“What say you, eunuch? Captain Omar, dead?” General Abolhassan paced his chamber, his black cape and turban casting a lurid shadow on the room’s scarlet hangings. “Strange to say, the consummate duellist, outdone by jungle savagery! Somehow I did not expect it.” The bemused shake of the warrior’s head made the gems in his turban glint in the lamplight. “The captain’s death will be an inconvenience to us; see that he is replaced by a trustworthy subordinate.” The general wheeled, fixing his gaze on his visitor. “What of the barbarian, was he scathed?”
“Nay, sir.” Euranthus stood before the general, obviously uneasy at being the bearer of ill tidings. “By report of my spies, he was last seen naked in a public fountain, coupling with the woman Irilya.”
Abolhassan’s face darkened and he spun away, striding another dozen paces in his spurred, clinking boots. “I see,” he finally answered on his return, wearing a forced, unpleasant smile. “Perhaps it is a boon that my enemies consort together, making it easier for me to watch them. But remember, as soon as the girl is alone, I want her taken!”
“Yes, General.” The young eunuch chief stood not quite at attention, his hands nervously clasping and unclasping behind his back. “And the barbarian…?”
“Just make sure that he attends his ceremony; this puts me in mind of a new plan of action.” Turning and stalking the floor like any commander on the eve of his greatest battle, Abolhassan dictated briskly to his minister.
“Tomorrow, when our emperor fulfills his fatuous dream of proclaiming a hero, I will be standing beside them both to present the golden bauble. I once regarded that menial task as beneath me, but now I see its value: ‘Twill be a simple matter to slay Yildiz, then cry out that the assassin was Conan and skewer him as well! None will know the difference, or dare to tell it; in any case, those at the forefront of the assembly will in the main be our friends.” He came to a jingling halt before his guest. “Well, Euranthus, what think you?”
The slim youth stood frozen, his eyes widening to take in the enormity of the deed. “A daring plan, Lord Abolhassan! ‘Tis brilliant!”
The general grinned as broadly as any man would ever see him do. “Aye, eunuch, and a sound one! This way, we shall have no need of civil upheavals or ultimata, and no humiliating dependence on the rabble. ‘Tis my foolproof path to kingship! Now we need only work out the details…”
During the hours before dawn, through the efforts of the invisible, industrious horde of slaves and eunuchs ever waiting to work the Resplendent Emperor’s will, the Court of Protocols underwent another transformation. Spent bodies and foodstuffs were removed from its floor, the spattered tiles and inlays were scrubbed and polished, banners and bunting strung high from the room’s carved vaultings, and silk cushions set forth to pamper the seats of Aghrapur’s mighty. Lastly, around the chamber’s high walls and broad, lofty dome, the vents and lancet windows were opened, letting golden sunrays stream in to illumine the splendors of the place for the gathering celebrants.
These worthies straggled in throughout the morning, displaying a trepid uncertainty that ill matched the lavish preparations on their behalf. Some were haggard from the previous night’s debauch; others looked oddly wary and doubtful whether they ought to be present. Uneasy at mutterings of discontent and rebellion, they weighed the risk of a public appearance in such parlous times against the greater risk of non-appearance, a too-conspicuous absence from a ceremony ordained by the omnipotent Emperor Yildiz.
Afraid of missing the event, in compromise, they came late. What they failed to realize was that, as always at these lofty functions, lateness was a measure and a privilege of rank, with the highest functionaries arriving much later, and the emperor last of all.
As the guests trickled in they sat on pews or cushions carefully chosen, with reference to the seating of rival factions, the emperor’s probable line of sight, and the exits. Primly each noble tidied his robes and retainers around him, conversing in discreet murmurs, genteely ignoring the servants. As the morning advanced these nonentities glided forth with trays of drink and foodstuffs unappetizingly like those which had flown about the courtiers’ ears the previous evening.
Yet in one quarter of the spacious court, food and drink were briskly in demand. In that small corner, in a railed box close alongside the dais reserved for the more public phases of state business, there reigned a mood contrary to the prevalent atmosphere of bored resolution. There sat Conan with Irilya, now obviously and unabashedly his intimate. These two were among the earliest arrivals, certainly the noisiest. Around them flitted servants attending to their needs, bowing and smirking politely at their jests and antics; around them too flitted the eunuch Sempronius.
