Conan: Road of Kings

by Karl Edward Wagner

  He added: “You’ll want a dagger as well. See if any you find here will suit you.”

  Conan eagerly looked over the row of knives that Mordermi indicated, thinking that there were weapons and armor here to equip a small army, should Santiddio’s comrades decide to back their words with steel. “You say there are three of them left of their house. Does the one hold title, while Santiddio and Sandokazi live as outcasts?”

  “There is no title, no estate any longer. Only Santiddio and his sisters—they’re triplets, did you know that? They were little more than children when their father offended King Rimanendo. I’m still not sure whether it was because the count was withholding more than his share of the royal taxes he collected from his tenants—as Rimanendo charged—or because he refused to levy the full burden of Rimanendo’s taxes upon his people—as Santiddio claims. Little matter. He was beheaded, his lands and wealth given over to another of Rimanendo’s henchmen. I forget what happened to the rest of the household—it wasn’t anything to dwell upon.

  “But a triple birth is a rare thing; I know of none other in our lifetime in Zingara. Three is a sacred number, and they were spared if for no better reason than the awe of the common folk; a plain soldier is slower to defile the handiwork of his gods than is the officer who commands him. Through sympathizers of their father, they lived. Santiddio and Sandokazi eventually found their way to the Pit, as have so many. Loyal friends kept them in enough money to eke out an existence; Sandokazi dances, Santiddio draws from a portion of the funds collected by the White Rose.”

  Conan found a heavy-bladed kidney dagger to his liking. “And the third one?”

  “That’s Destandasi. She … well, she fell in with a different crowd, so to speak. She too was sickened by the corrupt tyranny of Rimanendo’s rule, but while Santiddio and Sandokazi turned their energies toward social reform, Destandasi turned her back upon modern society. She entered the mysteries of Jhebbal Sag. I believe she is priestess in a grove sacred to Jhebbal Sag, somewhere beyond the Black River. There has been little or no communication obviously over the years. A sorceress—particularly one of that ancient cult—has little concern with the social and political upheavals of the modern world, for all that her brother and sister have been swept up in its tide.”

  “Destandasi,” Conan wondered, fitting the dagger to his belt. “She is the twin of Sandokazi?”

  “And of Santiddio,” laughed Mordermi. “Very aloof is Destandasi.”

  Five

  Night Visitors

  At the first whisper of sound, Conan was fully awake. His eyes slitted in the darkness of his chamber, and his fist closed upon the hilt of his dagger.

  Mordermi had given over to him one of the rooms of the mansion. Conan had made up a pallet amidst the bales and piles of plundered goods from whence he could watch the door. It was the soft snick of the well-oiled bolt that had awakened him after only a few hours of sleep.

  Someone had quickly cracked open the door and slipped past, of that Conan was certain—even though the door was again closed, and the room in total darkness. Unable to see, the intruder was waiting to orient himself within the cluttered storeroom. Silently, Conan slid from beneath his blanket and crept toward the almost indiscernible sound of soft breathing.

  As he stealthily closed with the unseen visitor, Conan suddenly relaxed his tense grip upon the kidney dagger. To his nostrils came the piquant fragrance of perfume and sweat. Conan swept out his arm and gathered in a startled female form.

  Sandokazi gave an involuntary yelp of surprise, then subsided in his embrace. The quick brush of his arms made it plain to Conan that the woman carried no weapon.

  “I might have gutted you,” Conan reproached her.

  “Mitra! Are you a cat that you can see in the dark?”

  “I heard your breathing, smelled your perfume.” Conan wondered that he had to explain the obvious. “I thought I’d locked that door.”

  “Anyone can pick these locks,” Sandokazi replied in the same tone. “But then, who would steal from Mordermi?”

  “Indeed.”

  Sandokazi wore only a thin shift. Conan, who wore rather less, was keenly aware of the warm body that pressed against his own bare flesh.

  “I danced until very late tonight,” Sandokazi told him. “The others are all drunk and snoring after celebrating Santiddio’s escape.”

  Conan, who had left the festivities earlier that evening, was not slow to comprehend. Perhaps had he not lingered along the way to his quarters with his convivial bath attendant. Conan’s response now would have been different. The Cimmerian acted according to his savage code of honor—a code not overly governed by temperance—and the voluptuous figure that embraced him in the darkness was as tempting as any succubus.

