The first unusual thing Conan noticed was Juma's sudden movement, dragging his female escort down into the litter and rolling atop her in what seemed a sudden excess of passion. Then the pillows all around them began to sprout short, feathered shafts, and Conan felt the conveyance falter and sag as some of its bearers went down. Without conscious refection, he clapped a hand on his own seatmate's arm and rolled out of the sedan, hauling her after him. He forced her down to keep her concealed beneath the litter, but the slaves kept pacing doggedly, stepping over their wounded brethren to carry the vehicle past danger. So the harem girl had to run stooping along the street, protesting angrily as Conan held her in the shadow of the moving platform.
They stopped when General Abolhassan wheeled his chariot to a halt, brushing arrow-shafts from his own harness. At the general's shouted order, a file of troops went running into a decaying brick warren of dwellings, whence he declared the volleys had been fired. Other soldiers drafted fit-looking bystanders out of the crowd to replace the fallen litter-slaves, whose bodies were now dragged off in litters of their own.
While Conan's harem-wench, complaining about her sore shoulder, straightened her mussed hair and garments, the Cimmerian peered into the sedan chair to see whether his friend had been hurt.
Juma, still face-down among the cushions, seemed untouched by arrows. In response to Conan's insistent pummeling he finally looked up, his rugged black features smudged with kohl and rouge. Beneath him the slave girl also seemed unharmed, if somewhat flushed and breathless.
"By Otumbe, is the ambush over already? For me it has been the best part of the ride!" The Kushite made no move to assume a more decorous posture.
"Hmmph, Juma, look here!" Conan spared no humor for his friend's
reckless ardor. "This fellow Abolhassan says the arrows came from yon building, but look at the angles!" He pointed to the fletched shafts protruding from the cushions in the litter. "Any fool can see that they flew from the other side."
"Ah, well, what matters it, anyway?" Shrugging his bulky shoulders, Juma lay down close beside his escort, who nuzzled his neck with frank interest. "The assassins are long since fled."
"Perhaps." Already outdistanced by the clopping chariot team, the litter resumed moving, with Conan pacing restlessly beside it. "But I saw the arrows striking Abolhassan's chariot; if you ask me, the heads were already broken off." He snatched one of the skewered pillows from the sedan chair, holding it up to reveal the razor-pointed arrow tip protruding from the underside. "The shafts that struck near the general were not as deadly as these!"
"You think not?" Juma narrowed his eyes at the cruel brass point, then laughed. "You could be right; if so, then likely you are learning more about the ways of power, and the perils we heroes have to face."
Turning from Conan, Juma resumed cuddling his pliant harem wench.
The other girl sat bored among the cushions, regarding the embracing pair a little jealously. Conan, for his part, would not climb back into the litter, but stalked watchfully alongside it. The march went faster now, with the troops ruthlessly clearing the road ahead. The few remaining onlookers stood in doorways, windows and alleys, watching solemn-faced as the procession threaded its way toward the imperial palace and safety.
Chapter 16
Court of Protocols
From the broad, bustling stableyard of the Imperial Palace, Conan and Juma were conducted to a well-guarded door of the vast edifice. There they met Sempronius, who must have traveled ahead of the parade either by boat or carriage. He ushered them past the scowling, motionless guards into a long corridor of arabesque tiles.
"Your reception feast lies ahead, in the Court of Protocols," the eunuch announced, striding before them with officious quickness. "No special
ceremony is planned, because His Resplendency will not be present until tomorrow. You need only mingle with the crowd and try to make a favorable impression. Watch your manners, eat and drink as the courtiers do, and you will be well received."
"In sooth," Conan muttered, "I shall eat and drink most carefully to avoid taking poison! Our fine reception so far has included an ambush, did you know? Or did you arrange that too, Sempronius?"
"Nay, nay, Sergeant! 'Twas a regrettable mischance, for which I apologize―and a terrible blow to our emperor's plans for this festive day."
