Conan the Defender (Robert Jordan's Conan Novels 2) - Page 43

His jaw dropped, and he peered vaguely past her down the walk as if seeking her retinue. “Forgive me … my lady … but I … know no man named Stephano.”

Brusquely she pushed by him into the columned entry-hall. “Show me to Lord Albanus,” she commanded. Inside she quivered. Suppose Conan had been mistaken. What if Stephano were not there? Yet the thought of returning to those barren streets spurred her on.

The chamberlain’s mouth worked, beard waggling, then he said faintly, “Follow me, please,” adding, “my lady,” as an afterthought.

The room in which he left her, while going “to inform Lord Albanus” of her presence, was spacious. The tapestries were brightly colored; flickering golden lamps cast a cheery glow after the gloom of the streets. But the pleasant surroundings did naught to stem her growing apprehension. What if she was seeking one who was not there, making a fool of herself before this lord who was a stranger to her? Bit by bit, her facade of arrogance melted. When Lord Albanus entered, the last vestiges of it were swept away by his stern gaze.

“You seek a man called Stephano,” the hard-faced man said without preamble. “Why do you think he is here?”

She found herself wanting to wring her hands and instead clutched them tightly in her cloak, but she could not stop the torrent of words and worries. “I must talk to him. No one else will talk with me, and Taras is dead, and Conan says we are being betrayed, and … .” She managed a deep, shuddering breath. “Forgive me, Lord Albanus. If Stephano is not here, I will go.”

Albanus’ dark eyes had widened as she spoke. Now he fumbled in a pouch at his belt, saying, “Wait. Have you ever seen the like of this?”

His fingers brought out a gemstone of almost fiery white; he muttered words she could not hear as he thrust it at her.

Despite herself, her eyes were drawn to the gem as iron to lodestone. Suddenly a pale beam sprang from the stone, bathing her face. Her breath came out in a grunt, as if she had been struck. Panic filled her. She must run. But all she could do was tremble, dancing helpless in that one spot as whiteness blotted out all her vision. Run, she screamed in the depths of her mind. Why, came the question. Panic dissolved. Will dissolved. The beam winked out, and she stood, breathing calmly, looking into the pale stone, now more fiery seeming than before.

“’Tis done,” she heard Albanus murmur, “but how well?” In a louder voice he said, “Remove your garments, girl.”

Some tiny corner of her being brought a flush to her cheek, but to the rest it seemed a reasonable command. Swiftly she dropped her cloak, undid the brooches that held her robes. They fell in a welter about her feet, and she stood, hands curled delicately on her rounded thighs, one knee slightly bent, waiting.

Albanus eyed her curved nudity and smiled mirthlessly. “If you obey that command so readily, you’ll tell the truth an you die for it. Taras, girl. Is he in truth dead? How did he die?”

“Conan slew him,” she replied calmly.

“Erlik take that accursed barbar!” the dark lord snarled. “No wonder Vegentius could not find Taras. And how am I to send orders … .” His scowl lessened; he peered at her thoughtfully. “You are one of those foolish children who prate of rebellion at the Sign of Thestis, aren’t you?”

Her answer was hesitant. “I am.” His words seemed in some way wrong, yet the irritation was dimly felt and distant.

Albanus’ fingers gripped her chin, lifting her head, and though they dug painfully into her cheeks she knew no urge to resist. Her large eyes met his obsidian gaze openly.

“When I wish the streets to fill with howling mobs,” he said softly, “you will carry my words to the Thestis, saying exactly what I command and no more.”

“I will,” she said. Like the bite of a gnat, something called her to struggle, then faded.

He nodded. “Good. This Conan, now. What did he say to you of betrayal?”

“That Taras hired no armed men to aid us. That another used us for his own purposes.”

“Did he name this other?” Albanus asked sharply.

She shook her head, feeling tired of talking, wanting to sleep.

“No matter,” Albanus muttered. “I underestimated the barbar. He becomes more dangerous with every turn of the glass. Varius! A messenger to go to Commander Vegentius! Quickly, if you value your hide! Stand up straight, girl.”

Ariane straightened obediently, and watched Albanus scribble a message on parchment. She wished only to sleep, but knew she could not until her master permitted. She accepted his will completely now; even the tiny pinpricks of resistance fled.

XVIII

As the deep tone of a bronze gong sounded the first turn of the glass past full sundown, Conan uncoiled smoothly from his bed in the darkness of his room. Already he was prepared for his night’s venture, in bare feet and tunic with a dagger at his belt. Sword and armor would hamper where he went.

On silent feet he moved to the window, climbed onto the stone lip, and twisted with cat-like grace to find places for his fingers above. It was not a natural thing for men to look up, even when searching. Therefore the best way to go unobserved was to travel high. Scudding purple clouds crossed a gibbous moon, casting shadows that walked and danced. Conan became one with the shadows.

Even in that smooth-dressed stone, crevices and chinks were to be found by knowledgeable fingers and toes. Stone cornices and the rims of friezes made a pathway for him to the roof. With swift care he crossed its tiles, dropping on the far side to a rampart walk that bore no sentry, here in the heart of the Palace. Through an embrasure between man-high merlons he lowered himself to the roof of a colonnade three stories above the flagstoned courtyard below.

Within the Palace behind him an alarm bell abruptly began to toll, and he froze there in the shifting shadows. Shouts carried to him, though he could make out no word. He frowned. To such an alarm Vegentius would surely be summoned. And yet the hue and cry was not general, for no sudden lights or tramp of marching men disturbed the outer part of the Palace. Eventually it would subside, and Vegentius would of a certainty return to his quarters. A lupine smile split the Cimmerian’s face. He would return to find one waiting to ask qu

estions, and demand answers.

Tags: Robert Jordan Robert Jordan's Conan Novels Fantasy
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