Part 1 (2/2)
”Who's there?”
”It is I, Nanaia,” said a woman's voice.
Conan stared at his companion. ”Do you know any Nanaia, Tubal?”
”Not I. It must be some trick.”
”Let me in,” said the voice.
”We shall see,” muttered Conan, his eyes blazing a volcanic blue in the lamplight. He drew his scimitar and laid a hand on the bolt, while Tubal, knife drawn, took his place on the other side of the door.
Conan snapped the bolt and whipped open the door. A veiled figure stepped across the threshold, then gave a little shriek and shrank back at the sight of the gleaming blades poised on muscular arms.
Conan's blade darted out so that its tip touched the back of the visitor. ”Enter, my lady,” he rambled in barbarously accented Iranistani.
The woman stepped forward. Conan slammed the door and shot home the bolt ”Is anybody with you?”
”N-nay, I came alone...”
Conan's left arm shot out with the speed of a serpent's strike and ripped the veil from the woman's face. She was tall, lithe, young, and dark, with black hair and finely-chiseled features.
”Now, Nanaia, what is this all about?” he said.
”I am a girl from the king's seraglio-”
Tubal gave a long whistle. ”Now we are in for it.”
”Go on, Nanaia,” said Conan.
”Well, I have often seen you through the lattice behind the throne, when you were closeted with Kobad. It is the king's pleasure to let his women watch him at his royal business. We are supposed to be shut out of this gallery when weighty matters are discussed, but tonight Xathrita the eunuch was drunk and failed to lock the door between the gallery and the women's apartments. I stole back and heard your bitter speech with the king.
”When you had gone, Kobad was very angry. He called in Hakhamani the informer and bade him quietly murder you. Hakhamani was to make it look like an accident.”
”If I catch Hakhamani, I'll make him look like an accident,” gritted Conan. ”But why all this delicacy? Kobad is no more backward than most kings about shortening or lengthening the necks of people he likes not.”
”Because the king wants to keep the services of your kozaki, and if they knew he had slain you they would revolt or ride away.”
”And why did you bring me this news?”
She looked at him from large dark melting eyes. ”I perish in the harem from boredom. With hundreds of women, the king has no time for me. I have admired you through the screen ever since you took service here and hope you will take me with you. Anything is better than the suffocating monotony of this gilded prison, with its everlasting gossip and intrigue. I am the daughter of Kujala, chief of the Gwadiri. We are a tribe of fishermen and mariners, far to the south among the Islands of Pearl. I have steered my own s.h.i.+p through a typhoon, and such indolence drives me mad.”
”How did you get out of the palace?”
”A rope and an unguarded old window with the bars broken away... But that is not important. Will you take me?”
”Send her back,” said Tubal in the lingua franca of the kozaki: a mixture of Zaporoskan, Hyrkanian, and other tongues. ”Or better yet, cut her throat and bury her in the garden. He might let us go unharmed, but he'd never let us get away with the wench. Let him find that you have run off with one of his concubines and he'll overturn every stone in Iranistan to find you.”
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