Roland Green - Conan The Valiant

She vaulted over the table and settled on Conan's lap. Illyana showed no sign of ending her dancing. Still less did she show any sign of telling Conan what her plans were—if any.

Conan had asked for Dessa with the notion that the closer she was to him, the easier their escape would be if matters went awry. Of course they might now go awry from Illyana's jealousy, but Conan knew no cure for jealous women and expected to find none tonight!

He shifted Dessa to a more comfortable position on one knee and picked up Illyana's discarded loinguard. As his fingers tightened on it, he felt a tingling. Surprised, he nearly dropped the garment. His fingers would not obey his will. The chilling presence of sorcery drove out both wine and pleasure in Dessa's company.

Then a familiar voice spoke in his mind:

Be at ease, Conan. I have other glamourings besides

this one. One of them will make Achmai think he has taken more pleasure from me than he could have imagined from six women. Neither of us will lose anything we yet need.

When I am done, I shall come to you. Be ready, and Dessa likewise.

The voice fell silent. The tingling ceased. Conan's fingers obeyed his will, and he stuffed the loinguard into his tunic.

Dessa ran her fingers up his arm and across his cheek. "Ah, you will soon forget her. That I swear."

Conan tightened his grip. Illyana seemed to have her wits about her, he had a willing bedmate for the night, and the rest could be left to chance.

Nine

DESSA LAY SNUGGLED on Conan's shoulder like a kitten. Had they been elsewhere, her gentle breathing might have lulled him as deeply asleep.

Instead he was as alert as if he had been standing sentry on the Hyrkanian frontier. Only a fool slept in the house of a man who might swiftly become an enemy, in spite of good wine and willing women.

A faint knocking sounded at the door. Conan listened for the rhythm until he heard three strokes, then one, then two. He pulled his sword out from under the blankets, padded catlike to the door, and drew the bolt.

Illyana stood in the doorway. She wore her man's clothing save for the headdress. Deep indigo circles beneath both eyes made them look twice as large as before, and her face was pale.

She stepped into the room, pushed the door shut, then slumped onto the chest beside the bed. Conan offered her wine. She shook her head.

"No. I am only a trifle weary. I would like to sleep, but not as soundly as our friend Achmai. He will have sweet dreams of what he thinks happened between us, as sweet any man could wish."

"How does a maiden sorceress learn of men's dreams after bedding a woman?"

Illyana shivered, then bowed her head. Her throat worked. For a moment Conan thought she was about to spew.

The moment passed. She drew in a rasping breath and stared at him without seeing.

"I have learned. That is all I can tell you."

With that look on her face, Conan would not have asked her more for the Crown of Turan. After a moment he drank the wine himself, donned his clothes, and set about waking Dessa.

From the wall outside, a sentry called.

"The fifth hour, and all's well!"

The sentry could barely be heard over the drunken snores of the men in the Great Hall. He also sounded a trifle drunk himself. He was still on duty, though, ready to give the alarm.

Conan led the way to the outer door of the hall, to find the door locked from the inside. Illyana stepped forward, holding up the arm bearing the Jewel of Kurag.

The Cimmerian shook his head. He had never studied under the master thieves of Zamora, men to whom no lock held many secrets for long. He could still open a crude lock such as this in less time and with less uproar than any spell.

Outside, the courtyard was deserted and seemingly lifeless. Only the faint glow of a brazier outside the stables showed a human presence. Conan gave the ruddy glow a sour look. Well, it was a soldier's luck, to find that the only place guarded was the one he wanted.

The cool night air awoke Dessa from her near-sleepwalking. She looked about her, and her dark eyes widened.

"What—where are you taking me? This is not the way to Lord Achmai's—"

"You will not be going back to him," Conan said. "We have come to take you to Massouf, your betrothed. He is wailing for you."

"Massouf? I thought he was long dead!"

"You received no messages from him?" Illyana asked. "He sent all he could."

"Oh, some reached me. But how could I believe them?"

Illyana looked bewildered.

"Believe me," Conan said. "It's easy to believe everyone's lying to you when you're a slave. Most do."

Dessa smiled, as if he had praised her dancing or beauty. Then her face changed to a mask of determination. She opened her mouth and drew in breath for a scream.

None but the Cimmerian could have silenced Dessa without hurting her. His massive arms held her as gently as an eggshell, but she could make no more sound than a man entombed.

As Conan shifted his grip, Illyana stepped close. One hand rested on Dessa's forehead. Conan felt a tingling in his arms, his head swam, and Dessa slumped boneless and senseless against him.

"What—what did you do?" The effort to stand and speak made his voice grate harshly. As through a mist, he saw light fading from within the Jewel.

"A simple sleeping spell."

"Cast so quickly?"

"Against Dessa, yes. Against someone alert and strong-willed, it would not be so easy. I would not care to cast it against you at all."

"So you say."

"Conan, you still see evil in my magic? What can I do to persuade you otherwise?"

The Cimmerian smiled grimly. "If your magic made me King of Aquilonia, I wouldn't call it good. I wouldn't call you evil, though."

Illyana contrived a smile. "With such crumbs I must be content, I suppose."

The brazier still glowed before the stable door when Conan's party reached it. The stable guards were nowhere to be seen. Illyana vanished into the stable to retrieve their mounts, while Conan laid Dessa on a bale of straw and drew his sword.

He had begun to think of searching for Illyana when the stable guards returned. Neither was quite sober, and they supported between them a giggling girl, less than half-clad and rather more than half-drunk.

"Ho, Cimmerian," one man called. "Come to join our sport?"

"It will be better sport if there's some wine," Conan replied.

"In truth," the second man said. "Faroush, go and find that jug you—"

"You go and find your jug ," the first man began indignantly.

"What, and leave you alone with Chira?" the second man growled.

Faroush was about to reply when Illyana emerged from the darkness, leading the horses.

"Ho, ha, sweet lady. Have you come to dance for us?" said Faroush.

"In truth, no," Illyana said. "I beg you to excuse me." Her voice was steady, but to Conan her eyes had the look of a trapped animal's.

"Beg all you want," the second man said. His voice was all at once level, and his hand on the hilt of his sword. Conan marked him as the more dangerous.

"Again, I must say no," Illyana went on. "I am far too weary for any dancing that would please you."

"That I much doubt," said the second man. "It's the kind of dancing best done lying down, and—"

The man had talked a moment too long and not drawn his sword fast enough. A Cimmerian fist hammered into his jaw like a boulder. He flew backward, crashing into the stable door and sliding down to sprawl senseless in the dung-laden straw.

Faroush drew his sword, apparently sobered by his comrade's fate. Conan saw fear in his eyes, but in his stance and grip a determination to fight even against such an opponent.

Mishrak will want to know how Lord Achmai commands such men , was Conan's thought. For that matter, so do I .