“You saw me speak to Arvaneus, the chief huntsman. No doubt you will depart as soon as supplies are gathered.”
Panic flashed through her. It had been none of her intention to actually go on one Jondra’s forays. There was no point to her sweating in a tent while the jewels remained in Shadizar. Of course, they would be there when she returned. But so might the Lady Roxana. ‘‘I—I have to see … about my belongings,” she stammered.”I left clothing at the Lady
Roxana’s palace. And my favorite pin. I must fetch—”
Mineus cut her short. “When you’ve had instructions as to your duties in preparing for the hunt. Not only must you see that my lady’s clothing and jewels are packed, but you must see to her perfumes, the soaps and oils for her bathing, and—”
‘‘She—my lady takes her jewels hunting?”
“Yes, girl. Now pay attention. My lady’s rouges and powders—”
“You mean a few bracelets and brooches,” Tamira insisted.
The old man rubbed his bald spot and sighed. “I mean nothing of the sort, girl. Of an evening my lady often adorns herself to dine in her finest. Now, since you seem distracted for some reason, I will see you through your tasks.”
For the rest of the morning and into the afternoon Tamira was prodded and pushed from one labor to the next, always under Mineus’ watchful eye. She folded Jondra’s garments of silks and laces—three times she folded them before reaching Mineus’ satisfaction—and packed them in wicker panniers. Rare perfumes from Vendhya and powders from far Khitai, rouges from Sultanapur, costly oils and unguents from the corners of the world, all she wrapped in soft cloths and packed, with the balding old man hovering close to remind her that every vial and jar must be handled as gently as a swaddling child. Then, staggering under the weighty panniers, she and another serving-woman carried them down to the stableyard, where the pack-animals would be loaded on the morrow.
On each trip through Jondra’s chambers, the chests for transporting the noblewoman’s jewelry, thicksided boxes of iron, made her mouth water. They sat so tantalizingly against a tapestry-hung wall. But they were empty iron now, for they would not be filled until the last instant. Still, the gems would be going with her. She could not help smiling.
Aching from the unaccustomed labor, Tamira found that Mineus had led her to a side door of the palace. “Fetch your belongings, girl,” he said, “and return quickly. There will be more work.”
Before she could speak she had been thrust outside, and the door closed in her face. For a long moment she stared wonderingly at the red-painted wood. She had forgotten her panic-induced invention of possessions. Her original plan called for remaining inside Jondra’s palace until the necklace and tiara were in her hands. In that way Conan would never discover what she was up to. The huge barbarian seemed intent on … .
It dawned on her that she was outside the palace, and she spun around to study the narrow street. A turbanned Kezankain hillman squatted disconsolately against a wall across the street, and a few ragged urchins played tag on the rough paving stones. She heaved a sigh of relief. There was neither a beggar nor a doxy in sight. Her uncles could provide a bundle to satisfy Mineus. Keeping a careful watch for Conan’s many eyes, she hurried down the street.
Unseen by her, three of the urchins broke off their play and trailed after her.
The hillman watched her go with lustful eyes, then reluctantly returned to his surveillance of the palace.
Chapter 5
At a corner table in Abuletes’ common room, Conan glowered into a leathern jack half-filled with cheap Kothian wine. Semiramis, in a girdle of coins and two strips of thin scarlet silk, was seated in the lap of a Turanian coiner across the crowded room, but for once that was not the reason for the Cimmerian’s dour face. What remained of Baratses’ two gold pieces had been lessened at dice the previous night. With all of his mind on Tamira, he had given no thought to how to get more. And worst, he had had no word from Laeta. It was only a day since he had set the urchin to watch Tamira, but he was certain—as certain as if he had been told by the dark-eyed thief herself—that she moved already on the theft she planned. The theft he had vowed to beat her to. And he had no word!
Grimacing, he raised his wine and gulped the remainder of it down. When he lowered the jack a tall, bony man stood across the table from him. A fine black Khauranian cloak, edged with cloth of gold, was pulled tightly around him as if to hide his identity.
“What do you want, Baratses?” Conan grumbled. “I keep the two gold pieces for the attempt, and you should be thankful to have it made so cheaply.”
“Do you have a room in this … establishment?” The spice merchant’s black eyes darted about the raucous tavern as if he expected to be attacked at any moment. “I would talk with you in privacy.”
Conan shook his head in disbelief. The fool had obviously dressed himself in what he considered plain fashion, but just as obviously he was no denizen of the Desert. His passage had certainly been noted, and footpads no doubt awaited nine deep in the street for his departure, but here, where he was safe from such, he feared robbery.
“Come,” Conan said, and led the way up the rickety wooden stairs at the back of the common room.
His own room was a simple box of rough wooden planks, with a narrow window shuttered in a vain attempt to keep out the stench of the alley behind the tavern. A wide, low bed, a table with one short leg, and a lone stool were all the furnishings. The Cimmerian’s few possessions—aside from the ancient broadsword he always wore—hung on pegs in one wall.
Baratses glanced around the room disdainfully, and Conan bristled. “I cannot afford a palace. Yet. Now, why are you here? Something more to be stolen? You’ll give a fair price this time, or find someone else.”
“You’ve not yet fulfilled your last commission, Cimmerian.” Though the door was closed, the merchant kept his cloak clutched about him. “I have the rest of your gold here, but where is my goblet? I know Samarides no longer possesses it.”
“Nor do I,” Conan replied ruefully. “Another was there before me.” He hesitated, but could not rid himself of the belief that the man deserved at least some information for his two gold pieces. “I have heard the Lady Zayella has the goblet now.”
“So she offered you more than I,” Baratses murmured. “I had heard you had some odd concept of honor, but I see I was wrong.”
The Cimmerian’s eyes grew icy. “Do not call me liar, merchant. Another took the goblet.”
“The room is close,” Baratses said. “I am hot.” He twitched the cloak from his shoulders, swirling it before him.
Instinct flared a warning in Conan. As the cloak moved aside his big hand slapped down to grasp Baratses’ wrist, stopping a black-bladed Karpashian dagger a handspan from his middle. “Fool!” he said.