“Do you mistrust this place, herbalist?” Conan asked.
“Less than you, apparently. Of course she is both a woman and a Vendhyan, which means that she will either guard you with her life or kill you in your sleep.” Days in the open had darkened and weathered the old man’s skin, making it less parchmentlike, and his teeth gleamed whitely as he grinned at Conan’s discomfort. “I intend to ride into Gwandiakan. It is possible I might find the ingredents for your antidote there.”
“That old man,” Hordo grumbled as the herbalist rode away, “seems to live on sunlight and water, like a tree. I do not think he even sleeps.”
“You merely grow jealous as you catch up to him in age,” Conan said and laughed as the one-eyed man scowled into his beard.
The corridors through which Punjar led him made the Cimmerian wonder at Vyndra’s comment that the palace was barely habitable. The varicolored carpets scattered on polished marble floors, the great tapestries lining the walls, were finer than any he had seen in palaces in Nemedia or Zamora, lands noted in the West for their luxury. Golden lamps set with amethyst and opal hung on silver chains from ceilings painted with scenes of ancient heroes and leopard hunts and fanciful winged creatures. Cunningly wrought ornaments of delicate crystal and gold sat on tables of ebony and ivory inlaid with turquoise and silver.
The baths were pools mosaicked in geometric patterns, but among the multi-hued marble tiles were others of agate and lapis lazuli. The waters were warm in one pool, cool in another, and veiled serving girls in their servant’s pristine white scurried to pour perfumed oils into the water, to bring him soaps and soft toweling. He kept his broadsword close at hand, moving it from the side of one pool to the side of the next as he changed temperatures, and this set the women twittering softly to one another behind their veils. He ignored their shocked looks; to disarm himself was to show more trust than he could muster.
Refusing the elaborate silken robes—including, he saw with some amusement, the long lengths of silk to wind into a turban—that they brought to replace his dusty, travel-stained garb, Conan chose out a plain tunic of dark blue and belted on his sword over that. Punjar appeared again, bowing deeply.
“If you will follow me, master?” The round-faced man seemed nervous and Conan kept a hand on his sword-hilt as he motioned the other to lead.
The chamber to which Conan was taken had a high vaulted ceiling and narrow columns worked in elaborate gilded frescoes. Surely such columns were too thin to be meant for support. At the top of the walls intricate latticework had been cut in the marble; the scrolled openings were tiny, Conan noted, but perhaps still large enough for a crossbow bolt.
The floor, of crimson and white diamond-shaped tile of marble, was largely bare, though a profusion of silken cushions was scattered to one side. Placed beside the cushions were low tables of hammered brass bearing golden trays of dates and figs, a ruby-studded golden goblet and a tall crystal flagon of wine. Conan wondered if it were poisoned and then almost laughed aloud at the thought of poisoning a man already dying of poison.
“Pray be seated, master,” Punjar said, gesturing to the cushions.
Conan lowered himself but demanded, “Where is Vyndra?”
“My mistress rests from her travels, master, but she has commanded an entertainment for you. My mistress begs that you excuse her absence, and begs also that you remember her request that her serving women be treated gently.” Bowing once more, he was gone.
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Abruptly music floated from the latticework near the ceiling—the thrum of citherns, the piping of flutes, the rhythmic thump of tambours. Three women darted into the room with quick, tiny steps to stand in the center of the bare floor. Only their hands and feet were not covered by thick layers of many-colored silk, and opaque veils covered their faces from chin to eyes. To the sound of the music they began to dance, finger-cymbals clinking and tiny golden bells tinkling at their ankles.
Even for a Vendhyan, Conan thought, this was too elaborate a way to kill a man. Filling the goblet with wine, he reclined to watch and enjoy.
At first the dancers’ steps were slow but by tiny increments their speed increased. In flowing movements they spun and leaped, and with each spin, with each leap, a bit of colorful silk drifted away from them. Graceful jumps in unison they made, with legs outstretched, or they writhed with feet planted and arms twined above their heads. The length and breadth of the floor they covered, now moving away from him, now gliding almost to the cushions. Then all the silks were gone save their veils, and the three lush-bodied women danced in only their satiny skins, gleaming with a faint sheen of perspiration.
At the sharp clap of Conan’s hands, the dancers froze, rounded breasts heaving from their exertions. The musicians, unseeing and unaware of what transpired, played on.
“You two go,” the Cimmerian commanded, indicating his choices. “You stay and dance.” Dark eyes exchanged uncertain glances above veils. “Your mistress commanded an entertainment for me,” he went on. “Must I drag the three of you through the palace in search of her to tell her you will not obey?” The looks that passed between the women were frightened now. The two he had pointed out ran from the chamber. The third woman stared after them as though on the point of running also. “Dance for me,” Conan said.
Hesitantly, reluctantly, she found her steps again. Before, the dancers had seemed more aware of the music than of Conan, but now this woman’s head turned constantly, independent of her dance, to keep her dark eyes on his face. She flowed across the floor, whirling and leaping as gracefully as before, but there was a nervousness, too, as though she felt his gaze as a palpable caress on her nudity.
As she came close to him, Conan grabbed a slim, belled ankle. With a squeal she toppled to the cushions and lay staring at him over her veil with wide eyes. For long moments there was no sound but the music and her agitated breathing.
“Please, master,” she whispered finally. “My mistress asks that her serving women—”
“Am I your master then?” Conan asked. Idly he ran a finger from slender calf to rounded thigh, and she shivered. “What if I send for Punjar, saying you have not pleased me? What if I demand he switch you here and now?”
“Then I…I would be switched, master,” she whispered and swallowed hard.
Conan shook his head. “Truly, Vendhyans are mad. Would you really go so far to hide the truth from me?” Before she could flinch away, he snatched the veil from her face.
For an instant Vyndra stared up at him, scarlet suffusing her cheeks. Then her eyes snapped shut, and frantically she tried to cover herself with her arms.
“It did not work with Kang Hou,” Conan laughed, “and it does not work with me.” Her blush deepened and her eyes squeezed tighter. “This time your playing at games has gone awry,” he said, leaning over her. “One chance, and one chance only, will I give you to run and then I will show you what men and women do who do not play games.”
The crimson did not leave her cheeks, but her eyes opened just enough for her to look at him through long lashes. “You fool,” she murmured. “I could have run from you any day since my hands were unbound.”
Throwing her arms about his neck, she pulled him down to her.
CHAPTER XIX