Jewels of Gwahlur
deserted, haunted only by the ghosts of the dead past. But it was
Conan's nature to be suspicious and wary. The silence was primordial;
not even a leaf quivered on a branch. When he bent to peer under the
trees, he saw nothing but the marching rows of trunks, receding and
receding into the blue gloom of the deep woods.
Nevertheless he went warily, sword in hand, his restless eyes combing
the shadows from side to side, his springy tread making no sound on the
sward. All about him he saw signs of an ancient civilization; marble
fountains, voiceless and crumbling, stood in circles of slender trees
whose patterns were too symmetrical to have been a chance of nature.
Forest-growth and underbrush had invaded the evenly planned groves, but
their outlines were still visible. Broad pavements ran away under the
trees, broken, and with grass growing through the wide cracks. He
glimpsed walls with ornamental copings, lattices of carven stone that
might once have served as the walls of pleasure pavilions.
Ahead of him, through the trees, the domes gleamed and the bulk of the
structure supporting them became more apparent as he advanced.
Presently, pushing through a screen of vine-tangled branches, he came
into a comparatively open space where the trees straggled, unencumbered
by undergrowth, and saw before him the wide, pillared portico of the
palace.
As he mounted the broad marble steps, he noted that the building was in
far better state of preservation than the lesser structures he had
glimpsed. The thick walls and massive pillars seemed too powerful to
crumble before the assault of time and the elements. The same enchanted
quiet brooded over all. The cat-like pad of his sandaled feet seemed
startlingly loud in the stillness.
Somewhere in this palace lay the effigy or image which had in times past
served as oracle for the priests of Keshan. And somewhere in the palace,
unless that indiscreet priest had babbled a lie, was hidden the treasure
of the forgotten kings of Alkmeenon.
Conan passed into a broad, lofty hall, lined with tall columns, between
which arches gaped, their door long rotted away. He traversed this in a
twilight dimness, and at the other end passed through great
double-valved bronze doors which stood partly open, as they might have
stood for centuries. He emerged into a vast domed chamber which must
have served as audience hall for the kings of Alkmeenon.
It was octagonal in shape, and the great dome up to which the lofty
ceiling curved obviously was cunningly pierced, for the chamber was much
better lighted than the hall which led to it. At the farther side of the
great room there rose a dais with broad lapis-lazuli steps leading up to
it, and on that dais there stood a massive chair with ornate arms and a
high back which once doubtless supported a cloth-of-gold canopy. Conan
grunted explosively and his eyes lit. The golden throne of Alkmeenon,
named in immemorial legendry! He weighed it with a practised eye. It
represented a fortune in itself, if he were but able to bear it away.
Its richness fired his imagination concerning the treasure itself, and
made him burn with eagerness. His fingers itched to plunge among the
gems he had heard described by story-tellers in the market squares of
Keshia, who repeated tales handed down from mouth to mouth through the
centuries--jewels not to be duplicated in the world, rubies, emeralds,
diamonds, bloodstones, opals, sapphires, the loot of the ancient world.
He had expected to find the oracle-effigy seated on the throne, but
since it was not, it was probably placed in some other part of the
palace, if, indeed, such a thing really existed. But since he had turned
his face toward Keshan, so many myths had proved to be realities that he
did not doubt that he would find some kind of image or god.
Behind the throne there was a narrow arched doorway which doubtless had
been masked by hangings in the days of Alkmeenon's life. He glanced
through it and saw that it let into an alcove, empty, and with a narrow
corridor leading off from it at right angles. Turning away from it, he
spied another arch to the left of the dais, and it, unlike the others,
was furnished with a door. Nor was it any common door. The portal was of
the same rich metal as the throne, and carved with many curious
arabesques.
At his touch it swung open so readily that its hinges might recently
have been oiled. Inside he halted, staring.
He was in a square chamber of no great dimensions, whose marble walls
rose to an ornate ceiling, inlaid with gold. Gold friezes ran about the
base and the top of the walls, and there was no door other than the one
through which he had entered. But he noted these details mechanically.
His whole attention was centered on the shape which lay on an ivory dais
before him.
He had expected an image, probably carved with the skill of a forgotten
art. But no art could mimic the perfection of the figure that lay before
him.
It was no effigy of stone or metal or ivory. It was the actual body of a
woman, and by what dark art the ancients had preserved that form
unblemished for so many ages Conan could not even guess. The very
garments she wore were intact--and Conan scowled at that, a vague
uneasiness stirring at the back of his mind. The arts that preserved the
body should not have affected the garments. Yet there they were--gold
breast-plates set with concentric circles of small gems, gilded sandals,
and a short silken skirt upheld by a jeweled girdle. Neither cloth nor
metal showed any signs of decay.
Yelaya was coldly beautiful, even in death. Her body was like alabaster,
slender yet voluptuous; a great crimson jewel gleamed against the darkly
piled foam of her hair.
