Conan the Victorious by Robert Jordan
Suddenly the trees through which they rode were gone, and before them was a huge structure of ivory spires and alabaster domes, with rising terraces of fluted columns and marble stairs at the front a hundred paces wide. On each side was a long pool bordered by broad marble walks and reflecting the palace in its mirror-smooth waters.
As they rode toward the great expanse of deep-run stairs, Vyndra spoke suddenly. “Once Gwandiakan was a favored summer resort of the court, but many came to fear the fevers of the forests to the west. I have not been here since I was a child, but I know there are a few servants still, so perhaps it is habitable.” She bounced from her saddle and bounded up the broad stairs, needing two paces to a single stairstep.
Conan climbed down from his horse more slowly, and Hordo with him. “Does she play some Vendhyan game with us?” the one-eyed man asked.
Conan shook his head silently; he was as uncertain as his friend. Abruptly a score of men in white turbans and pale cotton tunics appeared at the head of the stairs. The Cimmerian’s hand went to his sword, but the men ignored those at the foot of the stair and bent themselves almost double bowing to Vyndra, murmuring words that did not quite reach Conan’s ear.
Vyndra turned back to the others. “They remember me. It is as I feared. There are only a few servants, and the palace is much deteriorated, but we may find some bare comforts.”
“I know the comforts I want,” Prytanis announced loudly. “The three prettiest wenches I can find. Strip them all and I’ll choose.”
“My serving women are to be gently treated,” Vyndra said angrily.
“You forget you are a prisoner, wench!” the slit-nosed man snarled. “Were the Cimmerian not here, I would—”
“But I am here,” Conan said in hard tones. “And if she wants her serving girls treated gently, then you will treat them like your own sisters.”
Prytanis met the Cimmerian’s iron gaze for only a moment, then his dark eyes slid away. “There are tavern wenches in the city, I’ll wager,” he muttered. “Or do you wish them treated like sisters as well?”
“Have a care if you go into the city,” Conan told him. “Remember, foreigners are all considered spies in this land.”
“I can look after myself,” the Nemedian growled. Sawing at the reins, he jerked his horse around and galloped off in the direction of Gwandiakan.
“Another must go as well,” Conan said as he watched Prytanis disappear. “I’d not trust him to discover what we must know, but information is needed. The caravan entered the city, but how long will it remain? And what does Karim Singh do? Hordo, you see that none of Vyndra’s servants run off to tell of strangers here. There has been nothing to indicate Karim Singh knows we follow, so let us see that that does not change. I will go into—”
“Your pardon,” Kang Hou broke in. “It will take long for an obvious outlander such as yourself to learn anything of interest, for talk will die in your presence. On the other hand, my niece, Kuie Hsi, has often passed as a Vendhyan woman in aid of my business. If she can obtain the proper clothing here…”
“I cannot like sending a woman in my place,” Conan said but the Khitan only smiled.
“I assure you I would not send her if I thought the danger were too great for her.”
Conan looked at Kuie Hsi, standing straight and serene beside Shamil. In her embroidered robes she looked plainly Khitan, but with her dusky coloring and the near lack of an epicanthic fold on her eyes, it seemed barely possible. “Very well,” he said reluctantly. “But she is only to look and listen. Asking questions could draw the wrong eyes to her and I’ll not let her take that chance.”
“I will tell her of your concern,” the merchant said.
Servants came—silent turbaned men bowing as they took away the horses, even more deeply bowing men and women, smiling as they proffered silver goblets of cool wine and golden trays with damp towels for dusty hands and faces.
A round-faced, swarthy man appeared before Conan, bobbing quick bows as he spoke. “I am Punjar, master, steward of the palace. My mistress has commanded me to see personally to your wishes.”
Conan looked for Vyndra and could not see her. The servants made a milling mass about the Cimmerian’s party on the stairs, asking how they might serve, speaking of baths and beds. Momentary thoughts of devious traps flitted through his mind. But Kang Hou was following a serving girl in one direction while his nieces were led in another and Conan had few remaining doubts of the merchant’s ability to avoid a snare. Ghurran, he saw, had retained his horse.
