The Sword of Skelos (18 page)

“A duplicate!” Akter’s hand jerked up to slap over the amulet.

“Calm yourself, my lord,” Zafra said smoothly.

“You wear the true and only Eye of Erlik, for I tracked it here.”

“What became of Hisarr’s copy?” the khan demanded, only a bit less intensely.

“Destroyed,” Isparana said. “Hisarr Zul caused it to melt, to assure himself that Conan had brought him the real one. It is someplace out on the desert. A shame, for Conan has told me the gems and gold were real. It was merely a gaud, of course, without other properties.”

Conan glanced at the sword on the wall, and at the seated scribe he assumed was bodyguard, with a concealed weapon or two. He did not like this conversational area at all. Isparana was reminded of her pain, her scar, and all she needed do to betray Conan utterly was utter a few words.

“Hanuman be praised,” Akter said to Isparana, “that you were not wearing it at the time.” And had Conan worn a sword, his hand would have eased toward its hilt.

“Yes,” Isparana said, with a glance at the Cimmerian. “I was fortunate.”

A relieved Conan tried not to show his sigh. Was her fondness, her attachment to him real? Had she really forgiven? Perhaps she planned to blackmail; perhaps she wanted this power over him, the ability to betray, without really wanting him to be harmed. Conan thought swiftly. Since he assumed that Zafra knew already, he felt it wise to speak up before the men on the dais thought they were trapping him.

“The Eye, worn as you saw it when I entered, has also been to Shadizar and Khauran.”

“And Conan,” Isparana said, “has never made attempt to slay me, and spoke up to free me from the Khawarizmi when he could have left me enslaved.”

So I did
, Conan thought.
How heroic of me
!

Akter had nodded. He glanced at his wizard and smiled as if to say
There: we knew that; this man is truthful.
The khan sat back, relaxed. Though he assumed the ordeal was over, Conan kept his mental guard up.

“You will dine with me,” Akter Khan said. “I would hear your adventures.”

“The honor is extreme,” Isparana said, almost gasping, and she bowed her head until her chin was nearly on her breast.

“A warrior of Cimmeria is honored, lord Khan,” Conan said. “However, the son of Akhimen Khan will be awaiting me at the camel stables in the Bronze Quarter. Have I time to take word to him?”

“Even Akhimen Khan enters this story!” Akter said, and shook his head bemazedly. “Suppose that I send him word. That same messenger will arrange lodgings for you both at the Royal Turan Inn. That and dinner will be but the first of your rewards from my hands, Conan of Cimmeria. As Zafra has learned, I am a most generous sovran, with those who serve me well. A warrior, eh? Well. We will see that you are both bathed and provided clothing, after which, over dinner, you will tell me of your obviously manifold and multitudinous adventures whilst returning my amulet to me!”

In the few fabrics Conan was accustomed to, “white” tended to range from a sort of beige approaching the hue of lambskin parchment to the faintly yellowish color of cream. He had seen white that was truly so: the color of milk. He had never cared to spend money for such, even on those few occasions when he could have afforded it. Nor had he worn silk before— or the gift of a regnant monarch.

Thus the garment of Khitan silk provided him by Akter Khan was trebly a new experience for the Cimmerian. He felt most noble looking, nigh regal, in the gleaming, red-broidered white tunic that covered his upper arms and fell past mid-thigh. Nor was he unhappy with the broad and signally lightweight belt of red felt. Though he had admired the short boots of the same red felt worn by Akter Khan, Zafra, and Hafar and though he thought a pair would go handsomely with the belt, he was provided sandals.

Still, he remained Conan; he went out himself to see to the care of his horse in the palace stables, and to place his mail corselet and other clothing with his saddle. Dunestrider ignored that fine new name three times, and turned to peer at his master only when Conan exasperatedly called him “Chestnut.” So much, he thought, for nobly naming stupid beasts.

He returned to the palace through its rear door— at which he was challenged. He was passed with only a minimum of snarling, and no threats.

Isparana also wore white silk. The sleeveless dress was long and clinging, and Conan was instantly interested and aroused. There was nothing to be done about that; they met as they were being conducted to dine with the satrap.

