Conan The Defender Part 24

"You can enter," the voice from inside called, "but not the others."

"Conan," Hordo began.

The Cimmerian quieted him with a gesture. "Rest easy, Hordo. I could not be safer in a woman's arms." He slipped through the opening.

As the gate closed behind him with a solid thud, Conan faced four men with drawn swords; another snugged the point of his blade under the Cimmerian's ribs from the side.

"Now, who are you?" rasped the swordsman who p.r.i.c.ked Conan's tunic.

Wishing he had had sense enough to don his hauberk before leaving the Royal Palace, Conan turned his head enough to make out a narrow free with wide-set eyes and a nose with the tip gone. "I told you." He reached beneath his tunic, and froze as the sword point dug deeper. "I want only to show you the message. What trouble can I mean with a sword in my ribs?"

To himself, he thought that clip-nose stood too close. The man should never have touched blade to tunic unless he meant to thrust. One quick sweep of the arm would knock that sword aside, then clip-nose could be hurled at his fellow, and .... The big Cimmerian smiled, and the others shifted uneasily, wondering what he found to smile about.

"Let me see this message," clip-nose demanded.

From beneath his tunic Conan produced the folded parchment. Clip-nose reached, but he moved it beyond the man's grasp. "You can see the seal from there," he said. "It's meant for Lord Alba.n.u.s, not you."

"'Tis the Dragon Seal, in truth," clip-nose muttered. His sword left Conan's ribs with obvious reluctance. "Follow me, then, and do not stray."

Conan shook his head as they started up the stone walk toward the palace proper, a ma.s.sive structure of fluted columns, with a great gilded dome that hurled back the sun. Suspicion on the guards' part had been warranted, given the state of the city, but the surliness should have faded when they learned he was a Royal Messenger. That it had not spoke ill for Garian's plans. Often men absorbed the att.i.tudes of their master without either man or master realizing.

In the many-columned entry hall, clip-nose conferred, well out of Conan's hearing, with a gray-bearded man whose tunic was emblazoned with Lord Alba.n.u.s' house-mark backed by a great key. Clip-nose left, returning to his post at the gate, and the gray-bearded man approached Conan.

"I am Lord Alba.n.u.s' chamberlain," he said, giving neither name nor courtesy. "Give me the message."

"I will place it in Lord Alba.n.u.s' hands," Conan replied flatly.

He had no real reason not to give it to the chamberlain, for such a one was his master's agent in all things, yet he was irked. A messenger from the King should have been given chilled wine and damp towels to take the dust of the street from him.

The chamberlain's face tightened, and for a moment Conan thought the man would argue. Instead he said curdy, "Follow me," and led the Cimmerian up marble stairs to a small room. "Wait here," he commanded Conan, and left after casting an eye about as if cataloguing the room's contents against a light-fingered visitor.

It was no mean room for all its smallness. Tapestry-hung and marble-floored, its furnishings were inlaid with mother-of-pearl and lapis lazuli. An arch led onto a balcony overlooking a garden fountain.

But still there were neither towels nor wine. It boded ill indeed for Garian, such insult to his messenger.

Muttering to himself, Conan walked to the balcony and looked down, Almost he cried out in surprise, slights forgotten for the moment.

Stephano staggered drunkenly through the garden, half supported by two girls it skimpy silks.

The sculptor bent to dabble his fingers in the fountain and near fell in "No water," he laughed at the girls, as they drew him back. "Want more wine, not water." Giggling together, they wound a shaky way from the fountain and into the exotic shrubs.

Someone cleared his throat behind Conan, and the Cimmerian spun.

A plump man of middling height stood there, one hand clutching his ill-fitting velvet tunic at the neck. "You have a message for me?" he said.

"Lord Alba.n.u.s?" Conan said.

The plump man nodded shortly and thrust out his hand. Slowly Conan gave him the sealed parchment. The plump man's hand closed on it like a trap. "Now go," he said. "I have the message. Go!"

Conan went.