Slowing his pace and lowering his voice, Sempronius turned a worried look back at them. "Rumors of rebellion and conspiracy have been rife for some time―but who would have thought the malcontents would go so far?" He shook his finely sculptured head in dismay, making the tassel of his fez wag limply. "The emperor has already been apprised, I assure you.
In leniency, His Graciousness has decided not to sound a general alarm yet. The decoration ceremony tomorrow is to proceed as planned." The eunuch had paused in the hallway, his voice sinking to an earnest whisper.
"It could be the last chance to win public support for the Venji campaign, you know, without resorting to sterner measures. I pray that you will help as best you can."
"I see," Conan nodded thoughtfully. "Rebels, you say? And what of Abolhassan, do these ambushers have some special liking for him?"
Sempronius's face closed off abruptly. "Of that I can say nothing. Both my eunuch chief Euranthus and the general himself have denied those seditious rumors! They still pledge unstinting loyalty to our Resplendent Emperor Yildiz."
"I see―eternally loyal, for the nonce." Flashing a skeptical glance at Juma, Conan pressed Sempronius further. "Is General Abolhassan at this banquet? Mayhap I should take it up with him directly!"
The eunuch turned and started off down the hall, speaking sharply over his shoulder. "I do not know, but I warn you, he would be a formidable adversary. Pray, do not spoil the evening with more bloodshed or insubordination!"
As they drew near the open double door with its two frozen, red-cloaked guards, Sempronius kept silent. Beyond the high, fluted arch lay a
glittering swarm of talking, laughing aristocrats―a world apart, seemingly, from the turmoil of the streets. As the three entered, trumpet notes rippled from an alcove at one side, and a white-haired eunuch announced Conan and Juma's names. Guards relieved them of their sabers, to be returned later, they were told; from that moment Sempronius disappeared, and his wards were beset by sleek, fashionable courtiers.
"At last, here come the heroes! What fine, strong specimens they are!"
"Truly! Are the two of you natives of Venjipur, or some other primitive land?"
"Nay, nay, the pallid one comes from Vanaheim; it was in the dispatch!
But he knows civilized speech, they claim."
"Tell us, warrior, how many men have you killed? Too many to count, I'd wager! But just in the past year, say, how many?"
"Yes, tell us! Do you kill the women and children too, or merely make them slaves?"
"What fierce-looking brutes they are! I can see why we use barbarians to enlarge our empire!"
The questions were posed with a mixture of fatuous awe and condescension, and were too numerous to be answered at once, fortunately. More fortunately, a servant distributing beakers of fine kumiss stood close at hand; the more one drank, Conan found, the longer one could postpone answering.
"You must be good men to have in a tight place. If you grow tired of slaughter in far-off lands, the slaves on my date plantation, a few days'
ride north and east of here, need a firm hand. 'Tis an easy job; you need not even speak their language―in fact, our late overseer was a mute!
When your term of enlistment is past, Sergeant, look me up: Craxus of Kezank-March, at your service!"
The women were the most persistent. Males seemed obliged to confront the heroes and prove themselves, but they usually sheered off judiciously before the warriors' guarded grunts and surly looks; but the females found their dour aspect enticing. To Conan's astonishment, Juma played
expertly to their fascination, mingling his gruffness with tantalizing hints of war expe
rience and personal prowess.
"Oh, Sergeant Juma, I can just imagine what it would be like to be princess of a village stormed by your troops!" A svelte matron, whose silk turban had more fabric in it than her brief, clinging gown, drew the willing Kushite down beside her on a pillowed ottoman. "You look so virile and strong! Now confess to me, you don't always slay the women, do you?"
Conan himself fell as prey to a leaner, hungrier courtesan, a dusky Turanian, auburn-haired from some trace of western blood. "I envy you troopers your travels to exotic lands and your adventures in strange ports!
We women have to be content with homier pleasures." She sank onto the cushioned seat, clinging to the Cimmerian's horny hand with both of hers as he loomed over her. "In Venjipur, they say, rare and exciting potions are to be found. Did you bring back any such mementoes for us city-dwellers? Lotus elixirs, say, or other foreign delights?"
