Conan almost choked on the wine. “The merchant?”
“In Vendhya all foreigners are considered spies. It is safer that way.” The intent look in Karim Singh’s eyes made the Cimmerian wonder for whom he himself was considered to be spying. “But there are spies, and there are spies. One who spies on a spy, for instance. Not all in my land have Vendhya’s best interests in their hearts. It might be of interest to me to know to whom in Vendhya the Khitan speaks, and what he says. It might interest me enough to be worth gold.”
“I am not a spy,” Conan said tightly. “Not for anyone.” He felt a moment’s confusion as the wazam gave a pleased smile.
“Very good, Patil. It is seldom one finds a man faithful to the first buyer.”
There was a patronizing tone to his words that made Conan’s eyes grow cold. He thought of explaining, but he did not think this man would recognize the concept of honor if it were thrust in his face. As he cast about for a way to change the subject, the Cimmerian’s gaze fell on the dancers and his jaw dropped. Opaque veils still covered the faces of the five women to the eyes, but the other swathings of silk now littered the carpets beneath their feet. All of them. Supple curves of rounded olive flesh spun across the chamber, now leaping like gazelles with stretching legs, now writhing as though their bones had been replaced with serpents.
“You appreciate my trinkets?” Karim Singh asked. “They are trophies, after a fashion. Certain powerful lords long opposed me. Then each discovered he was not so powerful as he thought, discovered, too, that even for a lord, life itself could have a price. A favorite daughter, for instance. Each personally laid that price at my feet. Are they not lovely?”
“Lovely,” Conan agreed hoarsely. He strove for a smoother tone, lest the other take his surprise for a lack of sophistication. “And I have no doubt their faces will be equally as lovely when the final veil is dr
opped.”
Karim Singh stiffened momentarily. “I forget that you are an outlander. These women are of my purdhana. For them to unveil their faces before anyone other than myself would shame them greatly, and me as well.”
Considering the soft nudities before him, Conan nodded. “I see,” he said slowly. He did not see at all. Different lands, different customs, but this tended toward madness. Taking a deep breath, he set down the goblet and rose to his feet. “I must go now. Kang Hou will soon be crossing the river.”
“Of course. And when you reach Ayodhya and no longer serve him, I will send for you. There is always need for a man of loyalty, for a ruthless slayer untroubled by civilized restraints.”
Conan did not trust himself to speak. He jerked his head in what he hoped might pass for a bow and stalked out.
Outside the tent the plump man with the egret plumes on his turban was waiting, a silver tray in his hands. “A token from my master,” he said, bowing.
There was a leather purse on the tray. It was soft and buttery in Conan’s palm and he could feel the coins within. He did not open it to count them or to see if they were gold or silver.
“Thank your master for his generosity,” he said, then tossed the purse back to the startled man. “A token from me. Distribute it among the other servants.”
He could feel the plump fellow’s eyes on his back as he strode to his horse—the two servants were still there; one to hold the bridle, one to hold the stirrup for him to mount—but he did not care. If Karim Singh was insulted by the gesture, so be it. He had had all of His Puissant Excellency, the Adviser to the Elephant, that he could stomach.
The steel-tipped circle opened once more, and Conan rode toward the water. Cursing camel drivers used long switches to drive their laden charges from a raft held tightly against the bank by the slaves on the tow rope. All three of the rafts were in service now. One, loaded with Vendhyan nobles, was in mid-river, and the last, crammed with camels and merchants, was close behind. Two milling masses, merchants in one, nobles and their odd companions in the other, showed the crossings had begun soon after he had reached this side. The far bank was crowded with those waiting.
The Cimmerian did not see Kang Hou or any of the others. If he crossed back, however, it was just as possible as not that they would pass each other on the river. He drew rein where he could watch all three landing places.
As the black stood flicking its tail at flies, stamping its feet with impatience to run, a Vendhyan cavalryman rode up beside him. The silk and velvet of the Vendhyan’s garb marked him as an officer, the gem-studded scabbard of his sword and the gilding of his turbaned helmet as an officer of rank. An arrogant sneer was on his face and his eyes were tinged with cruelty. He did not speak, only stared at the big Cimmerian in fierce silence.
He had sought to avoid a fight once this morning, Conan told himself. He could easily do so again. After all, the man but looked at him. Only that. Just looked. Lowering, Conan kept his own gaze on the approaching rafts. The Vendhyan was alone, therefore it had nothing to do with the incident of the purse. In his experience, men like the wazam did not reply to perceived insults in such small ways. But then again, this was beginning not to seem so small. Conan’s jaw tightened.
“You are the man Patil,” the Vendhyan barked suddenly. “You are not Vendhyan.”
“I know who and what I am,” Conan growled. “Who and what are you?”
“I am Prince Kandar, commanding the bodyguard of the wazam of Vendhya. And you will guard your tongue or lose it!”
“I have heard a warning much like that once already today,” Conan replied flatly, “but my tongue is still mine, and I will not let go of it easily.”
“Bold words,” Kandar sneered, “for an outlander with the eyes of a pan-kur.”
“The eyes of a what?”
“A pan-kur. The spawn of a human woman’s mating with a demon. The more ignorant among my men believe such bring misfortune with their presence, and evil with their touch. They would have slain you already had I permitted it.”
There was a shifting in the Vendhyan’s eyes as he spoke. The more ignorant of his men? Conan smiled and leaned toward him. “As I said, I know who and what I am.”
Kandar gave a start, and his horse danced a step sideways, but he mastered his face and his mount quickly. “Vendhya is a dangerous land for a foreigner, whoever, or whatever, he is. A foreigner who wished to have no fear of what lay around the next turning or what might come in the night would do well to seek a shielding hand, to cultivate a patron in high places.”
“And what would this seeking and cultivating require?” Conan asked dryly.