“Do you mistrust this place, herbalist?” Conan asked.
“Less than you, apparently. Of course she is both a woman and a Vendhyan, which means that she will either guard you with her life or kill you in your sleep.” Days in the open had darkened and weathered the old man’s skin, making it less parchmentlike, and his teeth gleamed whitely as he grinned at Conan’s discomfort. “I intend to ride into Gwandiakan. It is possible I might find the ingredents for your antidote there.”
“That old man,” Hordo grumbled as the herbalist rode away, “seems to live on sunlight and water, like a tree. I do not think he even sleeps.”
“You merely grow jealous as you catch up to him in age,” Conan said and laughed as the one-eyed man scowled into his beard.
The corridors through which Punjar led him made the Cimmerian wonder at Vyndra’s comment that the palace was barely habitable. The varicolored carpets scattered on polished marble floors, the great tapestries lining the walls, were finer than any he had seen in palaces in Nemedia or Zamora, lands noted in the West for their luxury. Golden lamps set with amethyst and opal hung on silver chains from ceilings painted with scenes of ancient heroes and leopard hunts and fanciful winged creatures. Cunningly wrought ornaments of delicate crystal and gold sat on tables of ebony and ivory inlaid with turquoise and silver.
The baths were pools mosaicked in geometric patterns, but among the multi-hued marble tiles were others of agate and lapis lazuli. The waters were warm in one pool, cool in another, and veiled serving girls in their servant’s pristine white scurried to pour perfumed oils into the water, to bring him soaps and soft toweling. He kept his broadsword close at hand, moving it from the side of one pool to the side of the next as he changed temperatures, and this set the women twittering softly to one another behind their veils. He ignored their shocked looks; to disarm himself was to show more trust than he could muster.
Refusing the elaborate silken robes—including, he saw with some amusement, the long lengths of silk to wind into a turban—that they brought to replace his dusty, travel-stained garb, Conan chose out a plain tunic of dark blue and belted on his sword over that. Punjar appeared again, bowing deeply.
“If you will follow me, master?” The round-faced man seemed nervous and Conan kept a hand on his sword-hilt as he motioned the other to lead.
The chamber to which Conan was taken had a high vaulted ceiling and narrow columns worked in elaborate gilded frescoes. Surely such columns were too thin to be meant for support. At the top of the walls intricate latticework had been cut in the marble; the scrolled openings were tiny, Conan noted, but perhaps still large enough for a crossbow bolt.
The floor, of crimson and white diamond-shaped tile of marble, was largely bare, though a profusion of silken cushions was scattered to one side. Placed beside the cushions were low tables of hammered brass bearing golden trays of dates and figs, a ruby-studded golden goblet and a tall crystal flagon of wine. Conan wondered if it were poisoned and then almost laughed aloud at the thought of poisoning a man already dying of poison.
“Pray be seated, master,” Punjar said, gesturing to the cushions.
Conan lowered himself but demanded, “Where is Vyndra?”
“My mistress rests from her travels, master, but she has commanded an entertainment for you. My mistress begs that you excuse her absence, and begs also that you remember her request that her serving women be treated gently.” Bowing once more, he was gone.
Abruptly music floated from the latticework near the ceiling—the thrum of citherns, the piping of flutes, the rhythmic thump of tambours. Three women darted into the room with quick, tiny steps to stand in the center of the bare floor. Only their hands and feet were not covered by thick layers of many-colored silk, and opaque veils covered their faces from chin to eyes. To the sound of the music they began to dance, finger-cymbals clinking and tiny golden bells tinkling at their ankles.
Even for a Vendhyan, Conan thought, this was too elaborate a way to kill a man. Filling the goblet with wine, he reclined to watch and enjoy.
At first the dancers’ steps were slow but by tiny increments their speed increased. In flowing movements they spun and leaped, and with each spin, with each leap, a bit of colorful silk drifted away from them. Graceful jumps in unison they made, with legs outstretched, or they writhed with feet planted and arms twined above their heads. The length and breadth of the floor they covered, now moving away from him, now gliding almost to the cushions. Then all the silks were gone save their veils, and the three lush-bodied women danced in only their satiny skins, gleaming with a faint sheen of perspiration.
