In the way of kings, having issued his commands Garian strode away without further wo
rds, soldiers bowing as he left, courtiers and counselors trailing in his wake. The blonde went, too, but as she went her eyes played on Conan’s face with furnace heat.
From the corner of his eye Conan saw Vegentius moving away. “Commander Vegentius,” he called, “did not the King say my company was to be quartered?”
Vegentius almost snarled his reply. “The King said you were to receive quarters, barbar. He said naught of that rag-tag you call a company. Let them quarter in the gutter.” And he, too, stalked away.
Some of Conan’s euphoria left him. He could not run whining to Garian, asking that Vegentius be made to quarter his men. There were inns aplenty at the foot of the hill, but in even the cheapest of them, he would have to supplement the men’s pay from his own purse. That would strain even his new-found resources. Yet it was not the worst of his worries. Why did Vegentius hate him? He must discover the answer before he was forced to kill the man. And he would have to keep the blonde from getting him beheaded. While enjoying her favors, if possible. But then, when had one born on a battlefield sought a life free of troubles?
Laughing, he rode to the gate to tell the others of their fortune.
XIII
The high domed ceiling of plain gray stone was well lit by cressets brass-hung about the bare walls, in which there was no window and but a single door, and that well guarded on the outside. Albanus would allow no slightest risk to that which the room housed. Even but gazing on it, he felt the power that would come to him from it. Centered in the room was a circular stone platform, no higher than a step from the floor, and on it sat a large rectangular block of peculiarly beige clay. It was that clay that would give Albanus the Dragon Throne.
“Lord Albanus, I demand again to know why I am brought here and imprisoned.”
Albanus schooled his face to a smile before turning to the scowling, bushy-browed man who confronted him with fists clenched. “A misapprehension on the part of my guards, good Stephano. I but told them to fetch to me the great sculptor Stephano, and they overstepped themselves. I will have them flogged, I assure you.”
Stephano waved that last away as unimportant, though Albanus noted he did not ask for the guards to be spared their promised flogging.
“You have heard of me?” the sculptor asked instead, his chest puffing.
“Of course,” Albanus replied, hard put not to laugh. This man was read as easily as a page of large script. “’Tis why I want you to sculpt this statue for me. As you can see, your implements are all provided.” He gestured a low table that held every sort of sculptor’s tool.
“’Tis all wrong,” Stephano said with overbearing condescension. “Clay is used for small figures. Statues are of stone or bronze.”
Albanus’ lips retained their smile, but his eyes were frozen coals. “The clay is brought all the way from Khitai.” He could think of no more distant land to serve as a source. “When fired, it has the hardness of bronze, yet is lighter than the damp clay. On the table are sketches of he whom the statue is to portray. Examine them.”
Looking doubtfully at the block of clay, Stephano took up the parchments, unrolled them, and gasped, “Why, this is Garian!”
“Our gracious king,” Albanus agreed unctuously, though he near choked on the words. “’Tis to be a present for him. A surprise.”
“But how is the work to be clothed?” the sculptor asked, ruffling through the drawings. “In all of these is he naked.”
“And so is the sculpture to be.” Albanus forestalled the surprise on Stephano’s face by adding, “Such is the custom of Khitai with statues of this clay. They are clothed in actual garments, this raiment being changed from time to time so that the figure is clothed always in the latest fashion.” He was pleased with himself for that invention. He wondered if it might not be amusing to have a statue done so of himself once he ascended the throne.
Stephano laughed suddenly, a harsh sound like the scraping of slates. “And what would be done with a naked statue of Garian, were Garian no longer on the throne?”
“An unlikely event,” Albanus said blandly.
Stephano looked startled, as if not realizing he had spoken aloud. “Of course. Of course.” His face hardened, thick brows drawing down. “Yet why should I accept the offer of this commission, following as it does a night spent locked in your cellars?”
“A grievous error for which I have apologized. Shall we say a thousand gold marks?”
“I have no interest in gold,” the sculptor sneered.
“To be distributed to the poor,” Albanus continued smoothly. “I have heard much of the good charities you do in Hellgate.” Stephano’s face did not soften, but the hawk-faced lord saw the way. His voice became a mesmeric whisper. “Think of all the good that you could do with a thousand pieces of gold. Think of your fellows following you as you distribute it. I would wager none of them has ever had the hundredth part so much to give.” Stephano nodded slowly, staring at the wall as if he saw a scene there. “How they would laud you, following in your steps with their praises. How great you would be in their eyes.” Albanus fell silent, waiting.
Stephano seemed to stand straighter. Abruptly he shook himself and gave an embarrassed laugh. “Of a certainty, great good could come from so much gold. I was lost in thought of those I could help.”
“Of course.” The cruel-faced lord smiled, then his voice became brisker. “This must be a surprise to Garian. To that end, none may know that you are here. Food and drink will be brought to you. And women, should you desire. Daily will you have leave of the gardens, an you remember your caution. Now get you to your labor, for time presses.”
When Albanus had left that room, he stood, trembling, between the guards who stood with bared swords to either side of the door. His stomach roiled with nausea. That he should have to treat one such as Stephano as near an equal! It was ill to be borne. Yet such could not be driven to their work by threat or even torture, as he had discovered to his regret, for the works they then produced were fatally flawed.
A deferential touch on the sleeve of his tunic brought him erect, teeth bared in a snarl.
The slave who had touched him cowered back, his head bent low. “Forgive me, master, but Commander Vegentius awaits, much exercised, and bids me beg your presence.”