Conan the Invincible Part 3

Sweat dampened Imhep-Aton's forehead. It had been he who brought Amanar into the Black Ring. He remembered once seeing a renegade priest given to Set in a dark chamber far beneath Khemi, and swallowed bile.

"I will not fail," he muttered, then forced strength into his words so the homunculus could hear and transmit. "I will not fail. That which I came to secure will be in my hands in five days. Amanar and the One Whose Name May Not Be Spoken will be delivered into the power of Set."

"That you are given this chance of redemption is not of my will. If you fail...."

"There will be no failure. An ignorant barbarian thief who knows no more of reality than a gold coin will-"

The horrible, hollow voice from the twisted shape in the gla.s.s vessel cut him off. "I care naught for your methods. Set cares naught.

Succeed, or pay."

The grotesque mouth snapped shut, and the homunculus curled tighter into a fetal ball. The communication was ended.

Imhep-Aton scrubbed damp palms down the front of his purple robe. Some measure of what had been sucked out of him these minutes past, he could regain at the expense of the two girls awaiting his desires. But they knew their place in the scheme of things, if not the brevity of that place. There was little to be gained from such. Not so the thief. The Cimmerian thought himself Imhep-Aton's equal, if not, from some strange barbarian perspective, his superior. The mere fact that he was alive would remind the mage of this time when he stank with fear-sweat. Once the pendants were safely in hand this Conan would find not gold, but death, as his payment.

Chapter IV.

The alabaster walls of Tiridates' palace stood five times the height of a man, and atop them guardsmen of the King's Own marched sentry rounds in gilded half-armor and horsehair-crested helms. Within, when the sun was high, peac.o.c.ks strutted among flowers from lands beyond the ken of man, the hours were struck on silver gongs, and silken maids danced for the pleasure of the drunkard king. Now, in the purple night, ivory towers with corbeled arches and golden-finialed domes pierced the sky in silent stillness.

Conan watched from the shadows around the plaza that surrounded the palace, counting the steps of guards as they moved toward each other, then away. His boots and cloak were in the sack slung at his side, m.u.f.fling any clank of the tools of his trade. His sword was strapped across his back, the hilt rising above his right shoulder, and the Karpashian dagger was sheathed on his left forearm. He held a rope of black-dyed raw silk, on the end of which dangled a padded graponel.

As the guards before him met once more and turned to move apart, he broke from the shadows. His bare feet made almost no sound on the gray paving stones of the plaza. He began to swing the graponel as he ran.

There would be little time before the guards reached the ends of their rounds and turned back. He reached the foot of the pale wall, and a heave of his ma.s.sive arm sent the graponel skyward into the night. It caught with a muted elicit. Tugging once at the rope to test it, he swarmed up the wall as another man might climb a stair.

Wriggling flat onto the top of the wall, he stared at the graponel and heaved a sigh of relief. One point had barely caught the lip of the wall, and a sc.r.a.pe on the stone showed how it had slipped. A finger's breadth more .... But he had no time for these reflections. Hurriedly he pulled the sable rope up, and dropped into the garden below. He hit rolling, to absorb the fall, and came up in rustling bushes against the wall.

Above, the guards came closer, their footsteps thudding on the stone.

Conan held his breath. If they noticed the sc.r.a.pe, an alarm would surely be raised. The guards came together, muttered words were exchanged, and they began to move apart. He waited until the sounds of their going had faded, then he was off, ma.s.sive muscles working, in a loping stride past ferns that towered above his head and pale-flowered vines that rustled where there was no breeze.

Across the garden a peac.o.c.k called, like the plaintive cry of a woman.

Conan cursed whoever had wandered out to wake the bird from its roosting. Such noises were likely to draw the guards' attentions. He redoubled his pace. There was need to be inside before anyone came to check.

Experience had taught him that the higher he was above a ground-level entrance, the more likely anyone who saw him was to think he had a right there. If he were moving from a lower level to a higher, he might be challenged, but from a higher to a lower, never. An observer thought him servant or bodyguard returning from his master to his quarters below, and thought no more on it. It was thus his practice to enter any building at as high a level as he could. Now, as he ran, his eyes searched the carven white marble wall of the palace ahead, seeking those balconies that showed no light. Near the very roof of the palace, a hundred feet and more above the garden, he found the darkened balcony he sought.

The pale marble of the palace wall had been worked in the form of leafy vines, providing a hundred grips for fingers and toes. For one who had played on the cliffs of Cimmeria as a boy, it was as good as a path. As he swung his leg over the marble bal.u.s.trade of the balcony, the peac.o.c.k cried again, and this time its cry was cut off abruptly. Conan peered down to where the guardsmen made their rounds. Still they seemed to notice nothing amiss. But it would be well to get the pendants in hand and be away as quickly as possible. Whatever fool was wandering about and perhaps silencing peac.o.c.ks-must surely rouse the sentries given time.

He pushed quickly through the heavy damask curtains that screened the balcony and halfway across the darkened room before he realized his mistake. He was not alone. Breath caught in a canopied, gauze-hung bed, and someone stirred in the sheets.