  “I told you I wouldn’t forget what you did for my brother,” Sandokazi whispered, her fingers teasing.

  “You are Mordermi’s woman,” Conan reminded her with an effort.

  “Mordermi need not know. He has not been my first lover, nor will he be my last. I’m no austere maiden like my sainted sister.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Conan protested, knowing that if matters went any further his passions would override his ethics. “Mordermi is my host and my friend. I’ll not cuckold him in his own house.”

  “Such piety!” Sandokazi scoffed. “Who would have believed it in a barbarian mercenary! My touch tells me that you’re not one of those who will only ride another stallion. Surely you’re not afraid of Mordermi?”

  Anger thickened Conan’s tone. “No doubt it’s strange to you that I have not become sufficiently civilized to roll in the hay with a friend’s woman. In Cimmeria our customs are somewhat archaic.”

  “Well then, this isn’t Cimmeria, is it,” Sandokazi teased. “Surely now, a man of your class hasn’t paused to propose marriage to every wench he’s tumbled!”

  “Not to a slut,” Conan snarled. Anger was now overruling the lust he felt for her. “But if I care for a woman, then I make her my woman, and I’d kill any man who tried to steal my woman. Mordermi feels the same, if I’m any judge of men. If I take you for my own, it would mean a fight. I’m not ready to kill a friend over any woman.”

  “Oh, so!” Sandokazi drew away, her own temper aroused now. “Santiddio was right—you are an altruist. Well, my possessive Cimmerian! I wasn’t offering to become your barbarian hutmate in some stinking mountain village—I was offering you a night’s pleasure! I was curious to learn whether there was a man underneath all that pretty muscle! Instead, all I find is one great hulking fool!”

  As Sandokazi haughtily slipped from his grasp and made for the door, Conan almost agreed with her pronouncement. He was not accustomed to thinking through his actions, and only the fact that betrayal of a friend was abhorrent to his every instinct prevented him from seizing her and throwing her willing flesh down against his pallet. Instead, he let her go to the door.

  After the total darkness of Conan’s chamber, the gloom of the corridor beyond made a bright bar of light as the door opened. Sandokazi’s bare tread had been soundless, so that the man outside the door was outlined in the band of light. Although taken unawares, he recovered instantly, and the knife in his hand gleamed balefully as he stabbed downward.

  No less startled herself, Sandokazi screamed piercingly. The intruder’s arm wavered involuntarily—he hadn’t expected a woman—and that hesitation was enough for Sandokazi to writhe under the blow. With a dancer’s litheness, she rolled into the hallway—taking a shallow cut as the blade sliced the shoulder of her shift. She screamed again.

  The assailant whirled, still discomfited by the unexpected turn of events—uncertain whether to silence her or to attack the man he thought to find asleep here. Conan, lunging out of the darkness, struck first. Seizing the man’s knife arm, he drove the kidney dagger into the intruder’s belly, tearing upward in a gutting stroke that sheared into breastbone. The man’s bellow of pain melted into a dull groan, as he sank from Conan’s grasp and
spilled onto the floor.

  Sandokazi stopped screaming, and looked at Conan with glowing eyes.

  By now other cries of alarm resounded throughout the mansion. Men came running into the hallway, blades bright in the light of the torches they carried. Mordermi was among them. There was question in his face, as he and his men took in the tableau.

  Sandokazi did not hesitate. “I was about to retire, when I saw someone slinking along the hallway. His manner was suspicious; I followed him, and when he paused before Conan’s door, I knew him to be an assassin. I screamed a warning to Conan; the assassin struck at me, and then Conan grappled with the man and killed him.”

  She drew down the slashed shoulder of her shift, examined the cut there. It bled freely, but was little more than a scratch. Conan had better sense than to contradict her story.

  “You should have summoned one of us.” Mordermi accepted her words. “You might have been killed.”

  “Summoned whom? You were all passed out over your cups.”

  “Turn him over, and let’s see who he was,” Mordermi directed. “What kind of security do I have that lets Korst’s assassins swagger through my quarters at will!”

