“I see.” Yildiz nodded understandingly. “You would prefer a boy, then?” Observing his general’s pale, clenching face, the emperor resumed swiftly, “Very well, Abolhassan, please yourself.” He gestured the cringing maidservant out of the room and continued speaking.
“The last and most farfetched rumor whispered by my informants is that the entire Venji campaign is an unwarranted distraction, a mere excuse of self-seeking officers to strengthen their hand at the expense of more homely needs—roads, canals, and so forth. The implication seems to be that this heightened military power is somehow to be used to weaken my reign.” Yildiz paused a moment to redirect the efforts of his browsing concubines. “Of course, the devotion of my staff officers is unquestioned. Therefore, I am puzzled; can you tell me how such a misconception might have arisen? Could it have anything to do with the foreign regiments we have taken into our ranks in the course of imperial expansion? Or with regional rivalries, perhaps? Are there rumblings of revolt in any of the home provinces?”
Abolhassan, standing pike-straight, glared down at his supine inquisitor. “Naturally, Emperor, such damaging allegations are too serious to be regarded lightly, or dismissed in a single interview! I give you my sacred oath to explore any hint of these offenses further and, if there is truth to them, take the necessary action. I thank my gracious commander for raising this concern, along with the other problems we discussed. I bid milord good day!” The general spun on his heels, heading for the exit with strides whose tremors set the mercury pool shimmering, and whose velocity scarcely allowed for a further recall.
As it happened, Yildiz’s voice drifted after the departing general in offhanded farewell. “Good day, General. Oh, and Abolhassan, keep me apprised of the fortunes of that young foreigner Conan! He seems the sort who might someday be put to a higher use.”
That same night the general attended another audience, this one in less lavish surroundings. It was in a small, anonymous chamber buried somewhere in the vast warren of the palace, lacking windows, pillars, or hangings—notable, indeed, for its bare functionality and absence of any concealment for prying eyes and ears. There were only the dark blue-plastered walls, a single door, smooth-paneled and tightly bolted, a low table, cushions, an oil lamp. Yet the words spoken here were at first so low and guarded, and the sidelong glances so furtive and frequent, that the room might as well have been the earhole of Emperor Yildiz himself; such was the rumor-bearing reputation of the Imperial Court at Aghrapur.
The monarch of the scene, by his size and splendor if not by rank, was the eunuch, Dashibt Bey. He sat by necessity at the center of one long face of the rectangular table, nearly spanning its length with his own breadth, spreading his bulk across two of the thick cushions. Golden lamplight picked out highlights in the numerous gems and clasps of his costume; it played along the iridescent folds of silken turban, sash, and cummerbund, making their wearer seem a greater source of light than the feeble, wavering flame itself. Though the great functionary would doubtless have preferred a full meal, the privacy and secrecy of the gathering had restricted him to bringing along only a gilded basket, from which he periodically plucked ripe fruit to devour while he listened to General Abolhassan’s low-voiced tirade.
“The vile imp! The pudgy, bespangled vulgarian! There he lay, making me wait attendance on him while he was stroked by his fat trollops—I, his ablest general, reduced to the status of a mere towel-boy! Worse, he then tried to foist off his stable of pawed-over strumpets on me! A good thing his downfall is imminent; otherwise I might have been moved to drown him in the mercury pool of his sybaritic bed!”
Dashibt Bey stirred in place, sending refracted highlights dancing about the walls. “Sometimes Yildiz seeks to outrage his supplicants in the hope of throwing them off guard. That tactic never worked with me, because I am unmoved by the carnal passions.” The eunuch belched discreetly, tossing aside a gnawed fruit-pit. “But tell me, General, what was the tone of his interrogation? Do his suspicions come even remotely near the truth?”
Abolhassan stroked his sharp-stubbled chin, preened his black mustache, and shook his head. “Nay, I cannot think it! He made one insinuation which took me aback at first, about my entertaining more than one purpose at a time. But I must conclude that he is pathetically ignorant, chattering just to hear the sound of his own voice. Court gossips have ingratiated themselves with him by pointing out the obvious; now he tries to overawe me by throwing it back in my face. He struts and postures to make it appear that he is in control, when in truth all know he is not.”
