Far beneath this pile of ancient masonry, however, a man sat studying parchments by the light of a tall golden candelabrum, whose branches bore the likeness of intertwined serpents.
No cost had been spared to render the stony vault a seat of luxury. Walls of damp, rough stone were hung with richly embroidered tapestries. The cold stone flags of the floor were hidden by a thick, soft carpet of many colors —scarlet, gold, emerald, azure, and violet— in the complex, florid designs of distant Vendhya.
A taboret of gilded wood, decorated with subtly sensuous groupings of meticulously detailed nude figures in carved relief, bore a silver tray laden with refreshments: wine of Kyros in a crystal decanter, fruit and pastries in silver bowls.
The desk, whereat the man sat reading, was huge and ornately carved after the style of imperial Aquilonia to the northeast. An inkwell of gold and crystal held a peacock plume for a quill. A slender sword lay across the desk like a paperweight.
The man himself was of middle years, perhaps fifty, but lean and elegant. His slender legs were clad in black silken hose and graceful shoes of the beautifully tooled leather of Kordava, with gemmed buckles, which flashed as he impatiently tapped his toe. His wiry torso was clad in a doublet of turquoise velvet, the sleeves of which were puffed and slashed to display an inner lining of peach-colored satin. Snowy lace foamed at his lean wrists. A huge jewel gleamed on each finger of his carefully-groomed hands.
The man's age was revealed by the sagging flesh of his jowls and the dark, baggy circles beneath his cold, quick, dark eyes. He had obviously tried to hide his years, for the hair that was smoothly combed to his shoulders was dyed, and a veneer of powder softened the lines in his aristocratic features. But the cosmetics failed to conceal the roughened flesh, the discolorations beneath the hard, weary eyes, and the wattled neck.
With one bejewelled hand, he played with the parchments … official documents with gilt and crimson seals and fluttering ribbons, inscribed with ornate cursive penmanship. The man's tapping toe and the frequent glances at the handsome water clock on the sideboard betrayed his impatience. He also sent his dark glance toward a heavy arras in the corner.
Behind the man at the desk, a silent Kushite slave stood with heavily muscled arms folded upon his naked chest. Golden hoops flashed in his elongated earlobes; the candlelight shone on the musculature of his splendid torso. A naked scimitar was thrust through a crimson sash.
With a clashing of tiny gears, the water clock chimed. It was two hours past midnight.
With a muffled curse, the man at the desk threw down the crackling parchment he had been studying. At that instant, the arras was drawn aside, disclosing the mouth of a secret passage. Two men, cloaked and masked in black, stood in the mouth of the passage. One bore a small lantern; the light of the candelabrum sparkled on the intruders' wet cloaks.
The seated man had set one hand on the hilt of the rapier that lay across the desk, while the Kushite seized the scimitar at his waist. As the two men entered the chamber and doffed their masks, however, the older man relaxed.
"It's all right, Gomani," he said to the black, who again folded his arms on his chest and resumed his indifferent stare.
The two newcomers dropped their cloaks to form shapeless black heaps on the floor and bowed to him at the desk. The first man, tossing back the cowl of his robe to disclose a bald or shaven skull, hawk-nosed features, aloof black eyes, and a thin mouth, clasped his hands before his breast and bowed over them.
The other man set down his lantern and made a leg with courtly grace, doffing his plumed hat in a low bow and murmuring "My lord Duke!" When he rose again to stand nonchalantly with one hand on the jeweled hilt of a long sword, it could be seen that he was a tall, slender, black-haired man with sallow skin and a sharp-featured, predatory face. His thin black mustachios were so precise that they might have been added to his face by an artist. He had a flavor of spurious gentility: a touch of theatrical flamboyance and more than a touch of the piratical.
Villagro, duke of Kordava, fixed the gaunt Zingaran with an icy glance. "Master Zarono, I am not accustomed to being kept waiting," he observed.
Again that courtly bow. "A thousand pardons, Your Grace! Not for the blessings of all the gods would I have displeased you."
"Then why are you half an hour late, sirrah?"
A graceful gesture. "A mere nothing … a wisp of foolery …"
The man with the priestly shaven skull put in: "A tavern brawl, lord Duke."
"A brawl in a common wineshop?" demanded the duke. "Have you lost your wits, you scoundrel? How did this happen?"
His sallow cheeks flushing, Zarono cast a glare of menace at the priest, who returned his look impassively. "T'was naught, Your Grace! Nothing that need detain you …"
"I will judge that, Zarono," said the duke. "It is not impossible that our plan has been betrayed. Are you certain that this … ah … interruption was not a provocation?" The duke's hands closed on a folded letter and tightened until their knuckles whitened.
Zarono gave a smooth little laugh. "Nothing at all like that, my lord. Perhaps you have heard of an oafish barbarian called Conan, who has risen to command of a Zingaran privateer, notwithstanding that he is but the whelp of some Cimmerian slut in the frozen North?"
"I know nothing of the rogue. Continue."
"As I say, 'twas naught. But, entering the Inn of the Nine Drawn Swords for my rendezvous with the holy Menkara here, I espied a roast sizzling on the spit and, as I had not replenished nature since dawn, I resolved to slay two pigeons with a single bolt. Since a man of my quality cannot be expected to waste his time in waiting, I hailed Sabral the taverner and commanded him to set the haunch before me. Then this Cimmerian lout, claiming it was his dinner, dared oppose me. A gentleman can scarce be expected to brook that upstart outlanders be given preference …"
"What happened? Come to the point," said the duke.
"There was some argument, and from words we passed to buffets." Zarono chuckled as he touched a dark swelling beneath one eye. "The fellow is strong as a bull, although I flatter myself that I also marked his ugly visage. Before I could show the peasant the temper of my steel, the taverner and some of his customers seized us and forced us apart … not without effort, as it took four or five of them to hold either of us. In the meantime, the holy father Menkara here had arrived, and he devoted himself to assuaging our angry passions. What with one thing and another…"
"I see; it was in all probability a mere accident But you should know better than to provoke such broils. I will not have it! And now to business. This, I presume, is …?"
The Zingaran twirled his mustachios. "Pardon my ill manners, Your Grace; I present the holy Menkara, a priest of Set, whom I have persuaded to join our high enterprise and who now labors diligently in the cause."
The shaven-headed one again clasped hands and bowed. Villagro nodded curtly.
"Why did you insist on a personal interview, holy Father?" he snapped. "I prefer to work through agents like Zarono. Is aught amiss? Is the compensation offered you enough?''
The glazed eyes of the bald Stygian bore a deceptive look of dull indifference.
"Gold is but dross; yet, for all that, the fleshly envelope must be sustained on this lowly plane of being. Our cult knows that the world is but an illusion … a mask over the naked face of chaos… But pardon this lowly one, lord Duke. Theological discourse is a custom of my land, but my presence here is due to the custom of your country, eh?" The Stygian gave a bleak little smile, indicating that he had made a joke.
Duke Villagro raised an inquiring eyebrow. Menkara continued: "I refer to Your Grace's plan to compel the amiable but senile King Ferdrugo to bestow the hand of Princess Chabela upon you, before the well-timed end of his existence on this planet. I alluded to the well-known apothegm: 'Conspiracy and treason are venerable customs in Zingara.' "