Swiftly Conan hurried on, running along the roof, scaling another wall at its end with ease, then along the length of it uncaring of the dark below him, or the stones that waited if foot should slip or grip fail. Halting, he lay flat, swiveled his legs and hips over the edge, and climbed down the short distance to the window of Vegentius’ sleeping chamber.
Dagger sliding from its sheath, the big Cimmerian entered the room like silent death. Some few brass lamps were lit, casting dim illumination there and in the outer chamber, yet both were empty, as he had feared. Grimly he settled himself by the door of the inner room to wait.
Long was that vigil, yet he kept it with the silent, unmoving patience of a hunting beast. Even when he heard the door of the outer chamber open, only his hand on the dagger moved, firming its grip. But the tread was of a single man. Conan flattened himself against the wall by the door as the footsteps came closer.
A tall shape entered the room, golden-cloaked and wearing the red-crested helmet of the Golden Leopards’ commander. Conan’s empty fist struck against the back of the man’s neck, and with a groan the other fell, rolling onto his back. The Cimmerian stared in amazement. It was not Vegentius.
And then a howling horde in golden cloaks poured through the outer chamber to fall on him. Roaring, Conan fought. His dagger found a throat, and was torn from his grasp as the dying man fell. Teeth splintered and jaws broke beneath his hammer blows. One man he neatly hurled screaming through the window by which he had entered. Yet by sheer weight of numbers did they force him down. He found himself on his back, three men holding each arm and leg, though many of them spat blood. Writhing, he strained every thew, but he could only shift them, not gain freedom.
Vegentius, helmetless and wearing a look of great satisfaction, appeared in the doorway. “You can see that I was right,” he said to someone still in the other chamber. “He intended to slay me first, so that if your death were discovered before he could flee, my absence in command might aid his escape.”
Wrapped tightly in a cloak, his bruise standing out against the paleness of his cheeks, Garian stepped into the room. He stood gazing down at Conan in horrified wonder. “Even when I heard the others I could hardly believe,” he whispered. A shudder went through him. “A score of times has he had me at the point of his blade.”
“But then he would have surely been known as your assassin,” Vegentius said smoothly.
“Liar!” Conan spat at the massive soldier. “I came here to force you to admit your own foul treachery.”
Vegentius’ face darkened, and he put a hand to his sword, but Garian stopped him with a gesture. The King moved closer to address the Cimmerian.
“Hear me, Conan. Before dusk began to fall this day, Vegentius arrested those who conspired with you. A man called Graecus. A woman, Gallia. Some three or four others. Do you deny knowing them, or that they plotted against my throne?”
Conan’s brain roiled. Was Ariane among those taken? Yet to ask, naming her, was to give her into their hands if they did not have her. “Foolish youths,” he said. “They talk, and will talk till they are gray and toothless, harming no one. Yet there are those who would use them.” He cut off with a grunt as Vegentius’ boot caught him under the ribs.
Garian waved the soldier back and spoke on. “Vegentius put these you call harmless to the question, and within two turns of the glass he had broken them. He brought them before me, those who could still speak, and from their mouths I heard them admit they plotted my murder, and that you are he who was to wield the blade.”
“I am no murderer!” Conan protested, but Garian continued as if he had not spoken.
“The alarm was given; you were sought. And found lying in wait, dagger in hand. Your actions convict you.”
“His head will adorn a pike before dawn,” Vegentius said.
“No,” Garian said softly. “I trusted this man.” He wiped his hands on the edge of his cloak, as if ritually. His eyes were cold on Conan’s face. “Long has it been since the ancient penalty for plotting to slay he who wears the Dragon Crown was last invoked. Let it be invoked now.” Drawing his cloak about him, he turned his face from the Cimmerian and strode from the chamber.
Vegentius stared after him, then down at Conan. Abruptly he laughed, throwing back his head. “The ancient penalty, barbar. Fitting. To the dungeons with him!”
One of those holding Conan shifted. The Cimmerian saw a descending sword hilt, then saw no more.
XIX
Albanus smiled to himself as his sedan chair was borne through the night, up the winding streets that led through the Temple District to the Royal Palace. So close now, he was, to his inevitable triumph. He savored each step the bearers took, carrying him nearer his goal.
Ahead two torchbearers strode, and twenty guards surrounded him, though the streets were as empty as a tomb millenia old. Those truly important to him marched on either side of his chair, heavily cloaked and hooded, the woman and the man-shape. So close.
As the procession approached the gate of the Palace, Albanus uttered a command. His sedan chair was lowered to the ground. Even as the hawk-faced man climbed out, Vegentius crossed the drawbridge. Albanus looked at the guards and raised an inquiring brow.
“As planned,” the soldier said quietly. “All men standing guard this night are loyal to me. My best.”
“Good,” Albanus said. “And Conan?”
“In the dungeons. Garian shouted so about invoking the ancient penalty that I could not kill him out of hand. The alarm had wakened others by then.” His red-crested helmet bobbed as he spat disgustedly. “But he can go to the same unmarked grave as Garian.”
The hawk-faced lord laughed softly. “No, Vegentius. I find the ancient ways a fitting end for this barbarian.”
“Better to kill him straight out,” Vegentius grumbled, but pursued it no further. Stooping, he attempted to look under the hood of the man-shape behind Albanus. “Does he truly look like—”
“Let us go,” Albanus said, and strode forward, Ariane and the simulacrum at his heels. Vegentius could do naught but follow.
The dark lord hurried over the drawbridge exultantly, and into the Palace. Often had his feet trod these halls, yet now it was tread of possessor, of conqueror. When a shadow moved and resolved into Sularia, he stared at her with imperious fury.