Hordo groaned. “No, Cimmerian. This is not our affair. Let us put the border behind us.”
Neither Conan nor Garian paid him any mind. The King was silent until Conan had broken off the manacles from his wrists. Then he said quietly, “What do you suggest, Conan?”
“Re-enter the Palace,” Conan said as though that were the easiest thing in the world. “Confront the imposter. Not all the Golden Leopards can be traitors. You can regain your throne without a sword being lifted outside the Palace walls.” He did not think it politic to mention the mobs roaming the streets.
“A bold plan,” Garian mused. “Yet most of the Golden Leopards are loyal to me. I overheard those who guarded me here talking. We will do it. I go to regain my throne, Cimmerian, but you have already gained my eternal gratitude.” His regal manner was returning to him. He regarded his own filth with an amused smile. “But if I am to re-enter the Palace, I must wash and garb myself to look the King.”
As Garian strode from the cell, shouting for hot water and clean robes, Conan frowned, wondering why the King’s last words had been so disquieting. But there was no time to consider that now. There was Ariane to think of.
“Cimmerian,” Karela said angrily, “if you think I will ride at your side back to the Palace, you are a bigger fool than I believe you. ’Tis a death-trap.”
“I have not asked you to go,” he replied. “Often enough you’ve told me you go where you will.”
Her scowl said that was neither the answer she expected nor the one she wanted.
“Hordo,” the Cimmerian went on, “bring the men in from the street. Let all know where we go. Let those who will not follow go. I’ll have no man ride with me this day against his will.”
Hordo nodded and left. Behind Conan Karela uttered an inarticulate oath. Conan ignored her, his mind already occupied with the problem of gaining entry to the Palace and, more important to him than regaining Garian’s throne, getting Ariane free.
When Conan strode from the palace with Garian, now resplendent in the best scarlet velvet he could find to fit him, the Cimmerian was not surprised to find all eight and thirty of his men mounted and waiting, even those who bore wounds from the past hour’s fighting. He knew he had chosen good men. He was surprised, though, to see Karela sitting her horse beside Hordo. Her green glare dared him to question her presence. He mounted without speaking. There were enough problems to be confronted that day without another argument with her.
“I am ready,” Garian announced as he climbed into the saddle. He had a broadsword strapped on over his tunic.
“Let us ride,” Conan commanded, and led the small band out of the palace grounds at a gallop.
XXIV
The approach to the Palace, up the winding streets to the top of the hill and across the greensward to the drawbridge, was made at a slow walk. Garian rode slightly to the front of Conan. A King should lead his army, he had said, even when it was a small one. Conan agreed, hoping the sight of Garian would make the guards hesitate enough to let them get inside.
At the drawbridge they dismounted, and the guards there indeed stared open-mouthed as Garian strode up to them.
“Do you recognize me?” Garian demanded.
Both nodded, and one said, “You are the King. But how did you leave the Palace? There was no call for an honor guard.”
Conan breathed a sigh of relief. They were not Vegentius’ men. The guards eyed those behind the King, most especially Karela, but kept their main attention on Garian.
“Do you think the King does not know the secret ways beneath this hill?” Garian smiled as if the thought were laughable. As the two guards began to smile as well, though, his face became grim. “Are you loyal men? Loyal to your King?”
The two stiffened as one, and both recited the oath of the Golden Leopards as if to remind Garian of it. “My sword follows he who wears the Dragon Crown. My flesh is a shield for the Dragon Throne. As the King commands, I obey, to the death.”
Garian nodded. “Then know that there is a plot against the Dragon Throne, and its perpetrators are Lord Albanus and Commander Vegentius.”
Conan put his hand to his sword as the soldiers started, but they merely stared at the King.
“What are we to do?” one of them asked finally.
“Take those who are in the barbican,” Garian told them, “leaving only two to lower the portcullis and guard the gate, and go with them to your barracks. Rouse all who are there. Let your cry be, ‘Death to Albanus and Vegentius!’ Any who will not shout that are enemies of the Dragon Throne, even if they wear the golden cloak.”
“Death to Albanus and Vegentius,” one guard said, and the other repeated it.
When they had disappeared into the barbican, Garian sagged. “I did not think it would be this easy,” he told Conan.
“It won’t be,” Conan assured him.
“I still think I should have told them of the imposter, Cimmerian.”
Conan shook his head. “It would only confuse them. They’ll find out after he’s dead, if luck is with us.” It mattered little to him when or how they found out, so long as there was enough confusion for his purposes. He eyed the door to the barbican. What took them so long?