictures in the air. Conan recognized the movements as a form of sign language, but had no notion of what message was conveyed.
"Perhaps," said Zelandra soberly, "but who can say?"
She took two swift steps to the Cimmerian's side and laid a cool hand upon his amulet and throat. Conan clenched his teeth. Expecting the thing to blaze into murderous life, he fought an impulse to shrink away.
"Hie Nostratos-Valkallar," she whispered, as her fingers slid between the egg-shaped amulet and Conan's throat. The muscles of the barbarian's frame locked into taut knots, but he held himself in place.
The sorceress smiled lazily into Conan's tense face and spoke: "Hie Nostratos-Nectos."
White fire erupted before the Cimmerian's eyes as Zelandra jerked the amulet free. She stepped back, her hand full of livid molten brilliance. The barbarian clasped both hands around his naked throat as a thick wave of searing heat struck his body.
"Crom and Ishtar!" The curse ripped from Conan's lips.
The sorceress opened her hand and liquid metal streamed down her fingers in bright rivulets, spilling to the floor, It seemed to flee her fingers, every drop shedding itself to sizzle in the carpet. Her hand was unmarked.
"Just a toy," she said. "Now where is Ethram-Fal, and how do you come by such convenient information? If you are lying, I shall devise a death for you that will make the amulet seem most merciful."
"To hell with you and your threats," snarled Conan. "I've been drugged, beaten, and blackmailed all night long. I said I knew where he was and I meant it. I could use a drink."
Heng Shih advanced menacingly, hefting his wooden mace. Conan stood his ground, glaring, and Neesa spoke up.
"I'll get some wine, milady. With your permission?"
"Certainly," said Zelandra, the reluctant smile playing about her lips again. "Being drugged, blackmailed, and beaten does sound like thirsty work."
Neesa bolted from the room, leaving Conan and Heng Shih to glower at one another while Zelandra examined the barbarian as though seeing him clearly for the first time.
"The Khitan is mute, then?" asked Conan, relaxing a little.
"Yes, though his hands and his weapons speak most eloquently when he wishes."
Conan rubbed the back of his head ruefully. "His club spoke to my skull earlier this evening, though I'll wager that if I had not felt the lingering fumes of Shakar's drugs, I would have heard him stealing up behind me." Heng Shih's round face split in a wolfish grin, the fingers of his right hand working in the air before him.
"He says that you have the hardest head of any man he's ever met," said Zelandra wryly.
"Others have said the same," replied the Cimmerian. "Tell him that he's the fastest-moving fat man I've ever seen."
The Khitan frowned darkly, drawing himself up to his full height as Neesa re-entered the room bearing a silver tray set with a jug of wine and a large pewter tankard.
"He understands you perfectly," said Lady Zelandra.
"So I thought." Conan snatched the jug from the platter with manacled hands and tore the cork out with his teeth. Disdaining the tankard, he drank directly from the bottle, taking several deep swallows before pulling it from his lips with an explosive sigh of satisfaction. He strode to the nearest table and, carelessly pushing books aside, sat on its edge. Nursing the bottle, he stretched his long legs out before him and gave every sign of being well pleased with himself.
"As soon as you are adequately refreshed, perhaps you would see fit to tell us where you believe Ethram-Fal can be found," said Zelandra sarcastically. Heng Shih drew his scimitar casually from his sash and absently began to test its edge with a thumb. None of this served to hurry Conan, who took a last, leisurely swallow from the bottle and set it on the table beside him.
"After you taunted the Stygian and he took on his true aspect, the scenery behind him became as clear as if we looked through a window of glass into a desert," said the Cimmerian.
"I angered him and his concentration faltered," said Lady Zelandra.
"What of it?"
"When the desert was revealed," went on Conan patiently, "I saw a ridge behind him. It is a row of small peaks that men call the Dragon's Spine."
"You have seen this ridge before?" asked Neesa in amazement.