"No." Conan shook his head gravely. "Such potions steal the soul. I have tasted their evil power and seen too many others die or go mad from them. 'Tis foolhardy even to use them to soothe the pain of a wound, you know; some troopers learn to crave them ever more, gashing themselves over and over again for the sake of applying the balm, until they sicken and die of the creeping blood-rot."
Conan's frank speech made the woman flinch and relinquish his hand uncomfortably. Yet at the same time, the tale seemed to engage her deeper interest. She stared thoughtfully into his eyes for a few heartbeats, then whispered something to her turbaned companion, who still cooed over Juma.
"Officers," the women announced, "your appetites must be… simply ravenous after your long journey! Let us go and bring you drink and dainties from yonder table. You wait here; we shall return at once to hear more of your fascinating stories."
As the two bustled away through the crowd, Conan sank down on the ottoman beside his friend. "Come, Juma, let us get away from here. I cannot bear this morbid questioning; it brings back too many evil memories."
Laying his empty kumiss-jar on the tile-blazoned floor, Juma shrugged.
"Just sit here and play along, Conan, and I guarantee you a soft bedmate tonight. Know you, these courtly females will love you less curtly and wearily than Venji campgirls. Unless, of course, you miss your Sariya…"
Impatiently Conan shrugged his remarks aside. "Juma, how you can take your leisure so calmly with arrows drawn at our backs, and our enemies conniving against us? You, who warned me of the perils of the capital…"
"Did I not also say that a hero's life is a short, intense one? We have no choice now but to relax and enjoy it." Juma eased back onto the cushion, a living example of pantherine calm. "This is the best way to spin out our lives another day, by doing what is expected. Tomorrow you meet Yildiz; by then, some course of action may present itself."
"Aye, perhaps―but even the Sunrise Throne looks shaky these days.
Methinks I should warn Yildiz before the night is over, or seek out the source of the threat directly!"
Juma raised his hand to Conan's arm in a cautionary gesture, his voice sinking to a stockade-whisper. "Put no faith in Sempronius's guesses and innuendos; that eunuch is as sly as any of his brethren. Above all, do not hint at any weakness in this Yildiz's reign, unless you are ready to take the blame for undermining it!"
"My thanks for your counsel." Conan clasped the Kushite's wrist, detaching his friend's grip from his arm. "But I cannot bide here tamely now. Take both wenches with my compliments, Juma, but be wary."
Before the courtesans had returned, he slipped away through the crowd.
Abolhassan was nowhere to be seen―an annoyance, since Conan was half-minded to confront him and settle their real or rumored differences without delay. Watchfully he scanned the thronging, lofty-arched hall, from his vantage a head above most of the idlers. He met dozens of glances, some conveying distaste, others a pathetic eagerness to make closer contact. He had to sweep his gaze ruthlessly free of them all, wishing that his height, coloring, and garish dress did not make him so conspicuous.
Maddeningly, he felt himself unable to move smoothly through the crowd; though he would have navigated a night jungle without stirring a
twig, he could not seem to bypass a single babbling, gesticulating courtier without colliding with him or her, and then having to extricate himself from their voluble courtesies and protestations. Inching past an especially raucous, close-packed group, he found himself the target of a municipal officer with a strident, sharply pitched voice.
"Ah, here is Conan, the pride of Venjipur, soon to receive the benison of the mighty! I have been wanting a word or two with you, fellow." Failing to snatch Conan's dagger-hand in his earnest grasp, he pummeled him on the shoulder instead.
"Oof! Back off, man! Who are you?" Stepping away, Conan made forcible room in the crowded surroundings; he wanted to be able to see his challenger's hands and have adequate time to react to a sudden blow or a knife-thrust.
"I? I am Omar, Captain of the Civil Horse-Guard. You may have seen me earlier today, leading a saber detachment to save you from a mob of your… admirers." The medium-sized, red-tunicked man smiled and added his own bray to a spate of appreciative laughter from watching courtiers.
His brown-mustached face, rubicund with drink and temerity, had a pursed look about the lips, making them seem well-suited to uttering slights and slanders. "Come, let us talk man-to-man. Even though I am your senior in both rank and years, I would not let that stand between us."
