Prologue
The old man's skull gleamed in the lamplight that picked out brownish spots scattered over the tight-drawn skin. Pale yellow light emanated from four oil lamps set in a complicated sculpture suspended from the ceiling; daily a servant lowered the fixture on its chain to fill the lamps, which he later lit from a taper.
The hairless dome thus unflatteringly lit belonged to my lord Sabaninus, Baron of Korveka. His chain and medallion of rank hung heavy on the breast of a robe of wine-dyed woollen. The robe was high of neck and long of sleeve, though neither weather nor this chamber of his office was cold.
Slowly the baron lifted a wrinkled and liver-spotted hand to the jaw-long strands of hair that hung at his ear, framing his skull in a lank fringe the colour of cream. Even the last mocking remnant of his former mane was yellowing with age, as were his nails. Korveka's lord blinked, leaning a bit forward across his desk to look at his visitor.
Was it sheer imagination that there seemed an aura of malign genius about this man from so very, very far away, however dimly the baron saw him?
Sabaninus blinked again. The Baron of Korveka thought that no one discerned his failing sight and daily headaches; the truth was that none who more than glanced at him could fail to note how he blinked, and squinted, and strained ever forward in his effort to distinguish the details his eyes refused to report.
The lord baron was certain of one detail concerning his visitor. The man's skin was yellow as a dying flower or as gold seen at sunset.
The lord of Korveka had never before encountered a yellow-skinned person. This one he was delighted to see — almost to see – because the younger man had made the baron an offer; a most strange and tempting offer indeed.
In silence, Sabaninus considered it. The two men gazed at each other. Neither moved. Above, the lamps burned silently. None would interrupt; so had Baron Sabaninus ordered. Sabaninus pondered the offer, and his past-and his future.
The lord of the far north-western uplands of Koth was a widower. Nor had either of his wives borne him a son to inherit the domain of meadowland that produced such fine crops at the foothills of rearing mountains. Not even a daughter had his wives produced, a girl he might have wed to some other noble's son, to preside over Korveka and produce sons to carry on the line; even that were better than the situation in which he found himself. The baron was no happy man.
Sabaninus knew that at court in Khorshemish he'd long been referred to as 'Baron Farm-lout' and 'Lord Bumpkin' and, of late, That Wrinkly Old Farm-lord of the Blue Lake Country. Other nobles of the ancient Hyborian kingdom plotted incessantly. None had approached Sabaninus for years. Neither his support nor his advice was any longer sought. His produce was valuable; he was harmless. He was neither an intimate of king and court, nor out of favour. None sought him as ally and none sought his counsel. People of other lands knew Koth for its superbly made armour; none came from Korveka. The barony's fertile land, fed by clear lakes and rivers emanating in the mountains, was effectively cut off from the rest of the country by that natural wall of granite. Here the land was too hospitable to animals and food crops to be wasted in the production of aught else. Even as far as Hyrkania across the Vilayet Sea; even as far as Zamboula to the south, men of weapons wore Kothian armour. Who beyond Koth's capital knew of Korvekan lettuce or cabbage or olives? What people truly appreciated those who fed them, in their cities and palaces? When Sabaninus of Korveka was thought of or mentioned, it was as that quaint old provincial noble from over in the mountains; the hermetic old fellow who sent such fine produce to the palace and markets of Khorshemish. Oh yes, Korvekan wool is superior – have you heard the latest about that handsome guard captain and the queen's cousin's wife?
Royal decree had long forbidden his trading with his neighbour, the little kingdom of Khauran, a wedge nestled in to Korveka's easternmost border. Fierce sky-reaching mountains separated Korveka from Corinthia and Zamora in the north. Korveka, which might well have been a kingdom of its own, was all but forgotten. 'Khauran,' Sabaninus muttered.
'Aye. Khauran of the Unhappy Queens,' his visitor said in his glutinous voice.
Ah, Sabaninus thought, if only he could have made alliance with the current queen or her predecessor – however fat, after her widowing. What a hero he'd be in Koth; in Khorshemish! Koth's narrow-eyed, plot-wary kings had long given jealous and calculating thought to the diminutive eastern neighbour. With a Kothian on its throne-a Korvekan! -alliance might well develop into... more; into a sort of annexation of Khauran; a satrapy whose future ruler would be of Kothian blood.