  They rolled the corpse onto its back, shoved a torch close to the bloody face. Several of them swore.

  “Mitra! It’s Velio!” Mordermi growled. “I held Velio one of my most trusted lieutenants. So Rimanendo’s gold has corrupted even those I thought were my close friends! Conan, I offered you shelter here, and nearly caused your death.”

  Conan remained silent. In his own mind he was uncertain whether this Velio was indeed a spy and assassin—or a loyal henchman who, having witnessed Sandokazi’s dalliance, was only intent upon avenging his lord’s honor.

  Six

  At the King’s Masque

  The smell of the sea was warmed by the vast rose gardens that surrounded the royal pavilion beyond the high walls that enclosed the pleasure palace upon the shoreward side. Away from the waterfront squalor of Kordava’s harbor, the royal pavilion thrust out into the sea from a lofty headland just beyond the city walls. A thousand festive lanterns made multicolored daylight about the gardens, while the laughter and gaiety of the guests drowned out the restive murmur of the surf in the darkness beneath the promontory.

  Less festive than furtive, Conan moved among the guests of King Rimanendo’s birthday masque—thinking that tonight’s was a mad piece of daring, even for Mordermi, who had contrived to forge a quantity of royal invitations.

  The Cimmerian cut a fantastic figure amidst the assembled wealth and nobility, and Conan was acutely self-conscious. He wore the horned helmet, scale armor and fur cloak of a Vanir warrior—a race he neither resembled nor loved. Henna gave his black mane an auburn tint, while a silken mask covered his upper features. The disguise was Sandokazi’s idea, as was the heavy war axe he carried—a two-handed weapon with broad blade and hammer head. Conan approved of this last; weapons, other than a gentleman’s rapier and dagger, were suspect at the king’s revel, but this axe was only part of his costume.

  “Who would expect a real barbarian to masquerade as a barbarian?” Sandokazi had argued, displaying a Zingaran’s tendency to lump all the dissimilar northern barbarians into one catchall. Conan spoke Zamoran well enough to pose as a visiting official from that distant realm—thus excusing his accent to the snobbish and parochial Zingaran gentry, most of whom would be hardpressed to distinguish a Pict from a Kushite, a Stygian from a Turanian, should so slight a matter have cause to impinge upon their attention.

  Sandokazi herself wore a falcon’s mask, full-face, and an enveloping cape of feathers that swirled about her bare limbs as she walked. She wore nothing beneath the feathered cloak.

  Santiddio, who led her about upon a silver chain affixed to her neck, wore a falconer’s garb and a domino mask. As Sandokazi had predicted, none of the guests paid him a second glance.

  Strangest of all, Mordermi capered about in an idealized guise of King Rimanendo himself—in ermine robes, gilt mail, tinsel crown, powdered hair, sufficient belly padding to alter his own physique without blaspheming that of Zingara’s monarch. Again, Sandokazi’s idea; “Will they look askant upon the image of our king?”

  She was, to Conan’s mind, exceedingly clever, and he was just as relieved that there had been no further nocturnal visits during the month he had remained with Mordermi.

  The weeks had passed quickly and not unprofitably for Conan. The pickings were rich for Mordermi and his band, and Mordermi was a generous leader. Conan himself was no slouch when it came to the unlawful acquisition of property, and the Cimmerian gave away nothing in daring or ability to the more experienced Zingaran rogue. Admiration grew into a firm friendship between the two, tempered with an undercurrent of rivalry which, in their youth, neither man yet recognized as a threat.

  It was a friendship that included Santiddio and Sandokazi, although there was never the kinship of spirit that made a bond between Conan and Mordermi. Mordermi was a barbarian of the urban slums in effect, forged in a wilderness as savage and pitiless in its way as the cold mountains of Cimmeria. With Santiddio and Sandokazi there was always that aloof barrier engendered by higher breeding. For all his talk of the brotherhood of all mankind, Santiddio’s intellectuality effectively divorced him from the realities of his dreams, while there was to Sandokazi the sense of an amused participant in a game that seems somehow too childish for one of her accomplishments.