“I am glad to see you enjoying yourself here at court, Sergeant, and that you have found yourself an… admirer.” With an air of dubiety, Sempronius eyed Irilya’s abandoned posture as she lay against the sprawling Conan, both arms and one leg tangled among his own disheveled limbs. “I hope you will appreciate, too, the solemnity and dignity of this event, as Aghrapur and her immortal emperor honor a hero.”
“Aye, in sooth, I do appreciate it,” Conan rumbled good-naturedly, meanwhile twining the fingers of one hand through his lover’s blond tresses and making her purr in contentment. ” ‘Tis truly a hero’s welcome, one that any of my brother troopers would crave! I thank you for it heartily, gelding!” He adjusted his posture on the low-backed couch, drawing Irilya closer. “Now, you mentioned something about finding us new tunics to replace these damp, shredded ones?”
“Yes, to be sure! That would improve your appearance, and perhaps make it less necessary for you to… huddle together for warmth. I will see to it at once!” Officiously the eunuch turned away, sending servants scattering left and right before him.
When Sempronius had gone, Irilya drew herself up at Conan’s side. With a languorous sigh she watched him drain his silver beaker of kumiss and replace it on a lacquered tray for refilling by attentive slaves.
“He is right, you know,” she murmured in his ear. “Though we delight in one another, and though I cannot keep my hands from you”—this she demonstrated with a gesture rendered invisible by the rumpled pleats of his tunic—“we must remember the seriousness of the day and the perils that range around us.” Coolly her glance swept the gallery, the servants, the still-arriving courtiers, and the guards standing rigid by the archways. “I credit your good faith in wanting to warn Yildiz, Conan, though likely your plan will not work. In any event, we must not become too drunk or too lovestruck to seize the moment—or at least, save ourselves.”
“Aye, Irilya, you are right; I will drink only kvass henceforth.” Conan waved accordingly, dismissing one pair of servants and beckoning another. Then he looked around to her with a smile. “But I warn you, I cannot vouch for my friend Juma, yonder; judging by his bleary look, he may require the strongest liquor.”
As Irilya took in the black warrior, he approached the box, not in fact seeming even slightly fatigued. On either hand clung his two courtly escorts of the previous evening, both looking distinctly contented, even radiant. Juma, after stepping over the wooden railing of the box, assisted the women across, with much patting and giggling. Irilya accepted the three with equanimity, and so they seated themselves beside the couple on the curving, upholstered couch.
Their arrival renewed the festive atmosphere of the booth and drew more stares from idle watchers elsewhere in the hall—especially when Sempronius arrived with new garments for Conan and Irilya to try on. They did so with hilarity, screened from general view by a silk canopy held upright by servants. Afterward the small party set the slaves scurrying even faster for food and drink, while exchanging droll anecdotes of the previous night’s food battle.
“Tell me then, Juma,” Irilya asked the Kushite, “does Conan have a woman in Venjipur?” Her sudden question brought giggles from the other females, instant silence from the men.
“Truly, milady,” Juma answered with hardly a stumble, “there is no shortage of women in Venjipur! Camp followers, tavern girls, peasant daughters whose kisses can be had for a brass arrowpoint. But Conan, as you know, is a man of rectitude, a steadfast warrior who would not squander himself on such—”
“Yes, I have a Venji woman,” Conan said, interrupting his friend with a frank look at Irilya. “Her name is Sariya; I rescued her from death in a pagan rite.”
“You keep her safe, then?”
“Yes, we live together in a bamboo hut. Sariya is a wise, able girl, schooled far beyond my own meager learning… but I confess, at times I do not know her heart.”
Irilya’s answering gaze was quiet and deep, her bearing steady. Juma and his companions quickly raised a distraction, pointing to new activity at the front of the dais.
But this was of slight importance, just another of the innumerable false starts which attend such gatherings. Four male slaves carried in a litter containing the Venji potted tree; having set it down on the dais, they slid the earthenware pot clear, took up their litter, and departed. It was not, after all, a final prelude to the ceremony; the tree was left there by itself, looking slightly ridiculous. Its potbellied trunk and glossy, bedraggled leaves drew a few disparaging comments from the assembly.
Nevertheless, this bit of preparation kindled expectations and seemed to reawaken everyone’s doubts and fears regarding the gathering. Talk in the slowly filling chamber murmured low and earnest. Conan confided his own intentions and misgivings to Juma, and both men surreptitiously checked the readiness of their gold-hilted ceremonial sabers. They watched the arrival of more lofty court personages, some of whom Irilya named to them or waved greetings to from afar.