Conan stood frowning down at her, and then tapped the dais with his
sword. Possibilities of a hollow containing the treasure occurred to
him, but the dais rang solid. He turned and paced the chamber in some
indecision. Where should he search first, in the limited time at his
disposal? The priest he had overheard babbling to a courtesan had said
the treasure was hidden in the palace. But that included a space of
considerable vastness. He wondered if he should hide himself until the
priests had come and gone, and then renew the search. But there was a
strong chance that they might take the jewels with them when they
returned to Keshia. For he was convinced that Thutmekri had corrupted
Gorulga.
Conan could predict Thutmekri's plans from his knowledge of the man. He
knew that it had been Thutmekri who had proposed the conquest of Punt to
the kings of Zembabwei, which conquest was but one move toward their
real goal--the capture of the Teeth of Gwahlur. Those wary kings would
demand proof that the treasure really existed before they made any
move. The jewels Thutmekri asked as a pledge would furnish that proof.
With positive evidence of the treasure's reality, the kings of Zembabwei
would move. Punt would be invaded simultaneously from the east and the
west, but the Zembabwans would see to it that the Keshani did most of
the fighting, and then, when both Punt and Keshan were exhausted from
the struggle the Zembabwans would crush both races, loot Keshan and take
the treasure by force, if they had to destroy every building and torture
every living human in the kingdom.
But there was always another possibility: if Thutmekri could get his
hands on the hoard, it would be characteristic of the man to cheat his
employers, steal the jewels for himself and decamp, leaving the
Zembabwan emissaries holding the sack.
Conan believed that this consulting of the oracle was but a ruse to
persuade the king of Keshan to accede to Thutmekri's wishes--for he
never for a moment doubted that Gorulga was as subtle and devious as all
the rest mixed up in this grand swindle. Conan had not approached the
high priest himself, because in the game of bribery he would have no
chance against Thutmekri, and to attempt it would be to play directly
into the Stygian's hands. Gorulga could denounce the Cimmerian to the
people, establish a reputation for integrity, and rid Thutmekri of his
rival at one stroke. He wondered how Thutmekri had corrupted the high
priest, and just what could be offered as a bribe to a man who had the
greatest treasure in the world under his fingers.
At any rate he was sure that the oracle would be made to say that the
gods willed it that Keshan should follow Thutmekri's wishes, and he was
sure, too, that it would drop a few pointed remarks concerning himself.
After that Keshia would be too hot for the Cimmerian, nor had Conan had
any intention of returning when he rode away in the night.
The oracle chamber held no clue for him. He went forth into the great
throne-room and laid his hands on the throne. It was heavy, but he could
tilt it up. The floor beneath, a thick marble dais, was solid. Again he
sought the alcove. His mind clung to a secret crypt near the oracle.
Painstakingly he began to tap along the walls, and presently his taps
rang hollow at a spot opposite the mouth of the narrow corridor. Looking
more closely he saw that the crack between the marble panel at that
point and the next was wider than usual. He inserted a dagger-point and
pried.
Silently the panel swung open, revealing a niche in the wall, but
nothing else. He swore feelingly. The aperture was empty, and it did not
look as if it had ever served as a crypt for treasure. Leaning into the
niche he saw a system of tiny holes in the wall, about on a level with
a man's mouth. He peered through, and grunted understandingly. That was
the wall that formed the partition between the alcove and the oracle
chamber. Those holes had not been visible in the chamber. Conan grinned.
This explained the mystery of the oracle, but it was a bit cruder than
he had expected. Gorulga would plant either himself or some trusted
minion in that niche, to talk through the holes, and the credulous
acolytes would accept it as the veritable voice of Yelaya.
Remembering something, the Cimmerian drew forth the roll of parchment he
had taken from the mummy and unrolled it carefully, as it seemed ready
to fall to pieces with age. He scowled over the dim characters with
which it was covered. In his roaming about the world the giant
adventurer had picked up a wide smattering of knowledge, particularly
including the speaking and reading of many alien tongues. Many a
sheltered scholar would have been astonished at the Cimmerian's
linguistic abilities, for he had experienced many adventures where
knowledge of a strange language had meant the difference between life
and death.
These characters were puzzling, at once familiar and unintelligible, and
presently he discovered the reason. They were the characters of archaic
Pelishtim, which possessed many points of difference from the modern
script, with which he was familiar, and which, three centuries ago, had
been modified by conquest by a nomad tribe. This older, purer script
baffled him. He made out a recurrent phrase, however, which he
recognized as a proper name: Bît-Yakin. He gathered that it was the name
of the writer.
Scowling, his lips unconsciously moving as he struggled with the task,
he blundered through the manuscript, finding much of it untranslatable
and most of the rest of it obscure.
He gathered that the writer, the mysterious Bît-Yakin, had come from
afar with his servants, and entered the valley of Alkmeenon. Much that
followed was meaningless, interspersed as it was with unfamiliar phrases
and characters. Such as he could translate seemed to indicate the
passing of a very long period of time. The name of Yelaya was repeated
frequently, and toward the last part of the manuscript it became
apparent that Bît-Yakin knew that death was upon him. With a slight