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“So assassination is difficult. Very. Stikitches have been sent — Oh, aye, Jak,” at my raised eyebrows.

“Honor is long gone from desperate men. And we of the countries of the Central Dawn Lands are desperate.”

“Against a single prince hated by his people, dependent on hired swords?”

“No. You do well to question thus. Against Hamal.”

“But-”

“Mefto is the key. Through him Hamal can extend her power where now she must fight.”

I shook my head. “I believe you, Konec, for I have found you an honorable man. But I have been told that Mefto is a real and regal prince, splendid in gold, beloved in Shanodrin-”

“Stupid stories of shifs, brainless giggling serving wenches.”

There ensued a pause in this fierce half-whispered conversation then as we all drank, thinking our separate thoughts.

“A great one is coming from Hamal. A kov, or even a prince. He and Mefto meet in Jikaida City under the cloak of Jikaida. It will arouse no suspicion. Our spies have the story sure.”

In the world of intrigue secure meeting places are valuable. Jikaida would explain even a meeting between a Grodnim and a Zairian. But as I listened to Konec talking, I began to see more than I had bargained for.

A pot-bellied ceramic jar of Neagromian ware sprouting wildly with the drooping tendrils of heasmons stood in its alcove and Kov Konec bent to partake of the fragrant aroma of the violet-yellow flowers. He swiveled his eyes to regard me, and I saw that he, like his men, was not a conspirator born.

“By Havandua the Green Wonder!” said Konec, standing up from the sweet-smelling plants, his face revealing all the passions struggling for utterance. “Mefto must be stopped! If his schemes and this rast’s from Hamal succeed — well-” He paused, and his fists clenched. He had sworn by Havandua the Green Wonder. Well, you know my opinion of the color green; I enjoy its serenity, and it is the finest color for Rifle Regiments, and racing cars and Robin Hood and railway engines and passenger rolling stock; but it seemed my fate on Kregen had thrown me into opposition with green, through no will of my own. Men said that the sky colors were always in conflict. The red of Zim, or Far, and the green of Genodras, or Havil. Truly, I confess, the feeling of fighting for the Blue against the Yellow had come on me strangely and strongly; I would take yellow in Jikaida if I could.

“You are with us in this, Jak?” demanded Konec.

“You have not confided any plan as yet,” I reminded him, gently.

If they still harbored any lingering doubts that I was a spy this was a good way to get a sword through my guts.

“Plan!” broke in Fropo, twirling his whiskers. “We are plain fighting men. We have our swords-”

“Aye,” said Dav, with all the fervor in him.

The numim, Strom Nath, bristled up his golden whiskers in complete agreement. Then he said, “But there is a plan. That is why we are here.”

“Ah,” I said, and waited.

Useless to sigh and think back to the brave old days when I was newly arrived on Kregen and would as lief bash a few skulls in as listen. Being an emperor — even a king or a prince or a strom — shackled the old responsibilities on a fellow. But I missed the skirling days of yore. That explained, I fancied, my acceptance of this enforced absence from Vallia. I needed to get the cobwebs of intrigue out of my head and the blood thumping around a body bashing into fights. Mind you, the last time that had been an unmitigated disaster, and I was not likely to forget Mefto the Kazzur in a hurry. Maybe I was getting slothful, complacent, too ready to take the easy way out.

I said, “If you have a scheme to do a mischief to Mefto and the Hamalese, I think I might be your man. If you trust me.”

From what they said, and not only to me, I gained the impression, the reassuring impression, that they did trust me. They saw things in their own lights, of course; they had no real reason apart from our first meeting to suspect me. And Dav and the others, for all their geniality, would keep an eye on me, and cut me down, too, if I played them false.

The rest of the story made me feel again that sense of destiny taking me by the throat and choking all the sense out of my stupid head.

“By Makki Grodno’s diseased left armpit!” I said, in a pause. “I am with you, a thousand times over!”

For what they said boiled down to this — Konec pulled his lip as he said, “The Hamalese are in trouble in Vallia, some island or other far north of here over the equator. I feel comradely sorrow for them. The Hamalese have withdrawn from their insanely ambitious attempts toward the west. Only a horrible death awaits any honest man there. Ifilion between the mouths of the River Os stands aloof.” He eyed me.

“And they have not struck at Hyrklana-”

They believed me to hail from Hyrklana. I said, “The island is relatively large and is wealthy. We have many troops. She would find it a toughnut, this bitch Thyllis.”

“So — it is we here in the Dawn Lands and Vallia. Thyllis seeks to conclude a treaty with certain countries here who tremble at her name, with Mefto acting for her. By this means she will gain the alliance of powerful states. She will have at her disposal thousands of fresh men, professionals, paktuns, mercenaries, regulars. She will be able to advance against us, who await her coming, and free many strong armies to launch afresh against Vallia.”

So I said what I said.

“Yes, Jak. The states will follow the strongest lead. Prince Mefto is the coming man, powerful, glittering, his charisma bright. If he can be taken out of the game, thrown back into the velvet-lined balass box, Mandua can take the lead. We stand firm against Hamal. The balance can be tipped.”

“Jikaida-?”

“Precisely,” said Dav Olmes, and he smiled, and quaffed.

They told me their plan.

Assassination had proved unreliable and a costly failure. Mefto went everywhere he was known with his bodyguard of swarth riders. They did indicate that they wished the gods had directed my sword between his ribs when we’d fought by the caravan; but, as they pointed out with the fatalism I recognized in them, no man could best Prince Mefto the Kazzur in single combat. So they would play in these Kazz-Jikaida games. And when it was the turn of Konec and his people of Mandua to meet Mefto and his people of Shanodrin, why, then, they would simply move their pieces up the board, and consigning the strict rules of Jikaida to a Herrelldrin Hell, charge him in a body and before his pieces could react butcher him and have done.

That was their plan.

I said, after I closed my mouth and swallowed and so opened my crusty old lips again: “The Bowmen of Loh will not tolerate so flagrant a breach of the rules. They will shaft you all.”

“Of course,” said Strom Nath. “But Mefto will be gone and our country will face the future with hope.”

“And you would all give your lives-?”

“If there was more we could give, that, too, we would willingly pay,” said Konec, and there was no mocking his dignity as he spoke — although I wanted to mock this so-called plan. By Zair! What a lot!

And what I had got myself into!

They were standing, all looking at me with a hard bright regard. Konec said, “You look- You are not willing to give your life to save your country?”

“Only if there is no other way. But I have as tender a regard for my own neck as I have for my country.”

At that they would have grown angry; but I said: “Let me think. There has to be another way.”

“You disappoint me, Jak,” said Dav. And, in truth, he looked cast down. “I had thought you a man among men.”

The time was not suitable for me to make the classic rejoinder to that one: “I’d sooner be a man among women.” But, by Vox, there had to be another way!

Then I saw Bevon the Brukaj, drinking quietly to himself in a corner. He had acquitted himself well today and proved himself a fine swordsman, for that, he had said, was his weapon.