  Conan sensed that he himself was as much of an enigma to the others, and that perhaps their friendship was nourished by the fact that they were all of them misfits: Mordermi whose ambitions were far more subtle than merely to reign as prince of thieves. Sandokazi, whose amusement was to pull down the social order that was her birthright. Santiddio, whose dream was to create a new order based upon reason, not power. And finally Conan, a barbarian adventurer who had left Cimmeria to see the civilized kingdoms of mankind, and had found little to vindicate his wanderlust.

  He had sought adventure, and in that Conan had never been disappointed.

  There were several hundred guests here to celebrate King Rimanendo’s birthday masque. Fantastically costumed figures promenaded about the garden and grounds, while within the pavilion courtly gentlemen and their gorgeously gowned ladies swirled in dance upon the black marble floor. Scantily clad serving girls darted about with golden trays of sweet-meats and choice delicacies, brimming silver goblets of rare wines and iced punches. Amorous couples dwindled into the privacy of arbors and floral-scented bowers, where the laughter and music of the masque muffled their silken rustlings and soft sighs.

  Conan ate sparingly, but tossed down whatever goblet was offered him, quaffing century-old vintages as if they were cheap ale. To those guests who accosted him, Conan grunted curt replies in Zamoran. Of menacing aspect, the royal guests judged him drunk and boorish. Conan was not drunk.

  This night’s adventure was not to his liking, although Mordermi saw it as a splendid jest. Conan preferred more stealthy theft, or else open brigandry—break into a wealthy lord’s treasure vault, or sack a merchant’s caravan. Mordermi’s scheme tonight ran the risks of both methods. As such, Conan was not overconcerned; the elaborate charade did annoy him.

  Besides themselves, Mordermi had contrived to place another score of his men and as many of the White Rose within the royal pleasure palace. Most were in the guise of servants and lackeys, although a number of Santiddio’s associates were of sufficient presence to masquerade as guests. Weapons were the crucial point; one does not come heavily armed to honor his king’s birthday. Of course, no gentleman would appear at a court festival without his rapier, while his lackey would be expected to carry a knife or bludgeon against thieves and footpads. Conan, Mordermi pointed out when the Cimmerian wanted to lead the outside assault, must serve as a one-man shock troop for those within the walled gardens.

  The royal pleasure palace—bordered by high walls and sea-torn cliffs, guarded by Rimanendo’s personal troops. The scheme�
��daring beyond belief. The risks—bordering on the suicidal. The prize—the gold and jewels of Zingara’s wealthiest aristocracy.

  A red-haired girl, wearing only a scanty halter and G-string fashioned of interlinked silver discs and dragging a two-handed sword in an absurd portrayal of a barbarian swordswoman, tilted her smiling face toward Conan’s scowl. “Why so sombre, my fellow barbarian?” she trilled. “I know a quiet spot where we two can repair to wage a friendly struggle. After all, it is not yet the time for removing our … masks.”

  “Is it not yet midnight?” Conan asked in a thick accent. “But it is almost time for the pretty falcon to dance, as she has promised.”

  The girl made a face behind her mask. “If you want to watch some fool dance, don’t let me detain you.”

  “Bitch!” Conan mumbled, as she clanked away. His temper was not the sweeter for all the wine he had drunk. On his own, he would have taken the highborn tart on her offer, turned her playful scorn into a different mood, then gone on about his larcenous endeavours. But this was Mordermi’s game, and Conan must play his part—or the carefully planned raid would turn into a death-trap for all of them.

  Conan sourly let a serving wench refill his goblet, then strode off toward the pavilion where Sandokazi was to begin her dance. The prospect of imminent fighting soothed the Cimmerian’s temper—where another man would instead have grown raw-nerved from the tension.

  That one of the royal guests might desire to dance before the others like an entertainer in some low tavern was not strange—for this was the king’s birthday masque, when Zingara’s aristocracy might shed their courtly dignity and act out the whims and passions that lurked behind the masks of their well-bred hauteur. Chaste matrons might cavort about as painted hoydens; austere lords might mince upon the dance floor in the seductive gowns of a demimonde; maidenly daughters might flaunt their white flesh in the scantiest of costumes before the hot eyes of young gentlemen whose fanciful attire revealed rather than concealed their virile curves.