My lord Sabinamus, son of Sabaninus, Lord of Korveka and King of Koth!
A smile flirted with Sabaninus's sagging mouth. Such a prospect, along with his becoming instantly honoured hero, meant more to him than did wearing Khauran's crown. It was his own people he had ever wanted to impress, during all the two-score years since he, at forty-two, had inherited his father's medallion and title. The medallion of sapphire-set gold had grown steadily heavier, and its chain; the meaning of the title had not appreciated. To be invited into the glittering palace in Khorshemish! To pass between lines of admiring and envious nobles; to be announced and honoured, welcomed and praised by a grateful king! Never again to be indicated as a bumpkinish upland farm-lord! Oh, aye! He'd gladly make the long ride down to the west to such a purpose, such a reception!
His visitor smiled. 'And perhaps my lord baron is wise at that; as king over Khauran you would be but consort, and ever aware and wary of Koth, and justifiably nervous of invasion.'
'You know my very thoughts, man of Khitai?' 'I have many abilities, Baron, but the reading of minds is not one of them. I am merely no fool; a wise man would
know how you would think, having heard my proposal and taken time to reflect.'
'Youth.'
'Ah.' A smooth, gold-sheened hand rose, first finger uplifted as if in admonition. 'Not youth, Sabaninus of Korveka. The appearance of youth; the feel of it. That we can obtain for you. Inside, you remain the same man, and you surely cannot be offended by my pointing out that Death still has his burning eye on you.'
The baron sighed, staring intently, and the sigh wheezed out through a mouth in which less than half the teeth remained. One ached even now.
'My hair..."
'Full, and brown.'
'My... my mouth...'
'Firm of lip. Were your teeth white? They will be whiter.'
Sabaninus lifted his hands and regarded them, turning them. 'My-'
'Smooth and strong. The hands of a man of... I can remove two of each three years of your age, Baron. Yours will be the hands and hair and teeth-and the sight-of a man of thirty. Are these enough, Baron of Korveka?'
The old nobleman swallowed hard. 'Baron of the Mountains of Gloom; Baron of the Farms; My Lord Sheep-herder.' Perhaps his eyes were rheumy as he uttered the harsh words so softly spoken; perhaps tears sparkled there. He closed those eyes in a long, long blink.
'To me... to be the age of thirty is... is as adolescence to others, Khi Zang.'
The yellow-skinned man sat in silence. They two sat alone in the baron's room of office, and would not be interrupted. Light flickered on bald head and on the visitor's old-gold skin.
"You are... certain, Khi Zang, that this can be accomplished?'
'I am. It is not without cost.'
The baron showed attentiveness while maintaining silence. The Khitan made a brief, dismissive gesture.
'It will cost a life; one life for Koth! There is no danger to you: none. Once the transformation is accomplished, you will of course be wise to move swiftly, for though your appearance will be that of such a younger man, you will still be... you.'
'It is not enough, of course.'
&nb
sp; 'Of course it is not. Youth is the goal of all; its semblance but a mocking reminder of what was. Yet you do not need me to remind you that neither is death enough, nor of proper recognition for one such as you.'
'Aye. After fourscore and two years. But to seem to be thirty...'
'Aye, Baron. It is not enough. But what man has even much as the appearance of being younger?'
The baron stared at the man whom he saw as through thick morning gaze, or through an ell of water, however near. 'Khitan... Khi Zang... you? How old are you?'
Strong white teeth flashed in a yellow-bronze face as the Khitan laughed. 'I wondered when you would be minded of that! How old do you think I am?'
'I-'
'Do not dissemble with me, Sabaninus,' Khi Zang said, the first in many years to call the other by his name. 'I know you see but poorly, and strain even for that!'
Sabaninus was a while assimilating that, and wondering if others knew. Probably. He had lied even to himself. And now... was this young visitor from a land so far away as to be considered legend by many... was he lying? Was it a trick? Was Sabaninus of Korveka once again but the butt of a joke, of contempt?