Present were the same five only: the khan and his mage, the supposed scribe with the wrists and shoulders of a fighter, Isparana, and Conan. They were served by boys whose veins contained some Stygian blood. The repast was superb, if overly delicate and spicy. There was plenty of meat, and Conan did appreciate the fresh fruit. To his liking, too, was Akter Khan’s wine.

The scribe or “scribe” Uruj said nothing at all, which prompted Conan to wonder if the big fellow might be tongueless, or deaf. Zafra said little but sat thoughtfully listening with an air of perception that increased Conan’s nervousness as much as the mage’s bland snake’s eyes. Akter Khan asked many questions and favored the apricot wine. Conan and Isparana did the talking, a lot of it.

A deal of the wine he had poured down had risen to enfume Conan’s head when they had finished their repast and Akter signaled an end to his listening. Both he and Conan were reeling and had gone thick of tongue. The mightily impressed satrap presented the Cimmerian with a fine goblet of gold, and ten coins—Turanian Eagles, more valued and thus impressive than Zamboulan currency. He vowed there would be more for such a hero.

Though he also provided the northern youth with a fine, voluminous cloak of many yards of scarlet, Conan spent the night in the palace. He was in no condition to walk, or ride across town.

He awoke to a headache and a sour and hateful Isparana, and vowed to give up wine for life. Nevertheless he remained pleased with his fortune and taken with himself. Wearing clothing given him by a ruler, he had dined and gotten drunk with a ruler—and this time no little desert chieftain. Nor had he seen evidence that Akter Khan was other than a good fellow.

Akter Khan was busy; a ruler must rule, and decide, and listen to many people he would rather not even see. Munching figs and apricots, the two left the palace in company of Prefect Jhabiz. He took a tourist’s route, showing them Zamboula and conducting them eventually to a fine big inn whose sign depicted a golden griffin on a background of scarlet: the Royal Turan. They were more than expected; their arrival had been eagerly anticipated since last evening. The innkeeper did not know why their rooms had been arranged by the Khan himself, and so was most solicitous. Indeed, the wight was regardful to the point of obsequiousness. Conan, more than cheerful, could not but strut. Though he had spent considerable time in inns, he had never been so treated, or stayed in one so fine, or been the object of such attention by other guests. Nor had he to worry about the size of the tap bill he accumulated, or the number of mugs of ale he could afford to consume.

Their room was indeed the best in that best of inns in Zamboula. Excited, exhilarated, calling each other “my lady” and “my lord,” the two tarried in that spacious chamber to which they had repaired to change garments.

Downstairs Jhabiz awaited their pleasure for many minutes, and said nothing about it when they at last descended, glowing.

They betook themselves jubilantly down to the Bronze Quarter, which was seedy though hardly a Maul or a Desert. They smelled the camel stables well before they saw them, and heard the groaning beasts ere they reached their quarters. There Conan learned that one of his golden Eagles paid everyone’s bill and gained him respectful treatment as well.

“And how did Conan find Akter Khan?” Hajimen asked.

“In better spirits now than when we came, by Crom! And generous, withal. A fine enough fellow, when one has done him a service.”

While Isparana shot the exuberant Conan a look, Hajimen asked, “Spoke he of my sister?”

“Why… no, Hajimen,” Conan said, in a more subdued voice.

“And is he in mourning for her?”

“Aye,” Isparana said, and when Conan looked at her, he felt her fingers nudge into his back, under cover of his crimson cloak of finery. “You saw the black band he wore, Conan.”

“Oh, aye,” he said, realizing that she was doing Hajimen a kindness. “I saw so much that I was about to forget.”

“It is good that the Khan of the Zamboulans mourns a daughter of the Shanki,” Khanson Hajimen said nodding, though he did not smile.

Conan touched the desert man’s yellow sleeve. “He seems no bad man at all, friend and son of a friend,” he said, with Shanki formality. And he thought,
Odd, for a ruler! Though I’d make no avowals as to the sweetness of his wizard!

“A captaincy in your
Guard?” Zafra
echoed, and Akter Khan looked sharply at him. “Your pardon, my lord,” the wizard said more quietly, “but shock over-came my restraint, when you speak of giving employment to such a man as this Conan, and housing him in the very palace so nigh you.”

Akter Khan leaned back and fixed the mage with a look both sharp and attentive.

“You serve me well, Zafra. You have my confidence and my ear. Speak. Give me your impression of him, then.”