"I have seen it twice. The last time was two months ago, when I took a caravan across Stygia from the Black Kingdoms. Before that, I saw it on the way to the dead city of demons called Pteion."
"You have been to Pteion?" Zelandra's eyes were wide in the torchlight.
"I was there once," replied Conan. "It is a place best avoided.
Ethram-Fal is in eastern Stygia, a few days' travel from the Shemitish border. From the position of the Dragon's Spine, he is both west and south of Pteion, though what he is doing in that godforsaken wasteland only Crom knows. I give you my word that all I have said is true. Now, if you will remove these manacles, and give me back my sword, I will return to the house of Shakar the Keshanian. After my visit, I promise that he shall trouble neither you nor anyone else unless it be in hell."
At a gesture from Zelandra, Neesa came forward, drawing from within her tunic a small key which she fitted into the Cimmerian's manacles. In a moment they fell from his wrists, clattering to the floor.
"Barbarian¦" said Zelandra. She hesitated, a rosy tint suffusing her features, then began again: "Conan, that area of Stygia is little known. I have scant time to find a reliable guide. If you lead me into that territory, your reward will be rich."
"But, milady," burst out Neesa in dismay. Zelandra silenced her with an imperious wave of a hand.
"What else is there for me?" she snapped. "Do I sit here passively and wait for madness and death? Or perhaps you would have me submit myself to Ethram-Fal?"
"No, milady," murmured Neesa, lowering her gaze. Heng Shih folded his thick arms impassively; only his bleak eyes revealed his emotion.
"Besides, Conan," Zelandra continued, "Shakar will die shortly for want of the Emerald Lotus. Slaying him would be an act of mercy. I need your aid now and can pay well for it."
The Cimmerian scowled, his blue eyes burning with distrust.
"I have little use for wizards he began, but Zelandra cut him off.
"Conan, I swear by Ishtar and Ashtoreth to do you no harm by sorcery or otherwise. Can you not see that my life is in the balance now? Without your aid, Ethram-Fal will claim my life with his lotus just as surely as Shakar would have claimed yours with his amulet. On the journey you could be guide and guard in one; but when we find his sanctuary, I shall confront Ethram-Fal alone. You needn't deal with him at all¦" A note of pleading desperation had crept into her voice. Conan shifted in discomfort and suddenly felt Neesa's body pressed warmly against his side. In front of him, Lady Zelandra extended a hand in supplication more eloquent than words.
"Please, barbarian."
"What the hell," said Conan gruffly. "I trust that the wages will outstrip those of a mercenary."
"Tenfold," said Zelandra. "By Pteor, Conan, you shall never have reason to regret this." The Cimmerian felt Neesa remove herself from his side.
At the same moment he noticed Heng Shih'
s face had taken on the expression of a man attempting to swallow a mouthful of spoiled meat.
"I'm damned if I don't regret it already," he grumbled. "When do we leave?"
"After sunrise." Zelandra spun about in a swirl of her silken robe. 'I have many preparations to make, and you could doubtless use a little sleep after a night like this. Heng Shih, show our guest to one of the bedchambers."
The big Khitan thrust his scimitar once more through his sash and brusquely beckoned the Cimmerian to follow him. Neesa slipped out the door just ahead of them, not glancing at Conan, but heading off down the hallway in the direction opposite that taken by Heng Shih and the barbarian.
Conan looked back over a broad shoulder and muttered a curse as he watched the woman round a corner out of sight. When he turned back to Heng Shih, the Khitan's round, yellow face was split by a grin that the barbarian found vexing.
In the mansion's opposite wing, the burning tapers were fewer and the rooms seemed unoccupied and unused. The hallway finally ended in a door that Heng Shih shoved open roughly. Within was a small, windowless, but elegantly appointed bedchamber. Conan stepped inside, and turned to the Khitan.
