CHAPTER 30
THE WORLD SWAM in and out
of focus before Tamara’s eyes. The poison had rendered her largely
senseless during the ride. She actively sought to forget what
little of it she recalled. The mounts had made blasphemous noises
as they traveled, a soul-rending screeching with all of the shrill
notes of steel etching steel, but in no way sounding regular or
right. Arrival at Khor Kalba had not made things better because
though the poison’s effects were slowly draining, her body felt as
if she were still on the move.
Four robed acolytes surrounded her as she marched
through Khalar Zym’s domain. The hallways were so wide and the
ceilings so high, she imagined she’d shrunk to the size of a
child’s doll. That seemed a more plausible explanation than
believing in a giant race that needed such space, or the arrogance
of man believing he deserved it. The floors and pillars had been
carved of black marble, worn smooth by countless feet and yet
colder than the darkest winter night.
Ahead of her Marique stalked through the hallway.
She moved with the prideful ease of a house cat within its own
domain. She raised a hand as she came to massive iron doors, and
they parted before her as if they were servants withdrawing before
their master. Their retreat revealed a cavernous room that once had
possessed a stately elegance; but its time had since passed.
The room had been transformed by the addition of
statuary and other artifacts of times best forgotten. Elder gods
crouched on thrones, their webbed feet crushing beneath them the
skulls of screaming children. Mosaics had been pieced together on
the walls, depicting ancient rituals that involved more
bloodletting than religious devotion—though a devotion to
bloodletting was not hidden. Here and there, the Mask of Acheron
appeared, sometimes worn, always venerated, and clearly
feared.
Tamara thanked the gods that she could not see
more. She stumbled into the chamber and collapsed at Marique’s
feet.
“Behold, Father, I have returned with the
girl.”
Khalar Zym slowly roused himself from a daybed. He
had been staring intently at the mask. He moved easily enough, but
was clearly reluctant to tear his eyes from that most valuable
relic of Acheron. Wearing a dark robe, he strode across the floor,
his hooded eyes clearing gradually. He smiled, but it was the same
smile with which he’d stared at the mask, not a pleasurable
response to the arrival of his daughter.
He dropped to a knee and took Tamara’s jaw in his
hand. He turned her face left and then right. “So, elusive one, you
have joined us finally.”
Tamara tried to shake her head, but she lacked the
strength, and even the attempt made the world spin. “You are
mistaken. I am no one. I am not the one you seek.”
Khalar Zym glanced up. “Does she tell the truth,
Marique?”
Marique stroked a Stygian talon against Tamara’s
neck, eliciting a sharp cry. She withdrew it, a drop of blood
hanging there. “Would you care to taste, Father?”
He shook his head.
Marique greedily sucked the blood off the talon,
then licked the droplet that had risen on Tamara’s neck. “Hot and
sweet, Father; the fullness of Acheron’s Royal House pulses through
her.”
“Excellent.” Khalar Zym stood. “Preparations are
almost complete, and shall be by the eve of the Dead Moon.”
His daughter hissed in Tamara’s ear. “Yes, when the
tide has ebbed, and the ruins are dry, when the moon is eager to
rise from the grave, then shall Acheron be brought forth
again.”
Khalar Zym reached down and stroked his daughter’s
cheek. “You have made me proud, so very proud, Marique.”
The sorceress purred.
Tamara, despair welling up inside her, bowed her
head and sobbed.
CONAN MOVED THROUGH the
fetid alleys of Asgalun, choosing his path by diverting ever deeper
into shadow. He could feel the eyes upon him, measuring him. From
him thieves could not hear the ripe peal of gold coins in a pouch,
just the purposeful jingle of a swordman’s livery and the soft
rustle of mail. Most of the watchers dismissed him because of his
size alone. Others for the quick certainty of his step. Though he
did not belong in the thieves’ quarter of the city, he was not
drunk, not a foppish noble seeking adventure and stumbling about
without purpose. Those who studied him knew that, at best,
attacking him would be a lethal exercise that promised little
return for their efforts.
The Cimmerian moved into a tiny courtyard and drove
straight at the door beneath the sign of the seven daggers. He
pushed the dark, oaken door open and ducked his head to enter. The
Den of Blades spread out and down before him; lit poorly, a
labyrinth of tables, benches at various levels, and shadows. Hard
men and harder women filled it, but none favored him with a glance.