“He is young, and ambitious, and desirous of—” Zafra broke off. “Lord Khan, he returned the Eye of Erlik and is obviously a surpassing warrior. A most resourceful young man and more than dangerous with weapons. Most resourceful. Most dangerous. Just as obviously, you think highly of him. Best I do not speak in this matter.”

“Zukli! Bring us wine!” the khan called, without taking his rather troubled gaze off Zafra. “Speak, Zafra. You have my ear, and my interest. Speak, Wizard of Zamboula, whom the khan trusts. He is resourceful, you said, and young, and ambitious. That is all apparent to any with eyes, and none of them is a sin. And you were about to add another word, when you broke off. Say it. Speak. It is your feeling that I should not trust this northern youth, Zafra?”

Zafra crushed a tiny fruitfly on his braid-worked green sleeve. “He is
uncivilized
, Akter Khan. A barbarian from some far northern land we know nothing of. Who knows what barbarous customs or codes they have? A certain disdain for nobility, I am thinking; even royalty. He left his people. He left
seeking;
the youth is an opportunist. He is ungoverned, lord Khan, and I think ungovernable. I would trust no such man close to me, regardless of his age. He is… restless. What will ever make such a wight content, relaxed, undesirous of more?”

“Hmm,” The satrap took the wine a Kushite servant brought, and waved the boy away. “I hear and I see. And Isparana?”

“A thief from Squatter’s Alley! Now she has been pardoned and more—she has been elevated, has dined with Akter Khan! A thief, a woman who has stolen and sold her goods and doubtless herself on these very streets! And—faugh! She loves that arrogant Cimmerian.”

“Yes, I believe I saw that…”

“They have
served
you. Consider: a man has a fine trained bird. He uses it for years, and it hunts for him like no other. Yet one day it comes winging back from the hunt and pecks out his eye. Would he not have been better advised to note the signs of its discontent, and to have considered it a good servant now dangerous, and removed it? Best that Conan and Isparana have no opportunity to chatter about the Eye, or…
mis
-serve you, lord Khan.”

Blinking, Akter drained his silver goblet and poured more wine. Zafra had not touched his. He leaned closer and spoke with low intensity.

“Consider. Consider the man, and the breed. In Arenjun he fought men of the city Watch, wounded and slew—and escaped. He was never punished, and thus his confidence and disrespect for authority increased. He duped Isparana more than once—and she loves him! What lesson has that taught him? We have only the barbarian’s word. How do we know that great mage did not keep his bargain with the
barbarian
who fetched him back the Eye? In Shadizar, he somehow allied himself with a noblewoman of Khauran. There, he slew a Kothic noble; a
nobleman
, in the very presence of the queen! And now she too is dead. Conan? In Shadizar once more, he again entered into an encounter with the Watch, and again survived— unwounded, unscathed,
unpunished
.”

Akter Khan shook his head. He belched. “A man indeed. Aye, and dangerous.”

A fly buzzed in the room. The khan glowered; Zafra seemed not to notice. All his attention was concentrated on his khan and his words, and his voice continued low and intense.

“Unbridled, O Khan! Tell me that he and the
Iranistani
he traveled south with intended to bring the Eye to
you!
The Iranistani was slain. Conan found himself in the company of Isparana—of Zamboula. Doubtless he’d have been rewarded upon placing your amulet into the hands of the King of Iranistan. But now his Iranistani contact was dead, and a Zamboulan was there, and doubtless reward awaited him upon handing the Eye to its rightful owner… you see?”

Akter was nodding, sipping. His eyes were narrowed. The fly crawled on the lip of his goblet, and he did not so much as notice.

“So… Conan heroically returned the amulet to you. And he is hailed and rewarded and feted as hero! An opportunist, unrestrained and without principle. He has learned that he can do what he wishes, this Conan! Whom does he respect? What does he respect, he who has slain armed city guardsmen and a mage and a highborn noble? What lessons has he learned? Why should he respect anyone or anything save himself? What else has experience shown him? Give him command and he will want more. Give him responsibility and he will take more, assume more. Soon he will dream of full command. He knows much about you, lord Khan. Certainly Balad will contact him! I think such an unprincipled, unbridled
barbarian
will listen, and bargain with the man who seeks your throne!”