"My sword," he said. "Bring me my sword. I shall sleep poorly without it at hand." Heng Shih performed an elaborate shrug that seemed to indicate that he found the quality of the Cimmerian's rest of less than paramount concern. With that ambiguous gesture he closed the door upon the barbarian, leaving Conan wondering when he might hold his sword again.
Alone, Conan stretched like a weary panther as fatigue came over him despite what he had said to the Khitan. He examined the door, checked that it could not be locked from the outside, then sat down heavily on the bed. Falling back to sprawl among the velvet blankets, he let himself drift, confident that his senses would awaken him to any danger. He was sleeping soundly when there came a gentle knock at the door.
The Cimmerian snapped from slumber to complete waking clarity with the speed of a wild animal. He sat up on the bed, planted both feet on the floor, and wished that he had a weapon.
"Come," he rasped and waited. The door swung open soundlessly. The first thing that he saw was the proffered hilt of his sword.
"So," Conan began, "you decided..." He fell silent.
It was Neesa who brought him the sword. She stepped tentatively into the room, bare white arms extending from filmy sleeves as she held the hilt of the heavy broadsword out to him. Her only garment was a diaphanous robe that floated about her like a soft cloud of translucent vapor. The room's single taper illumined the long curves of her slender body through the robe's revealing gossamer.
"I Neesa's voice faltered. "I was afraid that Heng Shih would not bring you your sword and that you would think that we mistrusted you. I thought She flushed and thrust the sword out to him. Conan took his blade and held it uncertainly, his gaze fixed upon her. He had come to his feet without thinking and now he became painfully aware of the woman's obvious discomfort.
"Neesa," said Conan hoarsely. "I'll take Zelandra's payment in gold."
"What? They don't know I'm¦" she stammered. Her face twisted in mingled confusion and anger. "Damn me for an idiot!" she exclaimed savagely.
With that she lunged forward, throwing her arms around the barbarian and crushing her mouth against his. The sword was pinned between their bodies. Conan released it, his arms moving automatically around her.
Neesa laid her hands upon his wide chest and thrust him away, breaking the embrace. The sword dropped to the carpet, where it lay unnoticed.
Wild-eyed and panting, Neesa glared at the Cimmerian, who looked on in mute amazement.
"I am not payment," she gritted. "I thought¦ oh, to hell with what I thought!" She whirled and ran from the bedchamber, slamming the door behind her.
Conan stared at the door for a full minute. He glanced down at his sword to be certain that it was really there. Then he sat on the bed again and rubbed his jaw. He reflected that it made little difference how long he lived or how many women he knew, the opposite sex continued to provide surprises. Apparently Neesa had come to him of her own accord and he had managed to drive her off with a few ill-chosen words.
It certainly wouldn't be the first time that he had shown poor judgment where women were concerned.
But there was little point in worrying about it. All and all, this was a superior close to a difficult day. He was employed, free of Shakar's magic, and lying on a fine bed with a belly full of wine. Conan lolled back on the blankets once again and kicked off Ms boots. Things had, indeed, been much worse. In a few moments the barbarian was asleep.
Chapter Ten
Alone in her bedchamber, Zelandra brooded.
The torches burned as ruddy as dying embers, filling the room with a ruby twilight that matched the sorceress's mood. Her long, silken robes whispered on the marble floor as she moved among her books, studying the unwieldy piles on the tables and then methodically examining her shelves. In a corner, she knelt and pulled an armload of long leather tubes from behind a row of books.
Shoving the tomes aside, she piled the leather tubes on a table, peering at each in turn. Zelandra selected one that was pale and slender, and drew from it a rolled scroll of parchment. It was a map, darkened by age and inscribed in a dead language. The sorceress muttered to herself, smoothing the crackling scroll flat on the dusty tabletop.
The map depicted the eastern regions of what was now Stygia, but the highland areas were sketched in with little detail. Zelandra sighed.
The map seemed all but useless; still, it would have to suffice. She thrust the scroll into the tube and set it beside her bed. Then she hesitated, wrapped in indecision.
