Conan eyed the plump mage speculatively, though he could see nothing of his visage but shadows in the moonlight. Wizards did things in their own way and for their own reasons, even the most benign of them. Not that many could be called benign. Even Akiro, with whom he had traveled before, was largely a mystery to him. But then, was there anyone in all of this whom he could afford to trust totally?
“Taramis,” Conan began, “the Princess Royal, has promised to return Valeria to me. Not as a shade, nor as an animated corpse, but living, as once she lived.”
The wizard was silent for a time, tugging at the long mustaches that framed his mouth. “I would not have thought to find one of such power alive in the world today,” he said finally. “Most especially not as a princess of the Zamoran Royal house.”
“You think she lies?” Conan sighed, but Akiro shook his head.
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“Perhaps not. It is written that Malthaneus of Ophir did this thing a thousand years gone, and possibly Ahmad Al-Rashid, in Samara, twice so far in the past. It could be that it is time for the world to once more see such wonders.”
“Then you believe Taramis can do as she promised.”
“Of course,” Akiro continued musingly, “Malthaneus was the greatest white wizard since the Circle of the Right-Hand Path was broken in the days before Acheron, and Ahmad Al-Rashid, it is said, was thrice-blessed by Mitra himself.”
“You jump about like a monkey,” Conan growled. “Can you not say one thing or another and stick to it?”
“I can say that this thing has been done in the past. I can say that Taramis may be able to do it.” He paused, and Conan thought his bushy gray brows had drawn down into a frown. “But why should she do it for you?”
In as few words as possible the Cimmerian told of the quest on which he accompanied Jehnna, of the key and the treasure and the short time that remained.
“A Stygian,” Akiro muttered when he had finished. “It is said that there is no people without some spark of good in them, but never have I found a Stygian I would trust long enough to turn around twice.”
“He must be a powerful sorcerer,” Conan said. “No doubt too powerful for you.”
Akiro wheezed a short laugh. “Do not try that game on me, youngling. I am too old to be snared so easily. I have those accursed hedge-wizards to deal with.”
“I would not find your company amiss, Akiro.”
“I am too old to go riding off into the mountains, Cimmerian. Come, let us go back to the fire. The nights are cold here, and the fire is warm.” Rubbing his hands together, the gray-haired mage did not wait for Conan to follow.
“At least Bombatta will be quieted,” Conan muttered. “He has been afraid Malak or you would upset some part of the prophecy of Skelos.”
Akiro froze with one foot lifted for his next step. Slowly he turned back to face the big youth. “Skelos?”
“Aye, the Scrolls of Skelos. They tell what is to be found on this quest, and what must be done for it to succeed, or so says Taramis. You know of this Skelos?”
“A thaumaturge centuries dead,” Akiro replied absently, “who wrote many volumes of sorcerous lore. All now as rare as virgins in Shadizar.” He thrust his head forward, staring intently at Conan through the darkness. “Taramis has these in her possession? The Scrolls of Skelos?”
“She quoted from them as if she does. She must. Where are you going?”
Akiro was disappearing toward the hut with a quickness that belied his complaints of feebleness. “Time is short, you say,” he called over his shoulder. “We must leave for the mountains before first light, and I need my sleep.”
Smiling, Conan strolled after him. Betimes, he thought, the best snare was one you did not know you had laid.
When the Cimmerian reached the fire Jehnna sat staring into the flames with daydreaming eyes. Bombatta, still drawing the wetstone along his blade, shot irritable glances at Malak, who sprawled beneath a blanket with snores like ripping sailcloth coming from his open mouth. The scar-faced warrior was not the only one bothered by the allintrusive sound. From within the hut came angry mutters, of which only the words “ … need my sleep,” “ … old bones,” and “ … like an ox with a bad belly,” were recognizable.
Abruptly Akiro’s frowning face appeared in the doorway of the hut, eyes fixed intently on Malak and lips moving. Malak’s snore ended as if sliced by a razor. With a gasp the wiry thief bolted upright, staring about him fearfully. Akiro was no longer to be seen. Hesitantly, one hand feeling at his throat, Malak stretched himself out again. His breathing deepened quickly, but barely enough to be heard above the crackle of the fire. Moments . later snorting rumbles began to erupt from the hut.
Jehnna giggled. “Is he going with us?”
“Yes.” Conan sat crosslegged beside her. “We will leave before the sun rises.”
“In the direction I say, this time?”
“In the direction you say.”
He could feel her eyes on him; they made him unaccustomedly awkward. He had no small experience with women. He could deal with impudent serving girls and old merchants’ too-young wives, with brazen doxies and nobles’ hot-eyed daughters. This girl was a virgin and more. An innocent, Akiro termed her, and Conan thought the word fit. Still, there was one thing that did not fit with that description.