“Aye, General,” a rasping voice added, “great Tarim knows, the complaints which the hated one mouths are the selfsame moanings of the effete noble faction at court—those who would parcel out the rule of empire and shackle the power of the True Faith!” The brown-robed speaker, bald and waxy-pale, was the high priest Tammuraz, known to all as a fanatic, yet secure as the emperor himself in the church’s time-honored hierarchy. “All such quibblers will be justly dealt with,” the holy man continued, “once righteousness is enthroned again in Aghrapur. Yildiz is weak because he places more trust in courtiers, soothsayers, and black magicians than in the Shining Prophet himself!”
“Truly, the nobles and courtiers of Aghrapur are not to be feared,” Dashibt Bey said, taking a pomegranate from his basket, “except to the extent they can enlist Yildiz’s aid. Their household troops are weak, and the real allegiance of city and army alike is to the church.”
“And to the eunuchs,” Abolhassan added with an ironic smile. “Do not forget your own ubiquitous sect, Dashibt Bey! That pompous fool Yildiz was most emphatic about not offending your brothers and disrupting the smooth running of his empire.”
“He is right to that extent only, in saying the real power lies with us.” Smiling, the courtier tore the dark-rubied flesh of the pomegranate, twisting its innards outward with his beringed, stubby-fingered hands. “Fortunately, I can guarantee that my brethren will follow my lead staunchly, with only the standard amount of haggling and intriguing among ourselves. I defer to you, General, because even deft administrators need a plausible figurehead. The hour is not yet ripe for us eunuchs to raise up our own champion and follow him to mastery of the empire.”
Dashibt Bey’s declaration was received by the others as a bold jest, with condescending laughter all around. Smiling, Abolhassan proceeded to list the various military units that could be counted on to shift their loyalty to him, ticking off factions on the dusky fingers of one hand: the southern and eastern expeditionary legions, the Aghrapur city garrison, most of the civil guard, the armies of the rural shahs, and miscellaneous troops under arms in the Ilbarsi province and Hyrkania. He finished by hooking his thumb back with a forefinger, displaying to the others a broad, battle-scarred hand capable of considerable grasp. “That leaves us to face the sharife of Aghrapur, the Imperial Honor Guard, a few deluded loyalists and courtly fops—no one of consequence. And yet, regrettably, our forces are scattered, and mobilization for civil war is always chancy. It will require careful planning.”
“Is it realistic, then, to think that the land will be ripe for revolt in the near future?” This question was posed by a richly arrayed nobleman, Philander by name.
“Without a doubt!” Abolhassan replied, looking dangerously ruffled. “Time favors us in that wise. Remember, the same colonial wars and uprisings which strengthen our military hand in the provinces make conditions gradually worse here at home. Yildiz takes the blame for levying more troops and taxes, and being a greedy ruler or an inept one, while we reap the bounty in men and equipment.”
“Truly, ‘tis so,” the priest Tammuraz chimed in, “or so my agents tell me! Only pray to Tarim that this war drags on longer, and that Yildiz continues to sustain it.”
“Have no fear; he dotes on these petty wars, especially the Venjipur campaign!” Rubbing his hands together, Abolhassan smiled triumphantly around at the group. “He justifies us to his critics, blandly denying our treacheries and iniquities. Most recently he has grown enamored of one of the troopers he saw in Ibn Uluthan’s window—a hulking northern oaf called Conan. My plan is to cultivate this barbarian, feed Yildiz stories of his prowess, false or true, and so play on his weaknesses, until our plans have ripened sufficiently. If we are careful, if we remain sly, we can lead the fatuous tyrant to his doom!”
“Did it ever enter your thick northern skull that you were sent here to kill your emperor’s sworn enemies, not your fellow Turanian officers?”
Pacing beneath the palm-leaf awning of the staff barrack, Jefar Sharif halted abruptly to keep within the limit of the shade. He pivoted to glare at Conan, who stood waiting in the open yard. Beyond the young sharif loomed Conan’s immediate superior, Captain Murad, gray and motionless in the dark doorway.
Sharif resumed his stalking. “And all in a fight over a woman, one of these low Venji slatterns. Three days past—you were lucky I was away when it happened! And thank your birth-stars that you are of officer rank, and so cannot be flogged!” The hereditary officer’s golden spurs scraped the hard earth, his rolled cavalry gloves slapping the leg of his riding-breeches as he paced. His thin-mustached lip curled up in a sneer. “I have always said that, because of ill habits like this brawling, foreign troops should not be allowed rank in Turanian units. A shameful incident!” He wheeled on Conan again. “Well, fellow, have you anything to say for yourself?”