"Nor would I, since civil guards have no sway over fighting officers."
Standing with his hands loose at his sides, Conan courteously reminded himself not to clutch at his dagger-hilt.
"No, perhaps not. What I meant to take up with you"―Omar paused, visibly playing to the audience of watching courtiers―"was to congratulate you on your victory at… where was it… Sikander! I read the official reports, and I agree that your conduct was most valiant. A dozen-hundred enemy dead at least, allowing for double counting, and impressive losses on our own side as well, to prove your courage. Well done, soldier!" Omar beamed around at the group as if the putative credit were his own.
"Yes, truly," he finally resumed in the face of appreciative nods and murmurs, "after reviewing your conduct of the battle, there is only one small criticism I can make: Where were your cavalry, fellow?" With raised eyebrows and outspread palms, Omar invoked the judgment of the watchers. "Why, a good horse charge might have doubled the enemy
dead-count, with but a fewscore more losses among our own ranks.
Elephants and so forth may be traditional down south, but there is still no substitute for the old hack-and-trample!"
Conan, regarding his critic narrowly, nevertheless lowered his eyes as he answered, for he felt slightly put off by the number and intensity of the watching stares. "If by Sikander, you mean the battle of the Elephant Shrine―why, the cavalry was far behind us at the fort. They never even found the fight. But that is just as well, since I see little use for horses in jungle combat."
"Ah, but there, you see!" Omar crowed triumphantly. "Your attitude is at fault there, Sergeant! To leave the cavalry in the rear of battle is like setting the horse behind the plow and lashing the yoke to your own weary neck. Once the enemy has been put to rout and is fleeing through level forest, that is where a horse troop can shine, outrunning the pitiful fugitives, riding and slashing them down mercilessly! If you entertain a prejudice against cavalry, sir, may I suggest that it is only because you have not tried them."
"Crom blight your impudence, man! With my friends being butchered all around me, I would have been happy to see help coming, whether astride horse, camel, or goat! But come they did not; your saddle-brothers shirked the fight! Whether because of the torpor of their sickly nags or their own miserable cowardice, they left us for dead." In spite of his earlier resolve, Conan found himself not only clutching his dagger, but sawing it angrily in and out of its sheath.
"Sir, I am insulted! This offense to me and my brothers in se
rvice can be redeemed only by blood!" Omar's demeanor had changed abruptly; he spoke low now, standing pike-straight, his eyes flashing righteously around at the company. Conan, sizing him up as rangy and trim in spite of a slight swag-belly, decided he might be a capable fighter.
"I would invite you into the stableyard now," the glaring captain went on, "except that I see you are not prepared." Glancing down at Conan's gem-crusted knife, he slapped his own long, straight scabbard. "Therefore, may I suggest the municipal barracks at midnight, where swords are plentiful."
The silence of the nearby onlookers was eerie against the continued babble and clink of the party in the room at large. Conan, flushed and
irritated, did not bother to restrain his voice, and so drew more shocked stares. "Damn you, rogue, I will be happy to meet you this midnight―provided it means I do not have to bear more of your insolence now! Fry in Tarim's deepest hell!" he concluded, turning and shoving away through the crowd.
The buzz of voices behind him, though intense, was still not loud enough to divert the attention of the entire broad hall; and so Conan found refuge in the crowd around the banquet table. This hollow square of trestles, cluttered with food of all descriptions, was besieged on every side by hungry guests. Some of the viands were dispensed by bloused, pantalooned servants moving within the enclosure and by bolder menials who made forays among the revelers.
Conan shouldered his way to a table, plucking up handfuls of grapes and raspberries to cram into his mouth. Looking diagonally across the festive board, he was surprised to see another figure looming tall above the loiterers―Abolhassan, still caped and armored from the parade, accepting a smoking skewer of fruit and meat from a cringing servant.
Well enough, then, Conan told himself; the strident Captain Omar might yet be denied his quarry, if his antagonist and his general fell to blows first. Muttering gruff pardons and warnings to those he pushed past, he began working his way around the table toward his goal.
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