To do that would betray concern, and no one here had any concerns
in the world.
At least, none that could not be dealt with through
a knife in the back, or some tincture of black lotus in a goblet of
spiced wine.
Conan read the room as a wolf would read a flock of
sheep. He didn’t see Ela Shan, but that did not bother him. Thieves
seldom kept schedules and he didn’t know if the small man had even
made it back to Asgalun. But someone in the room would know, and
that someone appeared to be a fat Argosian perched back in the
corner halfway between the bar and the hearth.
He made for the fat man directly, well aware that
he was violating customs and protocols. As a young thief in the
Maul, he had learned them and understood them, then dismissed them
as silly laws imposed by the lawless on other outlaws, a mere
parody of the rules of the civilizations upon which they preyed.
Had they imposed them to mock those who despised them, Conan would
have understood and abided by such laws. But their intent came from
pride and pretense, and for that Conan had no use.
He towered over the fat man. “I am looking for a
thief.”
“Looking for a thief, are you?” The fat man spread
his arms wide, contempt twisting his features. “You accuse us,
here, of being thieves, then?”
The Cimmerian’s expression sharpened. “I seek Ela
Shan.”
The fat man’s jowls quivered with laughter. “And
who do you think you are, barbarian?”
Conan caught the man by the throat and lifted him
from his chair. He raised his voice. “I seek Ela Shan.”
The fat man’s face became purple. His nostrils
flared. All around Conan, knives slid from sheaths. Table legs
scraped and benches squeaked as they were pulled away. Steel
sprouted in shadows and silence, save for the pop of the fire and
the fat man’s wheezing.
“Stand away, you fools.” Ela Shan appeared from a
darkened doorway off to Conan’s left. Dressed in black velvet
finery chased with silver threads, and looking as if he had bathed
within the day, Ela Shan presented an image that Conan almost
failed to recognize. The furtive glances, the haunted eye; they had
vanished, and he’d even gained a few pounds—not counting the weight
of the half-dozen knives he had secreted over his person.
Ela Shan pushed aside bared blades and moved to the
heart of what would have been the killing ground. “This is Conan.
This is the one of whom I have told you. I owe this man my life,
and now all of you owe me yours. Before Bovus”—he nodded toward the
fat man—“could have dropped back into his chair, the Cimmerian’s
blade would have appeared and have rent most of you in twain. And
before Bovus’s chair collapsed beneath his girth and he hit the
floor, the rest of you would have been down and staring at him with
dying eyes.”
He turned around and smiled at Conan. “You can let
Bovus go now. He’s arrogant and ignorant, but that’s hardly cause
for you to strangle him.”
Conan released the man, and true to the prediction,
his chair crumbled and spilled him to the floor. Laughter erupted
and drawn steel retreated. Ela Shan waved Conan forward along a
newly cleared path, to the bar and a waiting flagon of foaming
ale.
The thief smiled. “I’m glad you’ve found me. There
has arisen a job for which a man of your talents would be—”
Conan shook his head. “You said you owe me your
life. I am here to collect.”
Ela Shan raised an eyebrow. “Yes?”
“Khor Kalba. I need to get in.”
“Don’t even think it.” Ela accepted a cup of dark
wine from the innkeeper. “There, I’ve saved your life. We’re
even.”
“You said there was no lock you could not
break.”
“There isn’t.”
“Then you can get
in.”
“I could, Conan, but you do not seem to grasp what
I am telling you.” The thief scrubbed a hand over his face. “Khor
Kalba is a fell place, my friend. It was built to be an impregnable
fortress, and no one has ever taken it. But it has fallen many
times, riven from within, the factions killing each other. And each
new owner rebuilds, adding more locks, more traps, more passages
and devices which he hopes will keep him safe. They never do, but
they remain to destroy any thief who is foolish enough to enter.
And no thief would enter, since there is nothing there worth
plundering.”
“There is now.” Conan nodded grimly. “A friend. A
woman.”
“A lover?”
“Someone who saved my life. I pledged to keep her
safe, and Khalar Zym now has her. He will kill her.”
Ela Shan exhaled slowly. “Were it for all the gold
in the world, I would not join you, Cimmerian; but my debt to you
means I am indebted to her as well. Come, my friend. We will dare
that which daunts all other thieves. Two nights hence, we will
penetrate Khor Kalba, and carry away that which its master values
most.”