At the sharp clap of Conan’s hands, the dancers froze, rounded breasts heaving from their exertions. The musicians, unseeing and unaware of what transpired, played on.
“You two go,” the Cimmerian commanded, indicating his choices. “You stay and dance.” Dark eyes exchanged uncertain glances above veils. “Your mistress commanded an entertainment for me,” he went on. “Must I drag the three of you through the palace in search of her to tell her you will not obey?” The looks that passed between the women were frightened now. The two he had pointed out ran from the chamber. The third woman stared after them as though on the point of running also. “Dance for me,” Conan said.
Hesitantly, reluctantly, she found her steps again. Before, the dancers had seemed more aware of the music than of Conan, but now this woman’s head turned constantly, independent of her dance, to keep her dark eyes on his face. She flowed across the floor, whirling and leaping as gracefully as before, but there was a nervousness, too, as though she felt his gaze as a palpable caress on her nudity.
As she came close to him, Conan grabbed a slim, belled ankle. With a squeal she toppled to the cushions and lay staring at him over her veil with wide eyes. For long moments there was no sound but the music and her agitated breathing.
“Please, master,” she whispered finally. “My mistress asks that her serving women—”
“Am I your master then?” Conan asked. Idly he ran a finger from slender calf to rounded thigh, and she shivered. “What if I send for Punjar, saying you have not pleased me? What if I demand he switch you here and now?”
“Then I…I would be switched, master,” she whispered and swallowed hard.
Conan shook his head. “Truly, Vendhyans are mad. Would you really go so far to hide the truth from me?” Before she could flinch away, he snatched the veil from her face.
For an instant Vyndra stared up at him, scarlet suffusing her cheeks. Then her eyes snapped shut, and frantically she tried to cover herself with her arms.
“It did not work with Kang Hou,” Conan laughed, “and it does not work with me.” Her blush deepened and her eyes squeezed tighter. “This time your playing at games has gone awry,” he said, leaning over her. “One chance, and one chance only, will I give you to run and then I will show you what men and women do who do not play games.”
The crimson did not leave her cheeks, but her eyes opened just enough for her to look at him through long lashes. “You fool,” she murmured. “I could have run from you any day since my hands were unbound.”
Throwing her arms about his neck, she pulled him down to her.
CHAPTER XIX
As shadows lengthened with the sinking sun, Conan left Vyndra sleeping on the cushions and went in search of more wine.
“Immediately, master,” a servant said in response to his request, adding at his next question, “No, master, the two men have not yet returned from the city. I know nothing of the Khitan woman, master.”
Finding a chamber with tall, arched windows looking to the west, Conan sat with his foot on the windowsill and his back against its frame. The sun, violent red in a purpling sky, hung its own diameter above the towering trees in the distance. It was a grim sight, fit for his mood. The day had been useless. Waiting in the palace, even making love to Vyndra, however enjoyable, now seemed time wasted. At least in following the caravan this far there had been the illusion of doing something about the poison in his veins, of hunting down the men whose deaths he must see to before his own. One of those men, at least, was in the city, not a league distant, and here he sat, waiting.
“Patil?”
At the soft female voice, he looked around. An unveiled Vendhyan woman stood in the doorway of the chamber, her plain robes of cotton neither those of a servant nor of a noble.
“You do not recognize me,” she said with a smile, and abruptly he did.
“Kuie Hsi,” he gasped. “I did not believe you could so completely—” Impatiently he put all that aside. “What did you learn?”
“Much, and little. The caravan remained in the city only hours, for the merchants’ markets are in Ayodhya and the nobles are impatient to reach the court. Karim Singh, however,” she added as he leaped to his feet, “is yet in Gwandiakan, though I could not learn where.”
“He will not escape me,” Conan growled. “Nor this Naipal, wizard though he be. But why does the wazam remain here rather than going on to the court?”
