"Show me," Conan said. Hope took life again within him.

The dungeons beneath Alba.n.u.s' palace were much like any others, rough stone, heavy wooden doors on rusting hinges, a thick smell of stale urine and fear sweat. Still, when Conan looked into the cell to which Machaon led him, he smiled as if it were a fountained garden.

The ragged, dirty man chained to the wall stirred uncertainly. "Well, Conan," he said, "have you joined Alba.n.u.s and Vegentius?"

"Derketo," Karela breathed. "He does look like Garian."

"He is Garian," Conan said. "That bruise on his cheek names him so."

Garian's chains clanked as he touched the bruise. He laughed shakily.

"To be known by so little a thing."

"If this be Garian," Karela demanded, "then who sits on the Dragon Throne?"

"An impostor," Conan replied. "He has no bruise. Fetch me hammer and chisel. Quickly." Machaon disappeared to return in moments with the required items.

As Conan knelt to lay chisel to the first manacle at Garian's ankle, the King said, "You will be rewarded for this, barbarian. All that Alba.n.u.s possesses will be yours when I regain the throne."

Conan did not speak. One mighty blow with the hammer split the riveted iron band open. He moved to the next.

"You must get me out of the city," Garian went on. "Once I reach the army, all will be well. I grew up in those camps. They will know me.

I'll return at the head of ten thousand swords to tear Alba.n.u.s from the Palace."

"And to start a civil war," Conan said. He freed the other ankle, again with a single blow. "The impostor looks much like you. Many will believe he is you, most especially since he speaks from the Dragon Throne. Perhaps even the army will not be as quick to believe as you think."

Hordo groaned. "No, Cimmerian. This is not our affair. Let us put the border behind us."

Neither Conan nor Garian paid him any mind. The King was silent until Conan had broken off the manacles from his wrists. Then he said quietly, "What do you suggest, Conan?"

"Re-enter the Palace," Conan said as though that were the easiest thing in the world. "Confront the imposter. Not all the Golden Leopards can be traitors. You can regain your throne without a sword being lifted outside the Palace walls." He did not think it politic to mention the mobs roaming the streets.

"A bold plan," Garian mused. "Yet most of the Golden Leopards are loyal to me. I overheard those who guarded me here talking. We will do it. I go to regain my throne, Cimmerian, but you have already gained my eternal grat.i.tude." His regal manner was returning to him. He regarded his own filth with an amused smile. "But if I am to re-enter the Palace, I must wash and garb myself to look the King."

As Garian strode from the cell, shouting for hot water and clean robes, Conan frowned, wondering why the King's last words had been so disquieting. But there was no time to consider that now. There was Ariane to think of.

"Cimmerian," Karela said angrily, "if you think I will ride at your side back to the Palace, you are a bigger fool than I believe you. 'Tis a deathtrap."

"I have not asked you to go," he replied. "Often enough you've told me you go where you will."

Her scowl said that was neither the answer she expected nor the one she wanted.

"Hordo," the Cimmerian went on, "bring the men in from the street. Let all know where we go. Let those who will not follow go. I'll have no man ride with me this day against his will."

Hordo nodded and left. Behind Conan Karela uttered an inarticulate oath. Conan ignored her, his mind already occupied with the problem of gaining entry to the Palace and, more important to him than regaining Garian's throne, getting Ariane free.

When Conan strode from the palace with Garian, now resplendent in the best scarlet velvet he could find to fit him, the Cimmerian was not surprised to find all eight and thirty of his men mounted and waiting, even those who bore wounds from the past hour's fighting. He knew he had chosen good men. He was surprised though, to see Karela sitting her horse beside Hordo. Her green glare dared him to question her presence.

He mounted without speaking. There were enough problems to be confronted that day without another argument with her.

"I am ready," Garian announced as he climbed into the saddle. He had a broadsword strapped on over his tunic.

"Let us ride," Conan commanded, and led the small band out of the palace grounds at a gallop.

Chapter XXIV.

The approach to the Palace, up the winding streets to the top of the hill and across the greensward to the drawbridge, was made at a slow walk. Garian rode slightly to the front of Conan. A King should lead his army, he had said, even when it was a small one. Conan agreed, hoping the sight of Garian would make the guards hesitate enough to let them get inside.

At the drawbridge they dismounted, and the guards there indeed stared open-mouthed as Garian strode up to them.

"Do you recognize me?" Garian demanded.

Both nodded, and one said, "You are the King. But how did you leave the Palace? There was no call for an honor guard."

Conan breathed a sigh of relief. There were not Vegentius' men. The guards eyed those behind the King, most especially Karela, but kept their main attention on Garian.

"Do you think the King does not know the secret ways beneath this hill?" Garian smiled as if the thought were laughable. As the two guards began to smile as well, though, his face became grim. "Are you loyal men? Loyal to your King?"

The two stiffened as one, and both recited the oath of the Golden Leopards as if to remind Garian of it. "My sword follows he who wears the Dragon Crown. My flesh is a shield for the Dragon Throne. As the King commands, I obey, to the death."

Garian nodded. "Then know that there is a plot against the Dragon Throne, and its perpetrators are Lord Alba.n.u.s and Commander Vegentius."

Conan put his hand to his sword as the soldiers started, but they merely stared at the King.

"What are we to do?" one of them asked finally.

"Take those who are in the barbican," Garian told them, "leaving only two to lower the portcullis and guard the gate, and go with them to your barracks. Rouse all who are there. Let your cry be, 'Death to Alba.n.u.s and Vegentius!' Any who will not shout that are enemies of the Dragon Throne, even if they wear the golden cloak."

"Death to Alba.n.u.s and Vegentius," one guard said, and the other repeated it.

When they had disappeared into the barbican, Garian sagged. "I did not think it would be this easy," he told Conan.

"It won't be," Conan a.s.sured him.

"I still think I should have told them of the imposter, Cimmerian."

Conan shook his head. "It would only confuse them. They'll find out after he's dead, if luck is with us." It mattered little to him when or how they found out, so long as there was enough confusion for his purposes. He eyed the door to the barbican. What took them so long?

Suddenly there was a cry from inside the stone gatehouse, cut abruptly short. One of those who had stood at the gate appeared in the door with a b.l.o.o.d.y blade in his fist. "There was one who would not say it," he said.

One by one those others who had been on guard slipped out, sword in hand. Each paused long enough to say to the King, "Death to Alba.n.u.s and Vegentius," then trotted into the Palace.

"You see," Garian told Conan as they led the Free-Company through the gate. "It will be easy."

As the portcullis rattled down behind them, shouts rang out from the direction of the Golden Leopards' quarters, and the clash of swords. An alarm gong began to ring, then stopped with a suddenness that spoke of the death of him who had sounded it. The sounds of fighting spread.

"I want to find Alba.n.u.s," Garian said. "And Vegentius."

Conan only nodded. He, too, wanted Alba.n.u.s. Vegentius he would take if he came across him. He hurried on, the Free-Company deployed behind him. First he would try the throne room.