Most desperately, he did not want to believe that he was; he wanted to believe Khi Zang of Khitai. 'You appear... little more than... thirty.'
The Khitan said equably, 'the son is older than that, Baron.' Indeed, Zang is nearly fifty. And aye, I have come thousands of miles to visit you. My years are not gone from me; they are no longer visible. Nor do I feel them —save in the mind.'
'You remember all?'
'I do.'
'And you have journeyed all this way to offer me y-the appearance of youth?'
'I have.'
Why?'
Khi Zang sat forward. 'At some time in future, Sabaninus of Korveka, I or my son will have, business in Khauran. We will ask nothing that you-or your son? -cannot give, in willingness. A temple. That is in future, Sabaninus; how much future have you? Presently, I will have a saddlebag of you-one saddlebag, Baron-filled with that which you have hidden here in quantity. Gold.'
'Gold! You know even of-'
'I do. The fortune of the House of Saban, and of what value is gold to a man who dies old and alone and heiress?'
'You are in my home, and you are cruel, Khitan I'
Khi Zang saw that there was strength and fire in the baron yet, and he bowed his head. 'Cruel. Aye, honesty is cruelty, to the old. What need is there for men so old as we to avoid facts lest they be "cruel", Baron of Korveka? Come, Sabaninus. Had I said, "What would you pay for youth?" you'd have blurted, "All I have!" For the appearance of youth, then, and the opportunity it brings... what? The twentieth part of all you possess? A deed of gratitude to be paid by the queen and prince you leave upon dying; a debt to be paid by architecture? Your soul and your fortune, remain yours. Sabaninus of Korveka.'
Do they? Sabaninus thought, and his brain was turmoil. He said, 'O Lady Ishtar! How can I refuse you?'
This he asked helplessly, feeling that he should. The Khitan was right. His life was all that a man possessed of real value; that and his honour and his dreams. Gold and some future claim; these were not comparable. Nor even was wisdom and further reflection. Tonight, tomorrow, next month might bring the fulfilling of his years on this plane. Sabaninus considered, and reflected, and cast consideration and reflection from him with a saddlebag full of gold.
What was gold? But-what was this about... a life? Immediately he became wary again; surely the man would not demand the son he hoped to get on Queen lalamis?
He had said, 'How can I refuse you?' and Khi Zang said nothing.
'I will do it. What must be done? Tell me in detail. Life? What life is demanded?'
'Open to us the final keep of this keep; your underground of final refuge. Fetch, bring, lure to us there-for now it does not matter-a maiden. You will be I... and you must be careful to do as I direct.'
'I... I am not to slay...'
'You are to be still, and silent, and to observe. You contend with a concept of what is Good, and what is not. Tonight you must put such superstitions from you. You sacrifice yourself, for Koth! These things that I have stated and are only are required of you, Baron of Korveka. Of me: my skills. Of her: her unimportant life.'
'You keep reminding me...'
'Yes. I will not lie or dissemble to you, Sabaninus. I have not found that which is free in this world; have you, in score and two years? Your gain-perhaps Koth's gain can be bought at the cost of another life. So it must be, you must understand.'
The baron raised tremulous, liver-spotted, spindly hands over his sunken old face. I am not a bad man. I have been a bad man. It is for Korveka, and for Koth!
Through his hands his voice was low, muffled:
"I will do it.'
Nateela of Ophir was eighteen and she had been slave for fifteen years.
Happiness had begun for her the day a man in rustic allure had bought her in Khorshemish. Knowing then only that he smelled of sheep and was some far lord's steward, she had been more than apprehensive on the long trek east and north. Beyond those menacing, difficult mountains she had gazed upon a land of lovely lakes and rolling green lands allotted with sheep and kine. As the party of her new owners descended, she saw that laboriously constructed fences of grey rock blocked the grazing animals from the land under cultivation. There grew crops and the people seemed happy enough. Then she knew new fear, when her escort headed for the great baronial manse, bearing city-bought supplies, linking saddlebags, and... the new human property: Nateela.
