Conan the Fearless Part 13

"Aye," Conan said, but his disquiet remained.

Djuvula watched her brother rage at the beautiful man with the sword, smiling as she did so. Ah, yes, this one was surely the one she sought.

Her gaze covered the barbarian lovingly, despite the rainy darkness.

Such thick, smooth muscle he had, and such a wonderful rage simmered in his flas.h.i.+ng blue eyes as he faced Djavul with only a sword. His heart would drive her Prince as no other heart had been able to move him.

Yes.

Djavul vanished to Gehanna. Djuvula slid back into the cover of soaked hay bales, stacked head-high. It would not do for them to see her just yet. For a moment Djuvula's mind warred with itself: so much to have!

Here was the girl, the essence of Fire: the child glowed with it as a beacon lit to guide s.h.i.+ps in fog-at least to one able to see such things, as a witch of power could. And the barbarian with the beautiful body, ah, how she wanted him!

Her smile increased. Perhaps she might allow this man that which she had given up on in other men, before she excised his mighty heart. Who knew? Such a barbarian might be possessed of vital energies beyond ordinary limits. She could . . . utilize him for a time before animating her Prince. Certainly he looked capable . . . .

Djuvula shook her head, as if to clear away the fantasy within by her action. She should think of the girl first. Then she laughed softly to herself. Why not slay two birds with the same stone? If she exercised care, she could have the girl and the man together. It would not be easy; the White Mage had demonstrated his power to Djavul before, and the witch could see the fear in her brother's eyes as he faced the old man again. No, it would have to be carefully done, using guile instead of force. Even as she thought it, Djuvula began to think of a plan.

Yes, a plan that would allow her to use her very special talents . . .

Senator Lemparius shed his wet clothes and went directly to the hot bath- kept ever so, awaiting his pleasure. As he sank into the water the warm vapors swirled around his head, bringing the scent of crushed mint to his nostrils. Ah . . .

One of the deputies scurried into the room, bowing as he came. "My lord Senator," the man began, "a terrible windstorm has wreaked much damage to the city, killing dozens of citizens."

Lemparius shrugged within the womb of blissful heat. "So? What is done is done; why disturb my bath for such?"

The deputy appeared undisturbed by the senator's lack of concern. "The man who brought this news awaits without, to speak to you of a matter related to this disaster."

"Send him away." Lemparius managed to raise one hand languidly to wave at the deputy; vapor rose from his skin into the cooler air of the bathchamber.

"As you command, my lord. The man would have you know his name, however. He calls himself Loganaro."

Senator Lemparius smiled. "Ah, there is a beast of a different strain.

Admit him."

As the deputy left, Lemparius sank yet deeper into the perfumed water, until his nose was barely clear of the liquid. A shame cats hated the water so.

Loganaro entered the chamber. The man was muddy and bedraggled, his face filled with a mix of ratlike cunning and fear.

The senator bobbed up slightly, clearing his mouth. "Where have you deposited my barbarian? You have collected him by this time?"

"Honored Senator, there was a complication-"

"Complication? Speak not of such! Complications in my service most often lead to ultimate simplification, if you understand my meaning?"

The fat man swallowed. Water still dripped from his gray hair. "It-it could not have been foreseen, lord! A windstorm arose even as my minions collected the barbarian. The inn containing them was demolished, smashed, and scattered; there was nothing to be done!"

Lemparius sat up in the bath and pointed one sharp fingernail at his agent. "I hope you are not telling me my prey was sucked up by a storm."

"N-nay, Honored Senator. My . . . collectors were; somehow, the Cimmerian and his friends escaped."

"Where, then, are they?"

"My agent follows them currently; he will report back to me as soon as they alight."

Lemparius relaxed a little, sinking into the ma.s.sive tub. "Then I see no complication. Merely a delay. As soon as this man settles; you shall simply . . . retrieve him, eh? Only take care that this Cimmerian stays within your grasp, Loganaro mine. Otherwise there is that simplification of which I spoke. A state of being ever so much more simple than one so complex as, say, living and breathing."

