Conan The Destroyer Read Online Free PDF Page B

“We are sealed to the Sleeping God.” Gasps came from the other three, and Aniya’s face paled as quickly as it had colored.
    “The sleeping god?” Conan said. “What god is that?”
    “Please, my lord,” Aniya moaned, “it must not be spoken of. Please. If you reveal what I have said, I … I will be punished.”
    “I will hold my silence,” Conan promised. But for all he said, they would speak no further word that did not concern his bathing.
    He held still for being soaped and rinsed, then soaped and rinsed again. They dried him with soft toweling, then massaged fragrant oils into his skin. Not the most fragrant, to be sure. He managed to avoid those, though he still thought he smelled as perfumed as a noble fop by the time they were done. They were dressing him in robes of white silk when a bald and wizened man entered.
    “I am Jarvaneus,” the old man said, bowing slightly, “Chief Steward to the Princess Taramis.” His tone indicated he considered that position infinitely higher than that of a thief. “If you are finished, I will take you to—” He coughed as Conan took up his sword belt. “There is no need for that here.”
    Conan fastened the belt and settled the broadsword and dagger into place. He had little liking of being unarmed in any circumstances, and the more he learned the less he wanted to be so in Taramis’ palace. “Take me to Taramis,” he said.
    Jarvaneus choked. “I will take you to the Princess Taramis.”
    The Cimmerian waved him to lead on.
    Surprise upon surprise, Conan thought when the old man left him. It was no audience chamber he had been taken to. Golden lamps gave light against the deepening night. A huge, round bed veiled with sheer, white silk took up one end of the great room. The marble-tiled floor was strewn with rugs from Vendhya and Iranistan, and in its center stood a low table of polished brass on which rested a crystal flagon of wine and two goblets of beaten gold. Taramis, swathed in black silk robes from neck to toe, reclined on cushions piled beside the table.
    They were not alone in the room. In each corner stood a black-armored warrior, unhelmeted and with his sword slung across his back so that the hilt stuck above his right shoulder. Straight ahead these men stared, not moving a muscle, not seeming to breathe or to blink.
    “My bodyguards,” Taramis said, gesturing to the four. “The best of Bombatta’s warriors, almost as good as he himself. But do not let them worry you. They attack only at my command. Wine?”
    She rose smoothly and bent to fill the goblets. Conan’s breath caught in his throat. The black silk had tightened across her rounded buttocks as she bent. In its multitude of folds, the garment was opaque, but in a single layer it was as mist. And Taramis wore naught beneath it but sleek skin. As she came toward him with the wine, he found he could not take his eyes from the slight sway of her heavy breasts.
    “I said, if you wish food, I will have something brought for you.” The noblewoman’s voice was thick with amusement.
    Conan started, colored, then colored deeper when he realized what he had done. “No. No, I want nothing to eat.” Furious with himself, he took a goblet. What was he about, he wondered, staring like a boy who had never seen a woman before. If he could not keep his wits better than that, he had as well give it over. He cleared his throat. “There is a commission you want me to carry out. I cannot do it until I know what it is.”
    “You want this Valeria returned to you?” She moved closer, till her breasts brushed against his chest. Even through his tunic they seemed to burn like two hot coals.
    “I want her alive again.” He stepped to the cushions—casually, he hoped—and lay back. Taramis came to stand over him; he looked up, and had to pull his eyes away from the tantalizing line of thigh and belly and breast. He did not see the small smile that flashed across her lips.
    “Hold hard in your mind to