Part 18 (2/2)

Neither could be said to the count's face by one who wished to see another sunrise. So the Aquilonian merely shrugged.

”They will not release Oyzhik, that I can promise you,” he said. ”His kin played no small part in driving the Pougoi from their ancestral lands and into this valley. These folk have a long memory.”

”But the lowlanders have a short one,” Syzambry said. He seemed to be almost grinning. ”When they see Oyzhik go to the beast for his treasons, they will forget how I gained the throne. They will think there may be some truth in what I say, that I stormed the palace to save it from Decius and Oyzhik, that the king died and the princess needed consoling. These are matters of ill fortune, of the G.o.ds' doing and not mine.”

Aybas thought of men he had seen and heard in his long journey from his father's estate to this wretched valley. Compared to some of them.

Count Syzambry's intrigues were those of a child cheating at a game of toss-pebble. Yet this child had the power of life or death over Aybas, and would toss him away like a pebble if he ever guessed the Aquilonian's thoughts. Aybas feigned good cheer when he next spoke.

”May it be so, my lord. Now, how may I next serve you?”

”I shall depart to join my men at c.o.c.k crow. Is it prudent to find me a woman?”

”None you would think pleasing, I fear,” Aybas replied, praying that the G.o.ds had not granted Syzambry a glimpse of Wylla.

”I supposed as much,” the count said. ”Very well. Then guard this bag with your life until I come for it. Farewell, and my thanks for good service.”

Syzambry spoke as if ”my” should in truth have been the royal ”Our.”

Aybas bowed and remained bowing until the door slammed, then knelt to study the bag.

It was of plain leather, bound shut with an iron band. The runes on the band were such that Aybas did not care to look at them too closely.

Even in the dim light of the single oil lamp, he could see that they were kin to the runes on the face of the dam. He could also feel that the bag held something heavy, as stone, but he would not even think of opening it.

Count Syzambry was now quite without restraint in using the Pougoi wizards' magic to lift him to the throne. The Aquilonian was also sure that the count was quite without real knowledge of what he was using-or of what its real masters might ask of him as their price.

Chapter 9.

Conan awoke in darkness, at first not sure why he had awakened. It might be only the bed, which was stoutly built but overly generous in size. It might have been comfortable for the Cimmerian when he first left his native land. For him now, it was a minor torture, and only his ability to sleep anywhere allowed him to endure it.

Before retiring tonight, he had sworn a solemn vow to see the palace carpenter about a new bed. He was even prepared to endure the man's witless jests about who Conan might be planning to share the bed with.

Conan set feet to the cracked tile of the floor, drew on breeches, belted on his sword, and listened. Nothing uncommon reached his ears. A slop-pot gurgled, then banged against stone; someone cried out in a nightmare or in pa.s.sion; mice or rats scurried in a corner.

The knowledge that he had awakened for some good reason remained with Conan. All of the instincts that had kept him alive now called warnings. They would tell him no more, so it was best to seek out true knowledge of the danger.

He drew on his s.h.i.+rt and thrust both daggers into their sheaths. He thought of taking his bow, but in the end, he left it with the bearskin and riding cloak piled at the foot of the bed.

Conan knew that danger stalked the palace. Others did not. Seeing him roaming about full-armed would only raise questions he could not answer. Ignorance and fear together were the sparks to ignite a panic, which could leave the palace defenseless.

Conan's grim thoughts went no further. Horns and drums sounded in the distance and were echoed closer at hand from within the palace. Also from within the palace, shouted messages and war cries reverberated.

Conan heard too many screams as the weaker among the palace folk let fear master them.

The Cimmerian had no need to wake the portion of his company lying in the next chamber. The first sergeant was already cursing, kicking, and as needs be, dragging the men off their pallets and into their war harness.

The sergeant raised a hand as Conan appeared. ”I have sent a messenger to the barracks. The men there are to rally on the palace,” he said.

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