Loganaro swallowed and nodded, his damp pale face going more ghostly.

When he had gone, Lemparius smiled. He took a deep breath and sank beneath the water, staying long enough for the warmth to caress his closed eyes and soak his hair. When he came up for air, he was still smiling.

Castle Slott rang with the shouts of its master. "Set curse them all!

By the Eternal Fires, I will have her!"

The three children iron-linked to the cold wall shrank back, as if they could sink into the stone away from Sovartus's wrath.

Sovartus flashed a grimace filled with hatred at the three, concentrating his gaze particularly upon Luft, the boy of Air. "You resisted me somehow," the magician said. "Else that wind would have drawn my quarry up and delivered her to me. I shall remember this, never fear."

With that, Sovartus stalked away from the three, his mind whirling with schemes for achievement of his goal. He muttered to himself as he moved. "Where rests my demon? If he cannot win the girl, he can at least find her and watch her! And what have I done with my casting sphere? Ah, may the Black-Souled Ones take everyone!"

The place was a shed for storage of dried meat and fish, hardly fit accommodations for men; still, it was dry under the solid roof. Crowded into the small cleared s.p.a.ce beneath hanging racks of jerky and smoked fish, Conan stood glowering at Vitarius. The old man spoke.

"I cannot say who sent the a.s.sa.s.sins, if that was their intent. Because of the ropes they carried, I suspect the unfortunates intended to capture you."

Conan shook his head, fanning his damp black hair away from his face.

"There is no sense to that," he said. "I am unknown in these parts; no one would have reason to hold me."

"An old enemy, perhaps?" Kinna said this as she tried to light a stub of candle from a flint-and-steel she worked. Sparks flared in the shed, falling like shooting stars.

"Most of my enemies lie dead," Conan said. "None who live would bother to follow me this far from where I earned their enmity."

One of Kinna's sparks touched the greasy wick of the candle, appeared to smolder for a moment, then went out. Conan thought she uttered a curse, but her voice was too quiet for even his ears to understand what she said.

Almost absently. Eldia raised her finger and pointed it at the candle.

The stub of wax and string lit seemingly of its own accord, casting shadows to the walls and ceiling of the shed.

"So," Kinna said, looking away from the candle at Conan, "what will you do now?"

He considered his choices. He still cared little for pract.i.tioners of sorcerous arts. White. Black, or any other color: a quick exit from this city would serve his purposes well enough. Numalia beckoned, and there was certainly no profit to be had in staying here to contest with demons and magicians, not to mention the unknown master of the cutthroats dispatched by wind and blade to their destinies.

On the other hand, Conan felt a perverse stubbornness rising in him, a feeling of rage at being threatened. No matter that the h.e.l.lish demon had reason for anger, nor that the master of the cutthroats now had similar reasons-his minions were scattered meat, no more. Conan had been minding his own affairs and had been provoked; such provocation deserved no less than he had given. Likely a prudent man would interpret such attacks as a sign from his patron G.o.ds to travel elsewhere at a goodly pace. Cimmerians were not, however, always prudent. Conan's anger at those responsible for causing him such discomfort was great; those who held Crom as their deity could not be faint-hearted. Crom was a hard G.o.d who offered little to his followers: he was savage, gloomy and dealt in death; more, Crom hated weaklings and cowards above all. Crom dispensed courage and will, taken in with life's first breath from out the womb. A man did not honor Crom by running from danger, no matter how great.

Conan stared at the trio gathered around the light of the single candle. He was bound for Nemedia, to be certain, and he did not like magicians, but there were matters to be attended to here.

The others waited for Conan to speak. At last, he did.

"It seems as if we are allies for a time," the Cimmerian said. his voice nearly a growl. He liked it little, but there it stood. He focused on Vitarius. "I trust you have some plan for defeating our mutual enemy?"

The old mage smiled. "Of a sort, Conan. Of a sort."

Chapter Nine.