Her pale hair had always been striking, Abolhassan remembered; it shone now in bright contrast to the prim black and brown tresses of the five other court wives seated by the speaker. Irilya’s youthful form, erect and mobile in her blue silk gown and gold-threaded shawl, both emphasized and softened the force of her arguments. As he watched, the general felt a stirring deep within his breast, and began to regard this young woman in a new light. He examined her with attentive, intimately interested hatred.
“But wait, milady—ah, General, at last you come!” Yildiz turned in his seat, leaning toward Abolhassan in obvious, pathetic relief. “I have been trying to assure the Lady Irilya here of the wisdom, and indeed, the long-term necessity of our southern policy. She and these other court wives are deeply concerned. Knowl-edgable too, I must say.” The emperor laughed nervously, with a hint of thankfulness at seeing Irilya sink back down onto her cushioned stool. “I was explaining to them the hydraulics of empire, that the tides of conquest must always either flow or ebb. The mighty ocean never rests between its rocky shores, I told them, nor do we! We keep up our momentum, not just to gain fresh territory but to maintain our toughness and fighting spirit here at home, in the very fiber of our staunch Turanian hearts.”
“I see no lack of fighting spirit here.” Abolhassan, with a smooth bow and a measuring gaze at Irilya, took his place beside the emperor. “But what these gentle ladies may not fully appreciate, through their finely cultured understanding of world events, is the continual, pervasive threat that faces us, the menace of barbarism! Those who have not made a lifelong study of map-reading can scarcely appreciate the hazard of Turan’s position in the world.” The general’s gray eyes flashed from Irilya’s to those of her delegation with a sober, warning glint. “On every side, ladies, are barbarous hordes who eagerly await a first sign of our weakness, the smallest chink in our imperial armor. All the great empires of history, once they have forgotten this menace, have been overrun—their cities broken, their temples profaned, their thrones and altars besquatted by vile, hairy hides! If we do not keep up unrelenting pressure against this eternal threat, why, even the sacred virtue of Turanian womanhood will be imperiled—”
“Enough, General! I have heard this speech before.” Irilya, rising up again on her silk-slippered feet, showed none of the fluttery nervousness of her courtly sisters at the officer’s remarks. “Myself, I do not need to look so far for a threat to our welfare; I worry about the growing power of the military caste in our own land.” Her eyes and Abolhassan’s met with a nearly audible clash, like blades ringing together in air. “So far as foreigners are concerned, is there not a danger that one of these petty wars will bring us into conflict with a hungrier or fiercer race, provoking their greed and inviting Turan’s own downfall? Such also has befallen great, rapacious empires of the past.”
Abolhassan smiled coldly. “All the more need for Turanians to hone their fighting skills and test them in war, milady! That way we ensure that no enemy can stand against us.”
“Ladies,” Emperor Yildiz announced, “you are the favorite wives of some of my principal shahs; I beg you, heed me.” His smooth, ingratiating tone seemed well calculated to capture their attention. “You are all knowledgeable in statecraft, offering vital and trusted assistance to your mates. Lady Irilya’s husband, Shah Faharazendra, is eminent in rulership and commerce alike, leading rich fleets and caravans forth to spread Turan’s fame across the world. Would that he were here now, Irilya, to… console you in your concerns about state affairs.”
Yellow-hair pursed her berry-stained lips skeptically at this comment, yet remained silent. The emperor smiled confidingly, leaning nearer the court wives.
“Since you understand the high aims of rulership, you will appreciate a story I have to relate.” Yildiz rested a hand on the pantalooned knee of one of the women, whose comely olive complexion deepened in a blush at this lofty honor. “Of those who serve their emperor in provinces like Venjipur, some, as you say, are your noble kinsmen, others mere humble subjects. A few sacrifice greatly for their beloved god and homeland; others gain as greatly in strength and wisdom, winning the high regard of their fellows, or even advancing to the status of heroes!” His eyes searched the women’s earnestly, causing all but Irilya to turn their gazes demurely down. “An empire needs heroes if it is to survive,” he assured the bold-eyed girl with a steady, kingly glance.
“One such soldier in Venjipur has recently come to my attention… an obscure sergeant in one of the outlying forts, commanding a troop of frontier-hardened infantry. Conan, they call him.” Yildiz shrugged eloquently. “Not even a native Turanian, but a foreign enlistee. A Vanir, I am told.”