With more forebodings, they saw the arrival of a special contingent of twenty Imperial Honor Guards, whom General Abolhassan marched in a file before the dais and stationed there, rigidly outward-facing. The general, tall and imposing in his black uniform, did not greet Conan’s party, nor even glance their way. But he spent much time elsewhere in the gallery, clasping shoulders and whispering in the ears of petty functionaries and potentates alike.
Conan saw much around him to unease his spirit: the taut, wary looks on the most noble faces; the fact that the eunuchs, almost equaling the guards in number, went armed with long daggers; and the sudden, awkward restraint of their guide Sempronius, evident only after his private conversation with the chief eunuch he called Euranthus. The Cimmerian had sensed that his attendant’s frequent, noisy pronouncements of loyalty to the emperor did not sit well with his fellows; now, abruptly, these protestations ceased. The eunuch uncharacteristically left off fretting over his heroic charges and stood well apart from them.
Abruptly, an exultation of trumpets thrilled the room. In the hush that ensued came the shuffling of boots and the rattling of scabbards; then in through the tall central door strode Emperor Yildiz. Resplendent as his imperial title implied, he nevertheless looked squat and plump between General Abolhassan and another towering, gray-turbaned officer. Behind them, fetchingly caped and pantalooned, trooped two smiling harem maids whose height and robustness also tended to dwarf their emperor; obviously, Yildiz did not select his attendants for scantness of size or physique.
The two officers parted from their emperor on the dais, marching away to either side as Yildiz proceeded toward the front. His pair of houris followed, to sink down adoringly at either hand. Seating themselves on the floor, they left their resplendent lord standing as the foremost, loftiest object before the crowd, taller even than the potted Venji tree.
“Loyal subjects,” Yildiz began in a grandiloquent, surprisingly resonant voice, “I have decreed these feast days and commanded your presence here to honor a hero! Nay, more than just a single hero, a whole host of them: the brave, able Turanian sons and converts who fight for our Imperial cause in far-off Venjipur and elsewhere along our restless borders.”
“Doubt not that they are heroes, each and every one; for they spread the light of empire to obscure corners of the map. They broaden our sources of trade and tribute, helping to make Aghrapur the principal city of the known world! They kindle the bright dawn of civilization amid the murky night of barbarism. Above all, remember, they fight a religious war, for a holy cause—the struggle of our enlightened, all-embracing Turanian faith against ancient and primitive idols, of whose evil rites and manifestations you have heard. In doing so, these heroes face perils, even death—but remember, in the words of the Prophet Tarim, the death of the body can mean the birth of the soul into righteousness!”
“They fight for Tarim, and for our greatness; nevertheless, there are those among my subjects who bridle and fret at the burden of this holy war. They mourn the loss or removal of their beloved sons; they cry and rail against the inexorable force of destiny, as all bereaved kin must. To them I offer this reminder, again in Tarim’s immortal words, that a man is judged by the worth of his enemies as well as by that of his friends. Of what merit, I ask you, is a man without foes, or an empire without wars?
“For all of you, I intended this day of heroes to be a renewal of spirit, a fresh inspiration toward our Imperial cause. I hope that my subjects will begin to ask less of their empire and more of themselves, in advancing our mutual destiny. And now”—at the casual gesture of his hand, a servant hurried forward bearing a gold goblet on a golden tray—“for those of you who have drink ready to hand, I commend a toast!” He raised his cup to the crowd in salute, across the rigid backs and red-swaddled heads of the line of guards. “To Conan, the hero, and Juma”—Yildiz pivoted where he stood, doffing his drink toward the box containing the two foreigners—“and to all the heroes who serve our empire, in Venjipur and other far climes!”
He sipped sparingly from the goblet, or pretended to, certainly mindful of the risk of poison. “And after the toast, a libation”—glancing around the patterned floor of the dais, immaculate beneath the dimpled knees of his harem maids, Yildiz quickly settled on the pot of the jungle plant as the only handy receptacle—“to our mighty god, and to the soil of Venjipur that cradles this tree, which we now declare to be part of our own land. Hail, Tarim!” So saying, he emptied his goblet over the tree’s roots, then tossed the cup aside on the dais.