"He killed Taras," a plump, pale-skinned brunette said. "You saw that yourself. And he's taken Garian's coin openly, now."

"Yes, Gallia," Ariane said patiently. "But if Conan had betrayed us, would not the Golden Leopards arrest us?" Silent stares answered her.

"He has not betrayed us. Mayhap he spoke the truth about Taras. Perhaps there are no armed men waiting for us to lead the people into the streets. Perhaps we'll find we are no more than a stalking horse for some other's plan."

"By Erlik's Throne," Graecus grumbled, "you speak rubbish, Ariane."

"Perhaps I do," she sighed wearily, "but at least discuss it with me.

Resolve my doubts, if you can. Do you truly have none at all?"

"Take your doubts back to your corner," Graecus told her. "While you sit doubting, we will pull Garian from his throne."

Gallia sniffed loudly. "What can you expect from one who spends so much time with that one-eyed ruffian?"

"Thank you, Gallia," Ariane said. She smiled for the first time since entering the room where Conan stood above Taras' body, and left the table to get her cloak. Graecus and the others stared at her as if she were mad.

Hordo was the answer to her problem, she realized. Not as one to talk to, of course. An she mentioned her doubts to him, he would gruffly tell her that Conan betrayed no one. Then he would pinch her bottom and try to inveigle his way into her bed. He had done all of those things already. But he had visited her earlier that afternoon, and had told her that Stephano lived, and was at the palace of Lord Alba.n.u.s. The sculptor had had a good mind and a facile tongue before his jealousy of Conan soured him. Either he would dispel her doubts, convincing her of the big Cimmerian's guilt, or, convinced himself he would return with her to the Thestis to help her convince the rest. She wrapped her cloak about her and hurried into the street.

When she reached the Street of Regrets she began to rue her decision to leave the Thestis. That street, always alive with flash and tawdry glitter, lay bare to the wind that rolled pitiful remnants across the paving stones. A juggler's particolored cap. A silken scarf, soiled and torn. In the distance a dog howled, the sound echoing down other empty streets. Shivering, though not from the wind, Ariane quickened her pace.

By the time she reached Alba.n.u.s' palace, she was running, though nothing pursued her but emptiness. Panting, she fell against the gate, her small fist pounding on the iron-bound planks. "Let me in!"

A suspicious eye regarded her through a small opening in the gate, swiveling both ways to see if she was accompanied.

"Mitra's mercy, let me in!"

The bars rattled aside, and the guard opened a crack barely wide enough for her to slip through.

Before she had taken a full step inside an arm seized her about the waist, swinging her into the air with crude laughter. She gasped as a hand squeezed her b.u.t.tock roughly, and she looked down into a narrow face. The nose had the tip gone.

"A fine bit," he laughed. "Enough to keep us all warm, even in this wind." His half-score companions added their jocularity to his.

The mirth drained from his face as he felt the point of her short dagger p.r.i.c.k him under the ear. "I am the Lady Ariane Pandarian," she hissed coldly. Mitra, how long had it been since she had used that name? "An Lord Alba.n.u.s leaves anything of you, I've no doubt my father will tend to the rest."

His hands left her as though scalded; her feet thumped to the ground.

"Your pardon, my lady," he stammered. The rest stared with mouths open.

"All honor to you. I did not mean...."

"I will find my own way," she announced haughtily, and swept away while he was still attempting to fit together an apology.

Arrogance, she decided as she made her way up the flagstone walk, was her only hope, arriving at a lord's palace without servants or guards.

When one of the great carven doors was opened by a gray-bearded man with chamberlain's seal on his tunic, her large hazel eyes were adamantine.

"I am the Lady Ariane Pandarian," she announced. "Show me to the sculptor, Stephano Melliarus."

His jaw dropped, and he peered vaguely past her down the walls as if seeking her retinue. "Forgive me... my lady... but I... know no man named Stephano."

Brusquely she pushed by him into the columned entry-hall. "Show me to Lord Alba.n.u.s," she commanded. Inside she quivered. Suppose Conan had been mistaken. What if Stephano were not there? Yet the thought of returning to those barren streets spurred her on.