“Tarim’s grace!” Irilya interrupted, arching her pale brows at Yildiz and Abolhassan in feigned astonishment. “Can this be one of those fierce barbarian plunderers we have been warned about?”
“Truly, milady,” the general parried smoothly, “but when such can be persuaded to follow the true faith, there are no better fighters. That is why we say, send barbarians to fight barbarians!”
“Indeed,” Yildiz picked up the thread briskly, “this man first came to my attention not long ago, during the rebellion of our key outpost, Yaralet.” He shook his head in sad recollection. “Word came that our entire relieving force had been wiped out, not by honest combat but by some heinous heathen sorcery. Soon afterward, a messenger arrived from the northern marches, saying that one unnamed trooper had survived the battle and, practically singlehanded, had returned the city of Yaralet to my rule. That man, I now know, was Conan. Before long he had been transferred at his own insistence to the southern front.”
The emperor shook his head in frank admiration, kindling faint responsive gleams in the eyes of the court women. “No surprise that, since men like Conan need an arena, a bold undertaking in which to unleash their talents.” Sitting well forward in his chair, Yildiz patted the knees of several of his smiling listeners as he spoke—not including Irilya, who kept well out of his reach. “Of such human material, skillfully shaped and tempered, is a strong empire forged.”
“Most impressive.” Level-eyed, Irilya feigned the same credulity her companions showed. “With one such warrior, capable of defeating whole armies, you will hardly need more legions to conquer Venjipur! Doubtless his exploits there have been of equal magnitude?”
“Aye, they have,” Yildiz nodded, unruffled. “Of late he led a force of hand picked raiders in storming a vital enemy outpost, a heathen temple. In the fight he himself came near to slaying Mojurna, the witch-man who is prime instigator of the Venji rebellion.” The emperor beamed into the wide eyes of his dark-haired listeners, his beringed hands busy patting and stroking where they could. “But that is not all; I am told that we received, just today, news of a further exploit, which General Abolhassan has joined us here to relate.”
“With pleasure, Your Resplendency.” The general, already edgy from his clashes with Irilya, watched Yildiz’s physical communion with the other court wives in growing discomfiture. In his mind lingered a germ of doubt whether this casual patting and handholding might not at any moment blossom into the shameful kind of scene Yildiz was fond of subjecting him to in the imperial bedchamber. With an effort, he forced his thoughts to the business at hand.
“We have just received word of a successful action by a territorial elephant brigade, backed by massed cavalry and Imperial regulars. Our force overran an enemy camp, destroying approximately ten thousand rebels and routing the survivors, with negligible losses to our own side. The officer Conan spearheaded the attack—and himself suffered a grave wound from which his recovery is unlikely.” Abolhassan shook his head soberly. “In all, the battle represents a signal victory for Turan.”
“Truly, General!” Irilya said archly. “I am amazed that any rebels are left, since their army, by your accounts, was always so small and scattered.”
“Indeed, milady,” Abolhassan assured her with a venomous smile. “We have anticipated and blunted their main stroke against us. The end of the campaign cannot be far off now.”
“Wonderful news, surely.” Yildiz sat with brow knit beneath his jeweled turban, his hands for once idle at the sides of his chair. “Yet I worry about my officer Conan; he is the best man to come out of the frontier marches in years, possibly ever. Can you send a swift message southward to guarantee him the best of care?”
“Certainly, Your Resplendency.” After listening thoughtfully to his seated ruler, the general nodded his smiling assent. “Assuming that he still lives, I will direct that he receive very special treatment.”
“Excellent!” Yildiz clapped his hands on his silk-wrapped thighs. “Now, ladies, if there are no further points to be discussed, I suggest that we end our interview. This latest news from the front is so significant, I intend to take the dispatch into the map-room and study the details.” Leaning forward in his chair, he patted several rounded knees in farewell. “Be assured that your proposals have been heard and that your emperor will use every suitable means to address them. I look forward to having another meeting with you soon… perhaps a more convivial gathering in my chambers, with a small feast set forth? When it is arranged, I will summon you. It has been a great pleasure.”