Resolution came to Zelandra, sending her striding to the far corner of the chamber. She reached for a torch, twisting it in its sconce, and a section of the bookshelf-lined wall swung open like a door. Within was a tiny, circular room hung with curtains of black velvet. A single chair sat at a round, ebony table that all but filled the little chamber. The sorceress stepped into the secret room, and the door swung shut, sealing her in darkness.
Zelandra whispered a soft incantation, and an unearthly silver glow dispelled the gloom. Ten spheres of hematite were set in a circle on the tabletop, and they radiated a chill illumination.
The sorceress sat in the chair, touching each of the stones in turn.
Silver light raked her features, turning them stark and sinister. Her hands danced over the ring of stones, describing intricate patterns, and a patch of light appeared in the air before her. It rolled and seethed, suspended above the circle of silvery stones like a ball of glowing smoke.
"Mithrelle," said Zelandra clearly. "Mithrelle."
The ball of smoky light vanished, and it was as though a distorted mirror suddenly hung before Zelandra. The flattened image of a woman's face peered at the sorceress, floating above the table.
"Mithrelle," said Zelandra. The conjured face blinked as if startled.
It was a face of extraordinary beauty.
"Who dares?" The voice was rich and throaty, sounding as if its owner shared the little room with the Lady Zelandra.
"Who dares, indeed." Zelandra smiled casually, but her hands were clenched into tight fists, and the pulse fluttered visibly in her throat.
"Zelandra!" The woman called Mithrelle smiled in recognition. Black hair hung in heavy coils around her pale face. Eyes like pools of oil gleamed with dark humor. Her lips were stained so deeply red as to appear black. "To what do I own this unexpected pleasure?"
"Greetings, Mithrelle. I'm loathe to disturb you at this hour, but I have need of information. And everyone knows that there is no one so well informed as yourself."
Mithrelle laughed, throwing back her head and baring her white throat.
On her breast, a swollen garnet hung from a necklace of black pearls.
"Flattery! This is not like you, Zelandra."
"I need your help, Mithrelle."
"Even so? You have had little use for me since w
e studied together."
"Your path is not my path, Mithrelle."
"Oh no." Mithrelle's tones grew heavy with sarcasm. "The lady prefers the quiet life of a scholar. She hides away in Akkharia with her slaves, only venturing out to go to market."
"How is Sabatea, Mithrelle?" Zelandra's voice turned hard.
"Very well. I have performed a few favors for the sorcerers of the Black Ring, and they have been appropriately grateful. My life is full of pleasures. And your own? Is that strapping Khitan slave still keeping you company?"
"I freed Heng Shih long ago," said Zelandra tersely. She fought to control herself. Anger would accomplish nothing.
"Of course you did. I'd expect nothing less. You are the same woman you were a score of years ago. Yet, I have heard rumors as of late that the reclusive Lady Zelandra is seeking a more public position. I couldn't credit it." Mithrelle paused theatrically, lifting a long-fingered hand to stroke her chin. Her nails were sharp and gleamed with black lacquer.
Zelandra shrugged in resignation. She should have known that Mithrelle would ask at least as.many questions as she answered.
"I'm seeking the position of court wizard to the king."
"It's true, then," exclaimed Mithrelle in mock surprise. "And why would the Lady Zelandra demean herself by working for another? Could it be that her inheritance is dwindling and that she must needs earn a living for the first time in her life?"
"I fail to see why you ask so many questions," Zelandra replied stiffly, "since you obviously know all the answers already." Mithrelle laughed in delight, her mirth as sweet and cloying as poisoned honey.
"Indeed. That is why you sought audience with me, is it not? Now, how can I assist my old friend?"
"Tell me of the Stygian sorcerer named Ethram-Fal."
"Phaugh!" Mithrelle grimaced delicately. "What do you want with that one?"
"He has insinuated himself into my affairs. He claims that he can sell me magical talismans of unprecedented power."
The Conan Compendium Page 433
