Even in that smooth-dressed stone, crevices and chinks were to be found by knowledgeable fingers and toes. Stone cornices and the rims of friezes made a pathway for him to the roof. With swift care he crossed its tiles, dropping on the far side to a rampart walk that bore no sentry, here in the heart of the Palace. Through an embrasure between man-high merlons he lowered himself to the roof of a colonnade three stories above the flagstoned courtyard below.
Within the Palace behind him an alarm bell abruptly began to toll, and he froze there in the shifting shadows. Shouts carried to him, though he could make out no word. He frowned. To such an alarm Vegentius would surely be summoned. And yet the hue and cry was not general, for no sudden lights or tramp of marching men disturbed the outer part of the Palace. Eventually it would subside, and Vegentius would of a certainty return to his quarters. A lupine smile split the Cimmerian's face. He would return to find one waiting to ask questions, and demand answers.
Swiftly Conan hurried on, running along the roof, scaling another wall at its end with ease, then along the length of it uncaring of the dark below him, or the stones that waited if foot should slip or grip fail.
Halting, he lay flat, swiveled his legs and hips over the edge, and climbed down the short distance to the window of Vegentius' sleeping chamber.
Dagger sliding from its sheath, the big Cimmerian entered the room like silent death. Some few brass lamps were lit, casting dim illumination there and in the outer chamber, yet both were empty, as he had feared. Grimly he settled himself by the door of the inner room to wait.
Long was that vigil, yet he kept it with the silent, unmoving patience of a hunting beast. Even when he heard the door of the outer chamber open, only his hand on the dagger moved, firming its grip. But the tread was of a single man. Conan flattened himself against the wall by the door as the footsteps came closer.
A tall shape entered the room, golden-cloaked and wearing the redcrested helmet of the Golden Leopards' commander. Conan's empty fist struck against the back of the man's neck, and with a groan the other fell, rolling onto his back. The Cimmerian stared in amazement. It was not Vegentius.
And then a howling horde in golden cloaks poured through the outer chamber to fall on him. Roaring, Conan fought. His dagger found a throat, and was torn from his grasp as the dying man fell. Teeth splintered and jaws broke beneath his hammer blows. One man he neatly hurled screaming through the window by which he had entered. Yet by sheer weight of numbers did they force him down. He found himself on his back, three men holding each arm and leg, though many of them spat blood. Writhing, he strained every thew, but he could only shift them, not gain freedom.
Vegentius, helmetless and wearing a look of great satisfaction, appeared in the doorway. 'You can see that I was right,' he said to someone still in the other chamber. 'He intended to slay me first, so that if your death were discovered before he could flee, my absence in command might aid his escape.'
Wrapped tightly in a cloak, his bruise standing out against the paleness of his cheeks, Garian stepped into the room. He stood gazing down at Conan in horrified wonder. 'Even when I heard the others I could hardly believe,' he whispered. A shudder went through him. 'A score of times has he had me at the point of his blade.'
'But then he would have surely been known as your assassin,' Vegentius said smoothly.
'Liar!' Conan spat at the massive soldier. 'I came here to force you to admit your own foul treachery.'
Vegentius' face darkened, and he put a hand to his sword, but Garian stopped him with a gesture. The King moved closer to address the Cimmerian.
'Hear me, Conan. Before dusk began to fall this day, Vegentius arrested those who conspired with you.
A man called Graecus. A woman, Gallia. Some three or four others. Do you deny knowing them, or that they plotted against my throne?'
Conan's brain roiled. Was Ariane among those taken? Yet to ask, naming her, was to give her into their hands if they did not have her. 'Foolish youths,' he said. 'They talk, and will talk till they are grey and toothless, harming no one. Yet there are those who would use them.' He cut off with a grunt as Vegentius' boot caught him under the ribs.
Garian waved the soldier back and spoke on. 'Vegentius put these you call harmless to the question, and within two turns of the glass he had broken them. He brought them before me, those who could still speak, and from their mouths I heard them admit they plotted my murder, and that you are he who was to wield the blade.'
'I am no murderer!' Conan protested, but Garian continued as if he had not spoken.