Arising with the emperor, Irilya stepped forward to grip his hand firmly in both of hers. “Resplendency, the concerns I voiced will not cease of themselves. I warn you to weigh my words carefully against the counsel of others in your court.” Her glance at Abolhassan was expressive, but Yildiz’s attention was already diverted by the other wives’ more simpering farewells.
“Thank you all, ladies! We are pleased to have this opportunity to elucidate our imperial aims. Tarim bless and provide you!”
The door-guards moved near to assist Yildiz in shooing away the covey of silk-decked, spangled women. Meanwhile Abolhassan bowed deeply to the emperor, holding forth his rolled copy of the Venji dispatch. “Here it is, Resplendency. Most inspired, the way you handled those biddies”—he glanced aside to be sure that they were gone—“but I would beware that insolent, pale-haired one. Remember my past warnings on that score, sire; you may yet have need for the strap and the knife to gain compliance with your wishes.” He bowed perfunctorily once more, backing away. “I shall be eager to discuss these matters with you further, Lord, after a nagging afternoon engagement of which my secretary only lately informed me. Thank you, Resplendency. Good day!”
Leaving Yildiz to devour the preposterous Venji dispatch, Abolhassan made his way quickly through back corridors to yet another quarter of the vast palace, the eunuchs’ apartments. Here, the general was soon sickened by the scents of patchouli and sandalwood hanging heavy in the air. Yet he steeled his eagle-hooked nostrils, dismissing the odors as just another pathetic overindulgence by those who had treacherously been denied life’s greatest overindulgence.
Even the gilded door which he sought out was ornate to the point of offense. Yet it did not repel him so much as what lay beyond.
“Greetings, General. You are late.” The eunuch Dashibt Bey squatted on a tasseled cushion behind a low, lacquered table strewn with remnants of his midafternoon meal. The obese figure squatted at the center of a vast carpet, whose patterns blazed arabesque in the yellow lamplight, effectively concealing any food morsels and wine-stains scattered by the feast. “I would have bidden you partake also—but now, it appears, there is nothing left!” He surveyed the desolation of smeared platters, gnawed bones, nutshells, and gouged crusts. “Unless, of course you want some fruit,” he added with a belch, pushing his omnipresent gilded basket to the center of the table with one stubby hand.
“No, Dashibt Bey. I come straight from Yildiz, and I must presently return to him.” Abolhassan shut the door tightly behind him. “Frankly, I do not cherish this meeting; I thought we agreed to avoid such needless risks. What business can be so pressing as to require my presence here?”
“Why, General, are not high treason and royal usurpation pressing matters? The bedazzlement of an emperor and the theft of an empire?” Dashibt Bey laughed deeply, his fingers fumbling among table crumbs. “Nay, General, do not gape so fearfully! There are no windows here, no spyholes or lip-readers in my private dining-chamber. We are alone and safe from prying eyes and ears. We may speak frankly, without the need to deceive Yildiz, or, more subtly, our fellow conspirators.” His smile was evil, his beady eyes glinting from the gleaming expanse of his face. “There are some matters which need to be discussed openly, between equals.”
“Equals.” Abolhassan took a long moment to swallow the word, his face imperfectly concealing the effort. “Of course we are equals, Dashibt Bey! Equal partners, sharing equal risks. Though I daresay, should our conspiracy fail, you will be cut up into more and larger pieces than I!”
“You reassure me, General! You jest!” The eunuch laughed. “You lie!” His eyes did not leave Abolhassan’s face. “But you lie cleverly, as skillfully as anyone like myself could wish, whose ambitions also hinge on your powers of deceit.” Dashibt Bey shook his head broadly, ignoring his guest’s scowl of insult.
“But do not think for one moment, General, that I am deceived! Do not imagine that I, like the others, heed your talk of ruling councils and shared powers. You will predominate; you are a natural leader of the common herd and, more significantly, of their herders, the cavalry.” Dashibt Bey nodded approvingly. “Your personal ascendancy will be the last fact many fools learn in their shortened lives. The seizure of the throne will be only the start of the bloodbath.” Complacency shone from his round, oily features.
“But as you are pruning the top of the slender, lofty tree of state, lopping off limbs and heads”—here the eunuch fumbled in a jade bowl, mopping up the last smear of pink sauce with a shred of crust—“do not think to dissever me! My position is too strong to allow it, and my function too vital, whether you appreciate it or not.” He popped the smeared crust into his mouth, chewing in undisguised satisfaction.