The gray-bearded chamberlain was waiting immediately outside to conduct him to the door, and there clip-nose waited with another man to escort him to the gate.

As he emerged, Hordo brought his horse forward, a relieved grin wreathing his scarred face. "Almost was I ready to come over that wall after you."

"I had no trouble," Conan said as he mounted. "I carried the King's message, remember. When next you see Ariane, tell her that Stephano is not dead, as she feared. He dwells within, sporting himself with serving girls."

"I mean to see her this day," Hordo replied. He stared at the gate thoughtfully. "'Tis odd he sent no message to his friends that he is well."

"Not so odd as a lord with broken nails and work-calloused hands," the Cimmerian said.

"A swordsman-"

"No, Hordo. I know work-wrought calluses when I see them. Still, 'tis none of our concern. Vegentius is, and this very night I mean to have private conversation with the good Commander." Grimly he rode from the gate, the others galloping in two columns behind.

Alba.n.u.s thrust the plump man, now dressed in nought but a filthy breeehclout, to his knees, face to the marble floor.

"Well, Varius?" Alba.n.u.s demanded of his chamberlain, his cruel face dark with impatience. He s.n.a.t.c.hed the parchment, crumpled it in his fist. "Did he seem suspicious? Did he accept this dog as me?" He prodded the kneeling man with his foot. "Did he think you a lord, dog?

What did he say?"

"He did, master." The plump man's voice was fearful, and he did not lift his face from the floor. "He asked only if I was Lord Alba.n.u.s, then gave me the parchment and left."

Alba.n.u.s growled. The G.o.ds toyed with him, to send this man whose death he sought beneath his very roof, where he could not touch the barbarian, lest suspicion be drawn straight to him, and where he must hide to escape recognition. Beneath his own roof! And on this, the first day of his triumph. His eye fell on the kneeling man, who trembled.

"Could you not have found someone more presentable to represent me, Varius? That even a barbarian should take this slug for me offends me."

"Forgive me, my lord," the chamberlain said, bowing even more deeply in apology. "There was little time, and a need to find one who would fit the tunic.

Alba.n.u.s' mouth curled. "Burn that tunic. I'll not wear it again. And send this thing back to the kitchens. The sight of it disgusts me."

Varius made a slight gesture; the kneeling man scurried from the room, hardly rising higher than a crouch. "Will that be all, my lord?"

"No. Find that drunken idiot Stephano, and hasten him to the workroom.

But sober him first."

Alba.n.u.s waved Varius from the room, and turned to the message from Garian. Curious as to what it could be, he split the seal.

Our Dear Lord Cantaro Alba.n.u.s,

All honor to you. We summon you before the Dragon Throne that you may advise Us on matters near Our heart. As one who loves Us, and Nemedia, well, We know you will make haste.

GARIAN NEMEDIA PRIMUS.

A feral gleam lit Alba.n.u.s' black eyes as he wadded the parchment in clawed hands. "I will come to you soon enough," he whispered. "My love will show with chains and hot irons till on your knees you will acknowledge me King. Alba.n.u.s, First in Nemedia. You will beg for death at my hand."

Tossing the crumpled sheet aside, he strode to the workroom. The four guards before the door stiffened respectfully, but he swept past them without notice.

On the stone circle in the center of the room stood the clay figure of Garian, complete at last. Or almost, he thought, smiling. Perfect in every detail, just slightly larger than the living man-Stephano had made some quibble about that, saying it should be either exactly life size or of heroic proportions-it seemed to be striding forward, mouth open to utter some p.r.o.nouncement. And it contained more of Garian than simply his looks. Arduously worked into that clay with complicated thaumaturgical rituals were Garian's hair and parings from his fingernails, his sweat, his blood, and his seed. All had been obtained by Sularia at the dark lord's command.

A huge kiln stood a short distance behind the stone platform, and a complicated series of wooden slides and levers designed to move the figure linked platform and kiln. Neither kiln nor slides were ever to be used, however. Alba.n.u.s had allowed Stephano to construct them in order to allay the sculptor's suspicions before they arose.