'The alarm was given; you were sought. And found lying in wait, dagger in hand. Your actions convict you.'
'His head will adorn a pike before dawn,' Vegentius said.
'No,' Garian said softly. 'I trusted this man.' He wiped his hands on the edge of his cloak, as if ritually.
His eyes were cold on Conan's face. 'Long has it been since the ancient penalty for plotting to slay he who wears the Dragon Crown was last invoked. Let it be invoked now' Drawing his cloak about him, he turned his face from the Cimmerian and strode from the chamber.
Vegentius stared after him, then down at Conan. Abruptly he laughed, throwing back his head. 'The ancient penalty, barbar. Fitting. To the dungeons with him!'
One of those holding Conan shifted. The Cimmerian saw a descending sword hilt, then saw no more.
XIX
Albanus smiled to himself as his sedan chair was borne through the night, up the winding streets that led through the Temple District to the Royal Palace. So close now, he was, to his inevitable triumph. He savored each step the bearers took, carrying him nearer his goal.
Ahead two torchbearers strode, and twenty guards surrounded him, though the streets were as empty as a tomb millenia old. Those truly important to him marched on either side of his chair, heavily cloaked and hooded, the woman and the man-shape. So close.
As the procession approached the gate of the Palace, Albanus uttered a command. His sedan chair was lowered to the ground. Even as the hawkfaced man climbed out, Vegentius crossed the drawbridge.
Albanus looked at the guards and raised an inquiring brow.
'As planned,' the soldier said quietly. 'All men standing guard this night are loyal to me. My best.'
'Good,' Albanus said. 'And Conan?'
'In the dungeons. Garian shouted so about invoking the ancient penalty that I could not kill him out of hand. The alarm had wakened others by then.' His red-crested helmet bobbed as he spat disgustedly.
'But he can go to the same unmarked grave as Garian.'
The hawk-faced lord laughed softly. 'No, Vegentius. I find the ancient ways a fitting end for this barbarian.'
'Better to kill him straight out,' Vegentius grumbled, but pursued it no further. Stooping, he attempted to look under the hood of the man-shape behind Albanus. 'Does he truly look like-'
'Let us go,' Albanus said, and strode forward, Ariane and the simulacrum at his heels. Vegentius could do naught but follow.
The dark lord hurried over the drawbridge exultantly, and into the Palace. Often had his feet trod these halls, yet now it was tread of possessor, of conqueror. When a shadow moved and resolved into Sularia, he stared at her with imperious fury.
'Why are you here, woman? I commanded you to remain in your apartments until I sent for you.'
Her gaze met his without flinching, and even in the dim light the eager glow of her eyes was apparent. 'I want to see him fall before you.'
Albanus nodded slowly. There would be pleasure in that. 'But make no sound,' he warned. Shoulders back and head high, as a king in his own palace, he moved on.
Before the door to Garian's chambers four guards stood, stiffening at the party's approach.
Vegentius stepped forward. 'He sleeps?' One of the four nodded. 'Who else is within?'
He who had nodded spoke. 'Only the serving girl, to bring him wine if he wakes.'
'Slay her,' Albanus said, and Vegentius started.
'Y
ou said you could make her remember nothing, Albanus. Questions may be asked if the girl disappears.'
'The method can only be used on one person at a time,' Albanus replied, fingers absently stroking the pouch that held the white gem. 'Slay her.'
Vegentius nodded to the guard who had spoken. The man slipped inside, returning in moments with a bloody blade to resume his post.
Albanus led the others in, sparing not a glance for the crumpled form of a woman lying across an overturned stool. The second room, Garian's sleeping chamber itself, was dim, the lamp wicks trimmed low. Garian lay on his bed amid rumpled blankets.
'Turn up the lamps, Sularia,' Albanus commanded quietly. Not taking her eyes from the man in the bed, the blonde hastened to obey. To the two hooded figures, the lord said, 'Remove your cloaks.'
Vegentius gasped as the simulacrum obeyed. ''Tis Garian's very image!'
Sularia turned from a golden lamp, but her exclamation at the sight of the King's double was cut short, as, with narrowing eyes, her gaze caught Ariane. 'Who is she?' the blonde demanded.
