Fear the big Cimmerian dismissed as a cause. He knew his fears well, and had them well in hand. No fear could ever affect him so, who had, in his fear years, faced all manner of things that quelled the hearts of other men. As for the image, and even Al’Kiir, he had confronted demons and sorcerers before, as well as every sort of monster from huge flesh-eating worms to giant spiders dripping corrosive poison from manibles that could pierce the finest armor to a dragon of adamantine scales and fiery breath. Each he had conquered, and if he was wary of such, he did not fear them.
“Cimmerian,” Narus called, “come get yourself a cloak.”
“Later,” Conan shouted back to the hollow-faced, who was rooting with others of the company in the great pile of bales and bundles that had been delivered by carts that morning.
Synelle had finally seen to the needs of the Free-Company she had taken in service. Bundles of long woolen cloaks of scarlet, the color of her house, had been tumbled into the courtyard, along with masses of fresh bedding and good wool blankets. There had been knee-high Aquilonian boots of good black leather, small mirrors of polished metal from Zingara, keen-bladed Corinthian razors, and a score of other things, from a dozen countries, that a soldier might need. Including a sack of gold coin for their first pay. The mercenaries had turned the morning into a holiday with it all. Fabio had kept Julia running all morning, staggering under sacks of turnips and peas, struggling with quarters of beef and whole lamb carcasses, rolling casks of wine and ale to the kitchens.
Fabio found Conan by the dry fountain. The fat, round cook was mopping his face with a rag. “Conan, that lazy wench you saddled me with has run off and hidden somewhere. And look, she hasn’t swept a quarter of the courtyard yet. Claims she’s a lady. Erlik take her if she is! She has a mouth like a fishwife. Flung a broom at my head in my own kitchen, and swore at me as vilely as I’ve ever heard from any man in the company.”
Conan shook his head irritably. He was in no mood to listen to the man’s complaints, not when he felt as if ants were skittering over his body. “If you want the courtyard swept,” he snapped, “see to it yourself.”
Fabio stared after him, open-mouthed, as he stalked away.
Conan scrubbed is fingers through his hair. What was the matter with him? Could that accursed bronze, the evil of it that Julia claimed to sense, have affected him from beneath the floor while he slept?
“Cimmerian,” Boros said, popping out of the house, “I’ve been seeking you everywhere.”
“Why?” Conan growled, then attempted to get a hold of himself. “What do you want?” he asked in a slightly more reasonable tone.
“Why, that image, of course.” The old man looked around, then lowered his voice. “Have you given any thought to destroying it? The more I think on it, the more it seems the Staff of Avanrakash is the only answer.”
“I am not stealing the Erlik-accursed scepter,” Conan grated. When he saw Machaon approaching, the Cimmerian felt ready to burst.
The grizzled mercenary eyed the bigger man’s grim face quizzicall
y, but said only, “We’re being watched. This house, that is.”
Conan gripped his swordbelt tightly with both hands. This was business of the company, perhaps important business, and he had worked too long and too hard for that to allow even his own temper to damage it.
“Karela’s men?” he asked in what was almost his normal voice. It took a great effort to maintain it.
“Not unless she’s begun taking fopling youths into her band,” Machaon replied. “There are two of them, garbed and jeweled for a lady’s garden, with pomanders stuck to their nostrils, wandering up and down the street outside. They show an especial interest in this house.”
Young nobles, Conan thought. They could be Antimides’ men, if the count was concerned as to how much Conan was talking of what he knew. Or they could be seeking the image, though nobles hardly meshed with the sort who had tried for it thus far. They might even be this Taramenon, Synelle’s jealous suitor, and a friend, come to see for themselves what manner of man the silvery-haired beauty had taken in service. Too many possibilities to reason out, certainly not in his present state of mind.
“If we seize them when next they pass,” he began, and the two listening to him recoiled.
“You must be mad,” Boros gasped. “’Tis the image, Cimmerian. It affects you ill. It must be destroyed quickly.”
“I know not what this old magpie is chattering about,” Machaon said, “but seizing nobles … in broad daylight from a street in the middle of Ianthe … Cimmerian, it would take more luck than ten Brythunian sages to get out of the city with our heads still on our shoulders.”
Conan squeezed his eyes shut. His brain whirled and spun, skittering through fogs that veiled reason. This was deadly dangerous; he must be able to think clearly, or he could lead them all to disaster.
“My Lord Conan?” a diffident voice said.
Conan opened his eyes to find a barefoot man in the short white tunic of a slave, edged in scarlet, had joined them. “I’m no lord,” he said gruffly.
“Yes, my lor … uh, noble sir. I am bid tell you the Lady Synelle wishes your presence at her house immediately.”
Images of the sleek, full-breasted noblewoman flickered into Conan’s mind, clearing aside all else. His unease was washed away by a warm flow of desire. Sternly he reminded himself that she no doubt wanted to consult with him about the company’s duties, but the reminder could as well have been whispered into a great storm of the Vilayet Sea. When first he kissed her, she had responded. Whatever her words said, her body had told the truth of her feelings. It must have.
“Lead on,” Conan commanded, then strode through the gate and into the street without waiting. The slave had to scurry after him.
Conan gave little heed to the man half-running beside him to keep up as he moved swiftly through throng-filled streets. With every stride his visions of Synelle grew stronger, more compelling, and his breath came faster. Each line of her became clear in his mind, the swell of round breasts above a tiny waist his big hands could almost span, the curve of sleek thighs and sensuously swaying hips. She filled his mind, clouded his eyes so that he saw none of the teeming crowds nor remembered anything of his journey.
Once within Synelle’s great house the man in the short tunic rushed ahead to guide Conan up stairs and through corridors, but the Cimmerian was certain he could have found the way by himself. His palms sweated for the smooth satin of her skin.
The slave bowed him into Synelle’s private chamber. The pale-skinned beauty stood with one small hand at her alabaster throat, dark eyes seeming to fill a face surrounded by silken waves of spun-platinum hair. Diaphanous silk covered her ivory lushness, but concealed nothing.