Conan, standing in the hot sun, with murderous impulses surging the length of his sword-arm, searched for some way to translate them into civil speech. When first summoned to this dressing-down, he had not been disarmed by Jefar’s subalterns; now the two guards stood at separate corners of the barrack, too far away to intervene if he should decide to take personal offense. And yet, he reminded himself, he was a military officer.
The Cimmerian, with his yataghan hanging heavy at his side, decided at last that this foppish sharif could hardly understand what danger his curt language placed him in. Conan forced his rebellious gaze down to dusty earth. “I killed the swi… the trooper, in my own defense, Sharif.” He managed to speak acceptably, ending with the officer’s correct title, though it nearly gagged him.
“You did, did you? Well, at least I can see that you are repentant.” Ceasing to pace, Jefar flashed a righteous look from the older, wary-eyed Murad back to Conan. “But tell me, did it ever pass through your dim barbarian consciousness that—”
“Sergeant, what is your age?” Stepping forward from the deeper shadow, the captain came to Conan’s rescue—or, perhaps, to his rash commander’s. Murad’s gray-bearded face crinkled in a hard squint beneath his weathered gray-green turban. “And where do you hail from?”
A hot, airless moment passed in the courtyard as Conan fought down his ill-temper and resorted to hasty mental calculations. “Nineteen winters, by my reckoning, sir. I am Cimmerian.”
“Nineteen, a mere boy!” exclaimed Jefar Sharif, who had at best a year or two more than that to his own earthly sum.
“And already warranted an officer,” Murad continued purposefully. “Most unusual! I see that you survived this duel with but slight damage.” His eye moved to Conan’s injured hand, poulticed and bound with long, fibrous leaves of a medicinal jungle plant. “How else, Sergeant, have you distinguished yourself under Turanian arms?”
Conan leveled blue eyes at his questioner, speaking with careful frankness. “Captain, I was the last survivor of the battle of Yaralet. I saw the rebellious satrap Munthassem Khan destroyed by his own sorcerous dabblings, and the city restored to Turan’s rule.”
“So I heard.” Murad stroked his sleet-tinged beard. “Yaralet—a bloody encounter, was it not, with thousands slain in both hosts?”
“True, good Captain, perhaps!” Jefar Sharif silenced his elder subordinate with a wave of an imperious hand. “But if this northerner was really the sole survivor—why, then, we have only his account of the affair. A trooper who manages to outlive all his comrades can safely be adjudged one of two things: a fighter of exceptional prowess, or else a slinking, sneaking—”
“Whatever the case, he volunteered for Venjipur duty,” Murad said, sharply interrupting his commander, flashing a warning look at the scowling Cimmerian. “And until this incident, he struck me as a capable soldier. Understand me, Conan: A good officer is a valuable item, a piece of property the Turanian Army would rather not see wasted in brawls and agonizing punishments. Nor in insubordination and mutiny.” This last he said with a pointed glance at Conan’s side—and in response, the Cimmerian’s hand reluctantly, longingly relinquished its grip on his yataghan’s flared hilt. “We need men like you alive in the field, Sergeant,” the captain finished, “ready to slaughter the enemy!”
“Aye, fellow!” Jefar Sharif still, apparently, felt it necessary to add his counsel. “If this affair had been somewhat more dignified—say, a duel between noble officers, or a summary execution in the heat of battle, intended to prevent desertion or bolster morale—why, that would be another matter! There is seldom any problem with the killing of an enlisted man, or even a noble, if one is of creditable birth oneself. But a brother warrant officer of an elite unit… you must learn to be more careful of appearances, Sergeant!” Jefar concluded, bestowing on Conan a fatherly look that ill befit his stripling age.
“Enough—I mean excellent, Sharif. Now remain here a moment, Sergeant, while we decide the disposition of your case.” Murad turned with the young noble to step inside the shaded doorway. Conan waited in sweltering heat, feeling the tropic sun scorching through his thin-shirted shoulders all the way to his gizzard, or so it seemed.
The only sound in the midafternoon doldrums was the swishing of palm leaves in the nearby stables, where Venji servants fanned the Turanian officers’ steeds. The desert-bred beasts had to be ventilated to survive the damp noon heat, and even so they performed sluggishly on the mildest of days. But the half-dozen staff officers, cavalrymen all, continued to regard horses as necessary appurtenances of command, practically a part of their uniform.