“No!” a skinny, big-nosed man screamed. “I would not have done it. I—” Vegentius’ boot propelled him beyond hearing.
Albanus made his way to Sephana’s bedchamber along halls he once had traversed for more carnal purposes. But not, he thought as he opened the door, for more pleasurable ones.
Demetrio followed him diffidently into the room, peering fearfully for the destruction the magick had wrought. There seemed to be none. Sephana lay on her bed, though to be sure she did not move or acknowledge their presence. She was naked, a robe of blue silk clutched in her hand as if she had been on the point of donning it when she decided instead to lie down. Albanus chuckled, a dry sound like the rattle of a poisonous serpent.
The slender youth crept forward. Her eyes were open; they seemed to have life, to see. He touched her arm, and gasped. It was as hard as stone.
“She still lives,” Albanus said suddenly. “A living statue. She will not have to worry about losing her beauty with age now.”
Demetrio shivered. “Would it not have been simpler to kill her?”
The hawk-faced lord gave him a glance that was all the more frightening for its seeming benevolence. “A king must think of object lessons. Who thinks of betraying me will think next on Sephana’s fate and wonder at his own. Death is much more easily faced. Would you betray me now, Demetrio?”
Mouth suddenly too dry for words, the perfumed youth shook his head.
Vegentius entered the room laughing. “You should have heard their crying and begging. As if tears and pleas would stay our steel.”
“They are disposed of, then?” Albanus said. “All who were under this roof? Servants and slaves as well?”
The big square-faced man drew a broad finger across his throat with a crude laugh. “In the cesspool. There was one—Leucas, he said his name was, as if it mattered—who wept like a woman and said it was not he, but one named Conan who was to do the deed. Anything to—What ails you, Albanus?”
The hawk-faced lord had gone pale. His eyes locked with those of Demetrio. “Conan. ’Twas the name of he from whom you bought the sword.” Demetrio nodded, but Albanus, though looking at him, saw other things. He whispered, uttering his thoughts unaware. “Coincidence? Such is the work of the gods, and when they tangle the skeins of mens’ fates so it is for cause. Such cause could be murderous of ambition. I dare not risk it.”
“It cannot be the same man,” Vegentius protested.
“Two with such a barbarous name?” Albanus retorted. “I think not. Find him.” His obsidian glare drilled each man in turn, turning them to stone with its malignancy. “I want this Conan’s head!”
XI
Conan poured another dipperful of water over his head and peered blearily about the courtyard behind the Thestis. The first thing his eye lit on was Ariane, arms crossed and a disapproving glint in her eye.
“If you must go off to
strange taverns,” she said firmly, “drinking and carousing through the small hours, you must expect your head to hurt.”
“My head does not hurt,” Conan replied, taking up a piece of rough toweling to scrub his face and hair dry. His face hidden, he winced into the toweling. He hoped fervently that she would not shout; if she did his skull would surely explode.
“I looked for you last night,” she went on. “Your meeting with Taras is arranged, though he wished no part of it at first. You have little time now. I’ll give you directions.”
“You are not coming?”
She shook her head. “He was very angry at our having approached you. He says we know nothing of fighting men, of how to choose good from bad. After I told him about you, though, he changed his mind. At least, he will meet you and decide for himself. But the rest of us are not to come. That is to let us know he’s angry.”
“Mayhap.” Conan tossed aside the toweling and hesitated, choosing his words. “I must speak to you of something. About Leucas. He is putting you in danger.”
“Leucas?” she said incredulously. “What danger could he put me in?”
“On yesterday he came to me with some goat-brained talk of killing Garian, of assassination. An he tries that—”
“It’s preposterous!” she broke in. “Leucas is the last of us ever to speak for any action, especially violent action. He cares for naught save his philosophy and women.”
“Women!” the big Cimmerian laughed. “That skinny worm?”
“Yes, indeed, my muscular friend,” she replied archly. “Why, he’s accounted quite the lover by those women he’s known.”
“You among them?” he growled, his massive fists knotting.
For a moment she stared, then her eyes flared with anger. “You do not own me, Cimmerian. You have no leave to question me of what I did or did not do with Leucas or anyone else.”