The Conan Chronicles by Robert Jordan

Author:Robert Jordan
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Tom Doherty Associates
Published: 2011-06-30T16:00:00+00:00

XIII

The high domed ceiling of plain gray stone was well lit by cressets brass-hung about the bare walls, in which there was no window and but a single door, and that well guarded on the outside. Albanus would allow no slightest risk to that which the room housed. Even but gazing on it, he felt the power that would come to him from it. Centered in the room was a circular stone platform, no higher than a step from the floor, and on it sat a large rectangular block of peculiarly beige clay. It was that clay that would give Albanus the Dragon Throne.

“Lord Albanus, I demand again to know why I am brought here and imprisoned.”

Albanus schooled his face to a smile before turning to the scowling, bushybrowed man who confronted him with fists clenched. “A misapprehension on the part of my guards, good Stephano. I but told them to fetch to me the great sculptor Stephano, and they overstepped themselves. I will have them flogged, I assure you.”

Stephano waved that last away as unimportant, though Albanus noted he did not ask for the guards to be spared their promised flogging.

“You have heard of me?” the sculptor asked instead, his chest puffing.

“Of course,” Albanus replied, hard put not to laugh. This man was read as easily as a page of large script. “’Tis why I want you to sculpt this statue for me. As you can see, your implements are all provided.” He gestured a low table that held every sort of sculptor’s tool.

“’Tis all wrong,” Stephano said, with overbearing condescension. “Clay is used for small figures. Statues are of stone or bronze.”

Albanus’ lips retained their smile, but his eyes were frozen coals. “The clay is brought all the way from Khitai.” He could think of no more distant land to serve as a source. “When fired, it has the hardness of bronze, yet is lighter than the damp clay. On the table are sketches of he whom the statue is to portray. Examine them.”

Looking doubtfully at the block of clay, Stephano took up the parchments, unrolled them, and gasped, “Why, this is Garian!”

“Our gracious king,” Albanus agreed unctuously, though he near choked on the words. “’Tis to be a present for him. A surprise.”

“But how is the work to be clothed?” the sculptor asked, ruffling through the drawings. “In all of these is he naked.”

“And so is the sculpture to be.” Albanus forestalled the surprise on Stephano’s face by adding, “Such is the custom of Khitai with statues of this clay. They are clothed in actual garments, this raiment being changed from time to time so that the figure is clothed always in the latest fashion.” He was pleased with himself for that invention. He wondered if it might not be amusing to have a statue done so of himself once he ascended the throne.

Stephano laughed suddenly, a harsh sound like the scraping of slates. “And what would be done with a naked statue of Garian, were Garian no longer on the throne?”

“An unlikely event,” Albanus said blandly.

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