Conan and his troop of Poitanian light horse had trotted off to northward, while darkness veiled the land. The barbarian general did not entirely trust King Milo’s friendship. Many considerations mold the acts of kings; and Numedides’ agents might have already persuaded the Argossean monarch to ally himself with the ruler of Aquilonia, rather than espouse the unpredictable fortunes of the rebels. Surely Argos knew that, if the insurrection failed, Aquilonia’s vengeance would be swift and devastating. And, if a king is bent upon destruction, an army is best attacked while on the march, with the men strung out and encumbered by their gear… .
So the Lions moved north. Company by company, the unseasoned army tramped the dusty road, splashed across the fords of shallow rivers, and snaked through the low Didymian Hills. No one ambushed, attacked, or harassed the marching men. Perhaps Conan’s suspicions of King Milo were unjustified; perhaps the army was too strong for the Argosseans to try conclusions with them. Or perhaps the king awaited a more felicitous moment to hurl his strength against the rebels. Whether he were friend or secret foe, Conan rejoiced in his precautions.
When his forces had covered the first day’s march without interference, Conan, cantering back from his chosen campsite, relaxed a little. They were now beyond the reach of the spies that infested the winding alleys of Messantia. His scouts and outriders traveled far and wide; if unfriendly eyes watched the army in the countryside, Conan looked to his scouts to sniff their owners out. None was discovered.
The giant Cimmerian trusted few men and those never lightly. His long years of war and outlawry had reinforced his feline wariness. Still, he knew these men who followed him, and his cause was theirs. Thus it never occurred to him that spies might be already in his camp and ill-wishers at his very back.
Two days later, the rebels forded the river Ajstar in Hypsonia and entered the Plain of Pallos. To the north loomed the Rabirian Mountains, a serrated line of purple peaks marching like giants into the sunset. The army made its camp at the edge of the plain, on a low, rounded hillock that would offer some protection when fortified around the top by ditch and palisade. Here, so long as supplies came regularly from Messantia or from nearby farms, the warriors could perfect their skills before crossing the Alimane into Poitain, the southernmost province of Aquilonia.
During the long day after their arrival, the grumbling soldiers labored with pick, shovel, and mattock to surround the camp with a protective rampart. Meanwhile a troop of light horse cantered back along the road by which they had come, to escort the plodding supply wagons.
But during the second watch of that night, a slender figure glided from the darkness of Conan’s tent into a pool of moonlight. It was robed and muffled in a long, full caftan of amber wool, which blended into the raw earth beneath its feet. This figure came upon another, shrouded in the shadow of a nearby tent.
The two exchanged a muttered word of recognition. Then slim, beringed fingers pressed a scrap of parchment into the other’s labor-grimed hands.
“On this map I have marked the passes that the rebels will take into Aquilonia,” said the girl in the silken, sibilant whisper of a purring cat. “Also the disposition of the regiments.”
"I'll send the word,” murmured the other. "Our master will see that it gets to Procas. You have done well, Lady Alcina.”
“There is much more to do, Quesado,” said the girl. “We must not be seen together.”
The Zingaran nodded and vanished into the darkest shadows. The dancer threw back her hood and looked up at the argent moon. Although she had just come from the lusty arms of Conan the Cimmerian, her moonlit features were icily unmoved. Like a mask carved from yellow ivory was that pallid oval face; and in the cool depths of her emerald eyes lurked traces of amusement, malice, and disdain.
That night, as the rebel army slept upon the Plain of Pallos in the embrace of the Rabirian Mountains, one recruit deserted. His absence was not discovered until roll call the next morning; and when it was, Trocero deemed it a matter of small moment. The man, a Zingaran named Quesado, was reputedly a lazy malingerer whose loss would be of little consequence.
Despite his feckless manner, Quesado was in truth anything but lazy. The most diligent of spies, he masked with seeming indolence his busy watching, listening, and compiling of terse but accurate reports. And that night, while the encampment slumbered, he stole a horse from the paddock, eluded the sentinels, and galloped northward hour after weary hour.
Ten days later, splashed with mud, covered with dust, and staggering with exhaustion, Quesado reached the great gates of Tarantia. The sight of the sigil he wore above his heart gained him swift access to Vibius Latro, Numedides’ chancellor.
The master of spies frowned over the map that Alcina had slipped into Quesado’s hand and that the Zingaran now handed to him. Sternly he asked:
“Why did you bring it yourself? You know you are needed with the rebel army.”
The Zingaran shrugged. “It was impossible to send it by carrier pigeon, my lord. When I joined that gaggle of rebels, I had to leave my birds in Messantia, under care of my replacement, Faduis the Kothian."
Vibius Latro stared coldly. "Then, why did you not take the map to Fadius, who could have flown it hither in the accustomed manner? You could have remained in that nest of traitors to follow the winds of change. I counted on your knife at Conan’s back.”
Quesado gestured helplessly. “When the lady Alcina obtained this copy of the map. Master, the army was already three days’ ride beyond Messantia. I could scarce request a six-day leave to go thither and return without arousing suspicion, whilst to go as a deserter would have meant searches and questions by the Argosseans. Nor could I rejoin the army once I had departed without leave. And pigeons do betimes get lost, or are slain by falcons or wildcats or hunters. For a document of such moment, I deemed it better to carry it myself.”
The chancellor grunted, pursing his lips. “Why, then, did you not bear it straightway to General Procas?”
EMERALD EYES
Quesado was now perspiring freely. His sallow brow and bestubbled cheeks glistened with moisture. Vibius Latro was no man lightly to displease.
“General P-Procas knows me not.” The spy’s voice grew querulous. “My sigil would mean naught to him. Only you, my lord, command all channels for transmission of such intelligence to the military chiefs.”
A small, thin-lipped smile flickered across the other’s enigmatic features. “Quite so,” he said. “You have done adequately. I should have liked it better had Alcina obtained the map ere the rebels marched north from Messantia.”
“Methinks the rebel leaders had not fully chosen their route before the night of my departure,” said Quesado. He did not know this for a fact, but it had a reasonable ring.
Vibius Latro dismissed the spy and summoned his secretary. Studying the map, he dictated a brief message to General Amulius Procas, with a copy for the king. While the secretary copied Alcina’s crude sketch, Latro summoned a page and gave him both copies of each document.
"Take these to the king’s secretary,” the chancellor said, “and ask that His Majesty impress his seal upon one set. Then, if there be no objection, ride with that set to Amulius Procas in Poitain. Here is a pass to the royal stables. Choose the swiftest horse, and change mounts at each post inn.”
The message came not to the king’s secretary. It was, instead, delivered into the thin, dark hands of Thulandra Thuu by his Khitan servant, Hsiao. As the king’s sorcerer read the message and examined the map in the light of a corpse-fat candle, he smiled coldly, nodding approval to the Khitan.