The chamberlain's mouth worked, beard waggling, then he said faintly, "Follow me, please," adding, "my lady," as an afterthought.

The room in which he left her, while going "to inform Lord Alba.n.u.s" of her presence, was s.p.a.cious. The tapestries were brightly colored; flickering golden lamps cast a cheery glow after the gloom of the streets. But the pleasant surroundings did naught to stem her growing apprehension. What if she was seeking one who was not there, making a fool of herself before this lord who was a stranger to her? Bit by bit, her facade of arrogance melted. When Lord Alba.n.u.s entered, the last vestiges of it were swept away by his stern gaze.

"You seek a man called Stephano," the hard-faced man said without preamble. "Why do you think he is here?"

She found herself wanting to wring her hands and instead clutched them tightly in her cloak, but she could not stop the torrent of words and worries. "I must talk to him. No one else will talk with me, and Taras is dead, and Conan says we are being betrayed, and...." She managed a deep, shuddering breath. "Forgive me, Lord Alba.n.u.s. If Stephano is not here, I will go."

Alba.n.u.s' dark eyes had widened as she spoke. Now, he fumbled in a pouch at his belt, saying, "Wait. Have you ever seen the like of this?"

His fingers brought out a gemstone of almost fiery white; he muttered words she could not hear as he thrust it at her.

Despite herself, her eyes were drawn to the gem as iron to lodestone.

Suddenly a pale beam sprang from the stone, bathing her face. Her breath came out in a grunt, as if she had been struck. Panic filled her. She must run. But all she could do was tremble, dancing helpless in that one spot as whiteness blotted out all her vision. Run, she screamed in the depths of her mind. Why, came the question. Panic dissolved. Will dissolved. The beam winked out, and she stood, breathing calmly, looking into the pale stone, now more fiery seeming than before.

"'Tis done," she heard Alba.n.u.s murmur, "but how well?" In a louder voice he said, "Remove your garments, girl."

Some tiny corner of her being brought a flush to her cheek, but to the rest it seemed a reasonable command. Swiftly she dropped her cloak, undid the brooches that held her robes. They fell in a welter about her feet, and she stood, hands curled delicately on her rounded thighs, one knee slightly bent, waiting.

Alba.n.u.s eyed her curved nudity and smiled mirthlessly. "If you obey that command so readily, you'll tell the truth an you die for it.

Taras, girl. Is he in truth dead? How did he die?"

"Conan slew him," she replied calmly.

"Erlik take that accursed barbar!" the dark lord snarled. "No wonder Vegentius could not find Taras. And how am I to send orders...." His scowl lessened; he peered at her thoughtfully. "You are one of those foolish children who prate of rebellion at the Sign of Thestis, aren't you?"

Her answer was hesitant. "I am." His words seemed in some way wrong, yet the irritation was dimly felt and distant.

Alba.n.u.s' fingers gripped her chin, lifting her head, and though they dug painfully into her cheeks she knew no urge to resist. Her large eyes met his obsidian gaze openly.

"When I wish the streets to fill with howling mobs," he said softly, "you will carry my words to the Thestis, saying exactly what I command and no more."

"I will," she said. Like the bite of a gnat, something called her to struggle, then faded.

He nodded. "Good. This Conan, now. What did he say to you of betrayal?"

"That Taras hired no armed men to aid us. That another used us for his own purposes."

"Did he name this other?" Alba.n.u.s asked sharply.

She shook her head, feeling tired of talking, wanting to sleep.

"No matter," Alba.n.u.s muttered. "I underestimated the barbar. He becomes more dangerous with every turn of the gla.s.s. Varius! A messenger to go to Commander Vegentius! Quickly, if you value your hide! Stand up straight, girl."

Ariane straightened obediently, and watched Alba.n.u.s scribble a message on parchment. She wished only to sleep, but knew she could not until her master permitted. She accepted his will completely now; even the tiny pinp.r.i.c.ks of resistance fled.

Chapter XVIII.