Ariane looked straight ahead, unmoving, until another command was given. The simulacrum peered about him curiously.
On the bed, Garian suddenly sat bolt upright. Growing more amazed by the instant, his eye jumped from Albanus to Sularia to Vegentius. 'What,' he began, but the words died. Mouth open, he stared at the duplicate of himself. Unperturbed, the simulacrum gazed back inquisitively.
Albanus felt like laughing. 'Garian,' he said mockingly, 'this is he who will sit on the Dragon Throne for the last days of your line. For your usurping lineage now ends.'
'Guards!' Garian shouted. From beneath his pillows a dagger appeared in his hand, and he leaped from the bed. 'Guards!'
'Take him,' Albanus ordered the simulacrum, 'as I told you.' Growing more amazed by the instant, his eye jumped from Albanus to Sularia to Vegentius.
The duplicate moved forward, and Garian's dagger struck with a fighter's speed. To be caught easily by an inhumanly powerful grip on Garian's wrist. Astonishment was replaced on his face by pain as those fingers tightened. The dagger fell from nerveless forgers.
Before that blade clattered on the floor, the simulacrum's other hand seized the true King by the throat, lifting him until his toes kicked frantically above a handspan of air. No sign of strain was on the construct's face as it watched that other like its own turn slowly purple. Garian's struggles weakened, then ceased.
Casually the replica opened its hand and let the limp body fall.
Albanus hastened to bend over the King. Savage bruises empurpled his neck, and another darkened his cheek, though Albanus did not remember seeing the simulacrum strike. But the broad chest rose and fell, if faintly. Garian yet lived.
Vegentius, who had stood staring, sword half drawn, since the instant the duplicate moved, now slammed his blade home in its scabbard and cleared his throat. His eyes never left the simulacrum. 'Should you not let him, it, kill him now?'
'I am King Garian,' the creature said to Vegentius. The soldier muttered an oath.
'Be silent,' Albanus commanded, straightening. 'This,' he prodded Garian's form with his foot, 'will acknowledge my right to the throne before I let him die.'
'But the danger,' Vegentius protested. 'He was to die now.'
'Enough!' Albanus snapped. 'Deliver him in chains to the dungeon beneath my palace. I'll hear no more on it.'
Vegentius nodded reluctantly, and turned to go.
'And, Vegentius,' the cruel-faced man added, 'see that those who do this task are disposed of after.
Fewer tongues to waggle loosely.'
The big soldier stood rigidly in the door, then left without speaking. But he would do it, Albanus knew, even to his beloved Golden Leopards.
'Who is this woman?' Sularia asked again.
Albanus looked at her in amusement, wondering if there were room for two thoughts at once in that pretty head. All that had happened before her eyes, and it was Ariane that concerned her.
'Do not worry,' he told her. 'In the morning you will be proclaimed Lady Sularia. This,' he touched Ariane's expressionless face, 'is naught but a tool to build a path to the Dragon Throne. And tools are made to be discarded once used.'
His gaze swung to Sularia, a reassuring smile on his face. Tools, he repeated to himself, are made to be discarded once used.
XX
Conan awakened hanging spreadeagled in chains in the centre of a dungeon. At least, he assumed it was the centre. Two tall tripod lamps cast a yellow pool of light around him, but he could see no walls in any direction. The chains that held his wrists disappeared into the gloom above. Those holding his ankles were fastened to massive ringbolts set in the rough stone blocks of the floor. His tunic was gone, he wore naught but a breechclout.
Without real hope of escape he tensed every muscle, straining until sweat popped out on his forehead, beaded his shoulders and rolled down his broad chest. There was not slightest give in the chains. Nor in himself. He had been stretched to the point of joints cracking.
Cloth rustled in the darkness, and he heard a man's voice.
'He is awake, my lady.' There was a pause. 'Very good, my lady.'
Two men moved into the light, burly, shaven headed and bare chested. One bore a burn across his hairless chest as if some victim had managed to put hand to the hot iron intended for his own pain. The other was as heavily pelted as an ape from the shoulders down, and wore a smile on his incongruously pleasant round face. Each man carried a coiled whip.