There had been no need of fear. She had been eleven then, and for seven years Nateela had known happiness and peace, good food and adequate rest, and never a beating.
Now she did not care ever to leave the domain of the burn of Korveka. She secretly loved the man, as an uncle or father. Her woman's love was an altogether different form and was reserved for Vanirius, son of the steward. Not that the handsome young free man took note.
This night Nateela did not know why the baron had been so long below, in that mouldy keep of keeps, with M strange guest. Nor did she question, or much care. She had been told-by the baron himself-to fetch them nothing but cider, about the time the moon was over the shear in enclosure.
She was not anxious to descend into the darkness of till underground chamber designed so long ago as final haven for the baronial family in the event of siege. She went. Her lord was below; she trusted her lord and served him willingly. He was no bad man and now surely had but few years left him. It was strange that he'd wanted wine, down there in the dark and the damp, to allay such pains as those in his left leg and his right elbow and left shoulder. The? plagued him much, she knew. She wished she were sorcerer, to rid him of his pain.
He was so old. It was stupid to talk, as some philosopher! were said to do, of 'average life expectancy' for the number of years thus arrived at averaged in the many many who died in the first year or two of their lives-and the women who succumbed to child bed fever. Even so the lord baron of Korveka had lived beyond the span gained by very few men, and fewer women. Nateela was aware this, and the only apprehension she now knew was what might befall her after his inevitable death. Inexplicably he had chosen no successor, adopted no one; the King of Khorshemish would surely take the lands and send another lord to preside over them. Or perhaps one would accept the lands and their revenues, but remain on the other side of tin mountains rather than live so far from the capital. Then nothing would change, for the steward was no mean man and his son Vanirius...
Nateela did not think on it. She but served Sabaninus well and loyally, and with love.
The air as she descended was thick and musty, smelling of earth-though she smelled, strangely, the burning herb and tin rust. That was nice, though a bit thickly cloying. The old steps were dark. From below, candles or lamps were lit in invitation, and she heard the two men talking. Crouching a bit to avoid cobwebs, she descended slowly downward, with care though without stealth.
&
nbsp; She heard the baron's voice, and then she could distinguish the words: 'My steward has been told that you and it will be very late tonight, alone, for Khorshemish. So have my household overseer. Both have retired, probably dunking to try to aid me on the morrow. Meanwhile, two wait the appearance of you and my nephew, Sergianus had better be at the stable, with horses and provisions prepared for us four.'
'You appear to have arranged well.' Nateela heard the accented voice of the strange, yellow man. 'And the drinks?'
'Ishtar forgive me,' the baron said in a low voice more tremulous than usual. 'She should be bringing us refreshment now. Your preparations are complete?'
'They are, Sabaninus.'
Nateela wondered at their words, but forgot them in her surprise at hearing her lord called by name. Never before had she heard that done in his presence. She descended, and bethought her that it were wise to make a sound. A good servant, she coughed.
'Just do remain by me within this circle,' the Khitan went on. 'Perhaps-'
'Save it, Baron of Korveka; that cough is a good servant's announcement of approach.'
Oh good, Nateela thought; the poor old baron probably hadn't heard.
The Khitan's voice rose in volume: 'And none too soon; the musty air below ground does dry a man's mouth and throat!'
The two men fell silent, then. Nateela was glad that the strange yellow man had heard her. The lord baron doubtless heard little more, these days, than he saw. Poor man, poor ill man with neither wife nor son nor daughter; how my heart goes out to him! And a good man, too!
She stepped down on to the floor of the keep within the keep. A gasp escaped her, for the earth was cold and hard beneath her feet.
'Good sweet cider, my lords.'
'What a lovely gift from such a lovely child, my dear,' the Khitan said, and he smiled.
He was not unhandsome, she supposed. His colour, the glossy blackness of his coarse-looking hair, the strangeness of his almond shapes of eyes; these aspects of his appearance were new to her, and different and undreamt, so that Nateela could not be comfortable in his presence. She managed a tiny smile and was aware of his black eyes on her while she carried her salver to the baron.
Conan the Mercenary Page 1
