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“Gentlemen,” Frank said, “remember that you are ... only my ... advisors. I will listen, have listened, to your timid cautions and warnings, and I don’t believe there’s arty course of action you’d favor. I’ve told you my idea, and you haven’t yet given me a good objection.”

Hodges leaned forward. “Your plan, sire, is to try out for the job of painting Costa’s portrait and to kill him once you get close to him. Right?”

“That’s right, Hodges. You’ve got it. And then I’ll give a signal down the pipes somehow, which will alert our sewer army. They’ll be massed and waiting in the tunnels somewhere, see. We’ve scavenged enough explosives to blow the floors out of half the basements in the palace, and though the Transports are prepared for possible attacks from north, south, east, west and above, they aren’t set up to deal with one from below."

“I don’t think we are, either,” said a burly old thief-lord known as Hussar. “You use the word army, Rovzar, but it’s just an accumulation of bums and farmless farmers.”

“We’ve been training them,” Frank insisted, “and each one of them has a strong stake—namely his home and livelihood—in our being successful. And they’ll be coming right up out of the cellars! Hell, we’ll probably have the palace under our control before the guards on the walls even notice that anything has happened behind their backs.”

“Well, Mr. Hussar has pointed out that you’d be killed yourself, almost immediately,” said Hodges.

“I might not,” Frank said, taking a liberal sip of his drink. “That doesn’t matter, anyway. The main thing is to get rid of Costa.”

“Ah. But who would they replace him with?”

“I don’t know. A relative, if he has any—though God knows I can’t find any. Who cares? It would be a change, anyway.”

“Maybe not,” Hodges answered. “Costa is only a figurehead for the Transport government. Kill him and they’ll get another mascot. If you could kill the whole Transport there’d be a change—but killing poor idiot Costa would do nothing but give you personal vengeance, which a king can’t really afford.”

“Well, dammit, Hodges, I’ve got to do something. Every day we lie quiet, the Transport gets stronger. What’s being done to stop them? I—”

“Sire,” Hodges said, “Hemingway said never confuse motion with action. I think—”

I think,” said Hussar, leaning forward, “that perhaps we ought to discuss Mr. Rovzar’s claim to be our king.”

Hodges let the cigarette smoke hiss out between his teeth. Everyone had stopped talking, so the sound of Frank’s sword sliding out of its sheath was clearly audible.

“How do you mean, Hussar?” asked Frank with a smile.

“Put your sword away,” Hussar snapped angrily. “Tolley wasn’t king when you killed him. Isn’t that right, Hodges? Therefore, you can’t claim the ius gladii precedent. Therefore you’re not our king.” Hussar sat back. “I wouldn’t have brought this up,” he added, “if you hadn’t exhibited signs of alcoholism and insanity.”

“Hodges,” Frank said. “A point of protococlass="underline" what is the procedure when someone calls the king’s qualifications into question?”

Hodges answered wearily, as if reciting a memorized piece. “The person is free to prove his allegations by engaging the king in personal combat. Sorry, Hussar.”

Frank stood up, suddenly looking much soberer. His sword was in his hand. “Now, then, Hussar, what about these allegations?”

Hussar pressed his lips together angrily. “I withdraw them, sire,” he said.

There was a long pause. “All right,” Frank said finally. He sheathed his sword and sat down, looking vaguely puzzled and defeated. “I ... I guess you’re right, Hodges.” He had another sip of scotch. “What we’ve got to do, I guess, is keep building our army and keep looking for a ducal heir.” He drained his glass. “Keep sending the claimants to me, Hodges. Maybe if we don’t find a real one we can come up with a convincing fake.”

“A fake?” said Hodges. “Sire, even with a real one we’d have our work cut out for us.” He shook his head. “Gentlemen, I pronounce this meeting adjourned.” Everyone except Frank stood up and began shouldering on coats and bidding each other goodnight. They all filed out, leaving Frank alone in the room. Two of the lamps had gone out, the candles were low in their sockets, and the clink of the bottle-lip on the glass-edge, and the gurgle of the scotch sluicing into the glass, were the only sounds.

HEAVY music resounded in Kelly Harmon’s huge living room, and most of the guests were dancing wildly. Hannon lived in the finest district of Munson Understreet, and his parties, which had become legendary in the belt-tightening days of Costa’s reign, were said to be the gathering place of all the truly worthwhile people in Munson, above or below the surface. The music, provided by a trio of crazed trumpet players, was so loud that the knocking at the door could only be heard by the people actually leaning against it. They pulled the door open and a tall, dark-bearded man edged his way inside, waving an invitation, and was soon absorbed into the crowd.

The music and dancing slowly mounted in intensity to a feverish and frenzied climax, after which the dancers began reeling to their chairs and gulping drinks. Kathrin Figaro whirled like a spun top to the last choppy bars of one song, and collided with a table, knocking over a lamp.

“Whoops!” she giggled. “Time for a rest, I think.” She weaved away from the dance floor to the only empty chair, at a back table at which the bearded man was sitting. “Can I join you?” she asked breathlessly. He looked up at her and, after the briefest hesitation, nodded.

“Thank you.” She slid into the chair and looked at her table-mate. Long black hair was cut in uneven bangs across his forehead, and his eyes hid in a network of wrinkles under his brows. The black beard didn’t quite hide a long scar that arched across his cheek. “Do I know you?” she asked politely, privately wondering how this derelict had got in.

“Yes,” he said.

Kathrin looked at him uneasily. “Who are you?”

“John Pine.”

Kathrin looked blank, and then startled. “Frank ...?” she whispered.

He nodded.

“But I heard you were dead—they hung ... somebody’s headless body, dressed in your clothes, from the palace wall a week ago.” He shrugged impatiently. “When did you grow the beard, Frank? I don’t like it.”

“My name, please, is John Pine. The beard’s fake.”

“Oh.” She lifted two glasses of champagne from the tray of a passing steward and set one of them before Frank. “Isn’t it terribly risky for you to be here? Did you come to see me?”

“No,” he said. “I didn’t know you’d be here. I came because I was bored.” He sipped the champagne. “Harmon has been sending me invitations to these affairs for months, and I decided to take him up on one.”

“Will I see you at more of these, then?” she asked brightly.

“No. I’m not much of a party man, as you doubtless recall. And it is too risky a thing to make a habit of.”

She tasted her drink thoughtfully. “Are you still king of the ... you-know-whos?” He nodded. “I heard about how you got it. It sounded very brave.” He looked at her skeptically. “I don’t see Matthews anymore, John. He treated me horribly, just ... horribly. Do you think,” she went on, lowering her eyes, “there’s any chance of us trying it again?” Yes, he thought. “No,” he said.