As they wordlessly took positions to either side of the Cimmerian, he strained his eyes to penetrate the darkness. Who was this 'lady'? Who?
The first whip hissed through the air to crack against his chest. As it was drawn back the other struck his thigh. Then the first was back, wrapping around an ankle. There was no pattern to the blows, no way to anticipate where the next would land, no way to steel the soul against pain like lines of acid eating into the flesh.
The muscles of Conan's jaws were knots with the effort of not yelling. He would not even open his mouth to suck in the lungfuls of air his great body demanded in its agony. To open his mouth would be to make some noise, however slight, and from there it would be but a step to a yell, another to a scream. The woman watching from the darkness wanted him to scream. He would make no sound.
The two men continued until Conan hung as limply as the chains would allow, head down on his massive chest. Sweat turned to fire the welts that covered him from ankles to shoulders. Here and there blood oozed.
From the darkness he heard the clink of coins, and the same man's voice. 'Very generous, my lady. We'll be just outside, an you need us.' Then silence until hinges squealed rustily, stopping with the crash of a stout door closing.
Conan lifted his head.
Slowly a woman walked into the circle of light and stood watching him. The woman veiled in grey.
'You!' he rasped. 'Are you the one who has been trying to kill me, then? Or are you the one who uses those fools at the Thestis, the one who put me here with lies?'
'I did try to have you killed,' she said softly. Conan's eyes narrowed. That voice was so familiar. But whose? 'I should have known there were no men in Nemedia capable of slaying you. Where you hang, though, is your own doing, though I joy to see it. I joy, Conan of Cimmeria.'
'Who are you?' he demanded.
Her hand went to her face, pushed back the veils. No disease-ravaged skin was revealed, but creamy ivory beauty. Tilted emerald eyes regarded him above high cheekbones. An auburn mane framed her face in soft waves.
'Karela,' he breathed. Almost he wondered if he saw a vision from pain. The Red Hawk, fierce bandit of the plain of Zamora and the Turanian steppes, in Belverus, masquerading as a woman of the nobility. It seemed impossible.
That beautiful face was impassive as she gazed at him, her voice tightly controlled. 'Never again did I think to see you, Cimmerian. When I saw you that day in the Market District I thought I would die on the sp
ot.'
'And did you see Hordo?' he asked. 'You must know he is here, still hoping to find you.' He managed a wry smile. 'Working with the smugglers you now command.'
'So you have learned that much,' she said wonderingly 'None but a fool ever accounted you stupid.
Hordo surprised me almost as much as you did, turning up in Khorshemish while I was there. Still, I would not let him know who I am. He was the most faithful of my hounds, yet others were faithful, too, and even so remembered the gold on my head in Zamora and Turan. Think you I wear these veils for the pleasure of hiding?'
'It has been a long time, Karela,' Conan said. ''Tis likely they've forgotten by now.'
Her calm facade cracked. 'The Red Hawk will never be forgotten!' Emerald eyes flaring, she faced him with fists on hips and feet apart. Almost he could see the jewelled tulwar at her hip as it had been.
'Now that you're no longer being the Lady Tiana,' he said grimly, 'why in Zandru's Nine Hells do you want me dead?'
'Why?' she screeched in furious astonishment. 'Have you forgot so soon leaving me naked and chained, on my way to be sold to whatever man bid highest?'
'There was the matter of the oath you made me swear, Karela. Never lift a hand to save-'
'Derketo blast you and your oaths, Cimmerian!'
'Besides which, I had four coppers in my pouch. Think you to have gone for so paltry a price?'
'You lie!' she spat. 'I would not heel at your command, so you let me be sold!'
'I tell you-'
'Liar! Liar!'
Conan snarled wordlessly and clenched his teeth on any further explanation. He would not argue with her. Neither would he plead. That last he had never learned to do.
Pacing angrily, Karela hurled her words as if they were daggers, never looking at him directly. 'I want you to know my humiliations, Cimmerian. Know them, and remember them, so the memory will be a blade to prick you constantly when you are in the mines, ever reminding you that when the King proclaims pardons for all who have served a certain time, I will be then to place gold in the proper hands so that one prisoner will be forgotten.'
The Conan Chronology Page 209
