Conan: Road of Kings by Karl Edward Wagner Page A

every instinct prevented him from seizing her and throwing her willing flesh down against his pallet. Instead, he let her go to the door.
    After the total darkness of Conan’s chamber, the gloom of the corridor beyond made a bright bar of light as the door opened. Sandokazi’s bare tread had been soundless, so that the man outside the door was outlined in the band of light. Although taken unawares, he recovered instantly, and the knife in his hand gleamed balefully as he stabbed downward.
    No less startled herself, Sandokazi screamed piercingly. The intruder’s arm wavered involuntarily—he hadn’t expected a woman—and that hesitation was enough for Sandokazi to writhe under the blow. With a dancer’s litheness, she rolled into the hallway—taking a shallow cut as the blade sliced the shoulder of her shift. She screamed again.
    The assailant whirled, still discomfited by the unexpected turn of events—uncertain whether to silence her or to attack the man he thought to find asleep here. Conan, lunging out of the darkness, struck first. Seizing the man’s knife arm, he drove the kidney dagger into the intruder’s belly, tearing upward in a gutting stroke that sheared into breastbone. The man’s bellow of pain melted into a dull groan, as he sank from Conan’s grasp and spilled onto the floor.
    Sandokazi stopped screaming, and looked at Conan with glowing eyes.
    By now other cries of alarm resounded throughout the mansion. Men came running into the hallway, blades bright in the light of the torches they carried. Mordermi was among them. There was question in his face, as he and his men took in the tableau.
    Sandokazi did not hesitate. “I was about to retire, when I saw someone slinking along the hallway. His manner was suspicious; I followed him, and when he paused before Conan’s door, I knew him to be an assassin. I screamed a warning to Conan; the assassin struck at me, and then Conan grappled with the man and killed him.”
    She drew down the slashed shoulder of her shift, examined the cut there. It bled freely, but was little more than a scratch. Conan had better sense than to contradict her story.
    “You should have summoned one of us.” Mordermi accepted her words. “You might have been killed.”
    “Summoned whom? You were all passed out over your cups.”
    “Turn him over, and let’s see who he was,” Mordermi directed. “What kind of security do I have that lets Korst’s assassins swagger through my quarters at will!”
    They rolled the corpse onto its back, shoved a torch close to the bloody face. Several of them swore.
    “Mitra! It’s Velio!” Mordermi growled. “I held Velio one of my most trusted lieutenants. So Rimanendo’s gold has corrupted even those I thought were my close friends! Conan, I offered you shelter here, and nearly caused your death.”
    Conan remained silent. In his own mind he was uncertain whether this Velio was indeed a spy and assassin—or a loyal henchman who, having witnessed Sandokazi’s dalliance, was only intent upon avenging his lord’s honor.

Six
    At the King’s Masque
    The smell of the sea was warmed by the vast rose gardens that surrounded the royal pavilion beyond the high walls that enclosed the pleasure palace upon the shoreward side. Away from the waterfront squalor of Kordava’s harbor, the royal pavilion thrust out into the sea from a lofty headland just beyond the city walls. A thousand festive lanterns made multicolored daylight about the gardens, while the laughter and gaiety of the guests drowned out the restive murmur of the surf in the darkness beneath the promontory.
    Less festive than furtive, Conan moved among the guests of King Rimanendo’s birthday masque—thinking that tonight’s was a mad piece of daring, even for Mordermi, who had contrived to forge a quantity of royal invitations.
    The Cimmerian cut a fantastic figure amidst the assembled wealth and nobility, and Conan was acutely self-conscious. He wore the horned helmet,