MARIQUE WATCHED FROM the
shadows as the slaves guided Tamara into the marble basin filled
with steaming water. Lilac blossoms floated in it. Marique allowed
her gaze to linger on the monk’s naked body, searching her pale
flesh for any bruise or blemish. No imperfection marred the woman’s
beauty as she sank into the water and the slaves began to wash
her.
Marique had clipped a lock of the woman’s hair and
sniffed it. Sweat and grime, yes, and even the foul lather of the
beasts they’d used to transport her clung to it. But beneath that
was something more earthy, musky, and strong. The scent of the
barbarian. Marique recognized it from when she had tasted him so
long ago.
As Tamara was bathed, other slaves brought platters
of fruit and viands, delicacies from throughout the world. Tamara,
sedated, ate mechanically, as she was bidden, and sloppily drank
wine. The bathers washed spills from her, then took her from the
bath and dried her with scarlet towels. They led her to a padded
bench and seated her in the center. Two slaves brushed out her hair
while another half dozen attended to her nails. All the while the
woman faced forward, staring distantly at an empty wall.
Marique came around and plucked a blueberry from
one of the platters. She sniffed at it, then made to fling it away.
But she stopped and instead approached Tamara. She pressed the
berry to the woman’s red lips. Tamara accepted the berry and chewed
until it had been reduced to something that barely required
swallowing.
The slaves withdrew as robed acolytes entered the
chamber. They stood Tamara up and stripped her of the towels. They
then bid the woman step into a scarlet gown, which she did. They
bound her into it, then let her sit again.
Marique waited until they had departed before she
slid onto the bench. “My mother wore that gown on her wedding day.
It flatters you.”
Tamara’s jaw trembled, then her lips parted. “I am
not your mother.”
“But you will be.” Marique laughed. “Do you know
why they bathe you in lilac water? It was my mother’s favorite. Do
you still taste blueberry on your tongue? Another of her favorites.
They will serenade you with the music that she loved. They will
tell you tales to which she thrilled. And do you know why?”
Tamara said nothing, but a tear glistened in her
right eye.
“My mother will take you—not as your barbarian did,
but even more completely. You are a vessel, Tamara. Now they fill
you with things my mother will remember. Things that remind her of
the joys of being alive. When my father summons her from beyond the
grave, your soul, your essence, will drain out and she will flood
into you. Up through your toes and your legs, up through your loins
and belly and breasts. She will course up your neck, filling you .
. . filling you until she turns your pretty blue eyes
pitch-black.”
The monk shook. “I would rather die.”
“You will, Tamara, you will . . .”
The chamber door opened and Khalar Zym entered. A
smile grew on his face and it took a moment for Marique to realize
that, yet again, it was not for her.
He stopped and held out a hand. Tamara resisted,
but her hand rose to his, then she stood. He walked around her,
admiring her. When he came around again, when Marique could again
see his face, his smile had broadened and filled with love.
“So perfect you are, Maliva, my love.”
Marique turned from him and fingered a lock of
hair. “She is not my mother.”
“But she shall be, Marique. Her death will herald
your mother’s return . . . and the return of Acheron’s glory.
Maliva’s sorceries will melt flesh from the bones of kings.
Together we, my beloved and I, shall cast all
rivals into an ocean of blood.”
“And what of me, Father?”
Marique rose, turning slowly, a cold edge seeping into her voice.
“Am I to be cast aside? Will you find me weak? Will you find me
flawed? Will you forget all I have done in your name?”
Khalar Zym raised his chin, regarding his daughter
through slitted eyes. “Do you think I could forget the one who
brought me this vessel? Do you think I have forgotten how you found
the last shard of the mask? Just because I love your mother so
much, it does not mean I love you any the less, Marique.”
He reached out for her with an open hand. “Our
enemies will drown, my daughter, in a boiling crimson sea. But you,
Marique, the product of our union, you will be raised up. You will
reign as our princess.”
Marique took his hand and allowed him to guide her
to Tamara’s side. They flanked the monk and stared at their
reflections in an obsidian mirror. “Smile, my cruel angel. Soon we
will be a family again.”
Marique nodded slowly, seeking shadows in the
reflection, listening for treacherous whispers; but she found
neither. She smiled and, for a heartbeat, felt almost embarrassed,
as a child might. “Yes, my dear father, yes. A family once
again.”