“Perhaps because, according to rumor, Naipal has been in Gwandiakan for two days. As his face is known to few, however, this cannot be confirmed.”
Conan’s fist smacked into his palm. “Crom, but this cannot be other than fate. Both of them within my grasp. I will finish it this night.”
The Khitan woman caught his arm as he started from the chamber. “If you mean to enter Gwandiakan, take care, for the city is uneasy. Soldiers have been arresting the children of the streets, all of the homeless urchins and beggar children, supposedly on the orders of the wazam. Many are angered, and the poorer sections of the city need but a spark to burst into flame. The streets of Gwandiakan could run with blood over this.”
“I have seen blood before,” he said grimly, and then he was striding down the tapestried corridors. “Punjar! My horse!”
But half-awake, Vyndra stretched on the cushions, noting lazily that the lamps had been lit and night was come. Abruptly she frowned. Someone had laid a silken coverlet over her. With a gasp she clutched the covering to her at the sight of Chin Kou. The Khitan woman’s arms were filled with folds of many-colored silk.
“I brought garments,” Chin Kou said.
Vyndra pulled the coverlet up about her neck. “And what made you think I would need clothing?” she demanded haughtily.
“I am sorry,” Chin Kou said, turning to leave. “No doubt when you wish to cover yourself, you will summon servants. I will leave you the coverlet since you seem to desire that.”
“Wait!” Blushing, Vyndra fingered the coverlet. “I did not know. As you have brought the garments, you might as well leave them.”
Chin Kou arched an eyebrow. “There is no need to take such a tone with me. I know very well what you were doing with the cheng-li who calls himself Patil.” Vyndra groaned, the scarlet in her cheeks deepening. After a moment the merchant’s daughter took pity. “I was doing the same thing with the cheng-li who calls himself Hasan. Now I know your secret and you know mine. You fear only shame before your servants. My uncle’s switch produces a much greater smarting than mere shame.”
Vyndra stared at the other woman as though seeing her for the first time. It was not that she had been unaware of Chin Kou, but the Khitan was a merchant’s niece and surely merchants’ nieces did not think and feel in the same way as a woman born of the Kshatriya blood. Or did they? “Do you love him?” she asked. “Hasan, I mean?”
Vyndra shook her head. “As well love a tiger. But,” she added with a mischievousness she could not control, “to be made love to by a tiger is a very fine thing.”
“Hasan,” Chin Kou said gravely, “is also very vigorous.”
Suddenly the two women were giggling, and the giggles became deep-throated laughter.
“Thank you for the clothing,” Vyndra said when she could talk again. Tossing aside the coverlet, she rose. Chin Kou aided her in dressing, though she did not ask it, and once she was garbed, she said, “Come. We will have wine and talk of men and tigers and other strange beasts.”
As the Khitan woman opened her mouth to reply, a shrill scream echoed through the palace, followed by the shouts of men and the clang of steel on steel.
Chin Kou clutched at Vyndra’s arm. “We must hide.”
“Hide!” Vyndra exclaimed. “This is my palace and I will not cower in it like a rabbit.”
“Foolish pride speaks,” the smaller woman said. “Think what kind of bandits would attack a palace! Do you think your noble blood will protect you?”
“Yes. And you also. Even brigands will know that a ransom will be paid, for you and your sister as well, once they know who I am.”
“Know who you are?” came a voice from the doorway, and Vyndra jumped in spite of herself.
“Kandar,” she breathed. Pride said to stand her ground defiantly, but she could not stop herself from backing away as the cruel-eyed prince swaggered into the chamber, a bloody sword in his fist. In the corridor behind him were turban-helmed soldiers, also with crimson-stained weapons.
He stooped to take something from the floor—the veil she had worn while dancing—and fingered it thoughtfully as he advanced. “Perhaps you think you are a noblewoman,” he said, “perhaps even the famous Lady Vyndra, known for the brilliance of her wit and the dazzling gatherings at her palaces? Alas, the tale has been well told already of how the Lady Vyndra fell prey beyond the Himelias to a savage barbarian who carried her off, to death perhaps, or slavery.”