The Karpashian dagger appeared in his fist as he gathered himself and sprang for the bed. Silken gauze as fine as spun cobwebs ripped away before him, and he grappled with the bed's occupant, his wild charge carrying them both onto the marble mosaic floor. Abruptly he became aware that the flesh he wrestled with, though firm; was yielding beneath his iron grip, and there was a sweet scent of flowery perfume.

He tore away the silk sheets to see more clearly who it was that struggled so futilely against him.

First bared were long, shapely legs, kicking wildly, then rounded hips, a tiny waist, and finally a pretty face filled with dark, round eyes that stared at him fearfully above the fingers he locked instantly over her mouth. She wore a silver-mounted black stone that dangled between her small, shapely b.r.e.a.s.t.s, and beyond that was concealed only by dark, waistlong hair.

"Who are you, girl?" He loosened his grip to let her speak, but kept his hand poised in case she took it into her head to scream.

She swallowed, and a small, pink tongue licked her ripe lips. "I am called Velita, n.o.ble sir. I'm only a slave girl. Please do not hurt me."

"I won't hurt you." He cast a quick eye around the tapestry-draped bedchamber for something convenient to bind her with. She could not be left free to raise an alarm. It came to him that these were not the sleeping quarters of a slave girl. "What are you doing here, Velita?

Are you meeting someone? The truth, now."

"No one, I swear." Her voice faltered, and her head dropped. "The king chose me out, but in the end he preferred a youth from Corinthia. I could not return to the zenana. I wish I were back in Aghrapur."

"Aghrapur! Are you one of the dancing girls sent by Yildiz?"

Her small head tossed angrily. "I was the best dancer at the court of Yildiz. He had no call to give me away." Suddenly she gasped. "You do not belong here! Are you a thief? Please! I will be yours if you free me from this catamite king."

Conan smiled. The idea had amus.e.m.e.nt value, this stealing of a dancing girl from the king's palace. Slight as she was, she would be no inconsiderable burden to carry over the palace wall, but he had pride of his youth and strength.

"I'll take you with me, Velita, but I have no desire to own slaves.

I'll set you free to go where you will, and with a hundred pieces of gold, as well. This I swear by Crom, and by Bel, G.o.d of thieves." A generous gesture, he reflected, but he could well afford it. It would still leave nine thousand nine hundred for himself, after all.

Velita's lower lip trembled. "You aren't making sport of me, are you?

Oh, to be free." Her slender arms snaked around him tightly. "I will serve you, I swear, and dance for you, and-"

For a moment he enjoyed the pleasant pressure of her firm by b.r.e.a.s.t.s against his chest, then drew himself back to the matter at hand.

"Enough, girl. Help me obtain what I came for, and you need do no more.

You know the pendants that came with you to Tiridates?"

"Surely. See, here is one." She pulled the silver chain from around her neck and thrust it into his hands.

He turned it over curiously. His time as a thief had given him some knowledge in the value of such things. The silver mounting and chain were of good workmanship, but plain. As for the stone .... An ebon oval as long as the top joint of his forefinger, it had the smooth feel of a pearl, but was not. Red flecks seemed to appear near the surface and dart into great depths. Abruptly he tore his gaze from the pendant.

"What are you doing with this, Velita? I was told they were displayed in a golden casket in the antechamber of the throne room."

"The casket is there, but Tiridates likes us to dance for him wearing them. We wear them this night."

Conan sat back on his heels, replacing his dagger in its sheath. "Can you fetch the other girls here, Velita?"

She shook her head. "Yasmeen and Susa are with officers of the guard, Consela with a steward, and Aramit with a counselor. As the king has little interest in women, the others take their pleasure. Does... does this mean you will not take me with you?"

"I said I would," he snapped. He hefted the pendant on his palm. Ankar would likely not pay any part of the ten thousand for one pendant, but to gather the other four from women scattered throughout the palace, each in the company of a man, was clearly impossible. Reluctantly he replaced the silver chain about her neck. "I will take you away, but I fear you must remain another night yet."

"Another night? If I must, I will. But why?"

"Tomorrow night at this hour I will come again to this room. You must gather the pendants here, with the other girls or without. I cannot carry more than one of you over the wall, but I'll not harm them, I promise."

Velita worried her lower lip with small, white teeth. "They care not, so long as their cage be gold," she muttered. "There's risk in what you ask."

"There is. If you cannot do it, say so. I'll take you away tonight, and get what I can for the single piece."

For a moment longer she knelt frowning among the tangled sheets. "You risk your life, I but a whipping. I will do it. What-"

He planted a hand over her mouth as the door of the darkened room opened. A mailed man entered, the red-dyed crest of a captain on his helm, blinking in the dimness. He was even taller than Conan, though perhaps a finger less broad of shoulder.

"Where are you, wench?" the captain chuckled, moving deeper into the room. Conan waited, letting him come closer. "I know you're here, you hot-bodied little vixen. A chamberlain saw you flee red-faced hence from our good king's chambers. You need a true man to a.s.suage your-What!"

Conan launched himself at the large man as the other jumped back, clawing for his sword. One of the Cimmerian's big hands clutched the captain's sword wrist, the other seized his throat beneath a bearded chin. He could afford no outcry, not even such as the man might make after a dagger was lodged twixt his ribs.