The front rank of nobles went as wide-eyed and ashen as had the spearman. Grahvos looked up in time to see Thoheeks Mahnos rapidly crossing himself, his lips moving in half-forgotten prayers.
“Oh, for the love of God, Mahnos,” Grahvos expostulated, “grow up! This is some sophisticated variety of machine, nothing more.”
He picked up the mike lying on the carpet and examined it carefully. “This is wrought of that odd material the Elder People employed … plahsteek, I think it was called. The machine might even be from those times.”
Though frightened, like all humans, of those things they did not understand, the nobles were not cowards. Seeing Grahvos unharmed, they slowly entered the inner chamber and scrutinized the strange device, first from a distance, then closer. But no more voices came from it, only a low-pitched hum and sporadic crackling sounds.
While they gaped at this wonder and gradually overcame their fears, far to the south, in the midst of the Great Southern Swamp, Dr. Bud Cra$ley was speaking into an intercom.
“Sir, I am afraid that we must write off Dr. Landor and the project to which she was assigned.” Briefly, deleting her expletives and verbal abuse, he quoted Lillian’s last report, closing by saying, “Then she suddenly broke off in the middle of a sentence, although she failed to deactivate the transceiver. There were some muffled noises, then several minutes of silence. The next voices I could hear distinctly were all masculine and all were speaking Greek.”
The senior director’s voice sounded sleepy. “All right, Bud, and thank you. Apparently Dr. Landor allowed herself more time than she really had. It was possibly our mistake to assign her to such a mission, anyway; she hated men—all men—and the emotion of hate tends to cloud one’s judgment and perceptiveness as much as does the emotion of love. We must exercise more care in the future; there’re too few of us to waste.
“But, nonetheless, Bud, you might try leaving our transceiver on that frequency for a while. Miracles happen, you know. She might be in hiding.”
Lillian was in hiding. When the spear butt had crashed against her body’s delicate skull, there had been a moment of shocked confusion; then she had felt the life-force leaving her body. Frantically, unthinkingly, she re-entered Zastros. Only when the transference was complete did she think what this meant. True, the drugs would wear off in time, but his body would never achieve full consciousness or the ability to move and speak without … without those few, simple words. But those words must be spoken through the mouth and vocal apparatus of that beautiful young body that lay almost dead on the floor of the dressing chamber. And she realized that she was not hiding safely—she was trapped I
Willing Zastros’ recumbent body to its maximum possible awareness, she heard the nobles enter the pavilion, heard that ass, Crawley, accuse her—a responsible, mature woman with no less than four degrees—of “playing games.” The nobles milled about the dressing chamber for a short while, exclaiming over various aspects of the radio.
Children! Lillian thought contemptuously. But, then, all men are basically dirty-minded little boys!
She heard the clump of boots and the clank of armor as someone came toward the couch, and she strove vainly to force Zastros’ eyelids to open. Then a rough band had taken the inert body’s arm and shaken it vigorously.
A voice she recognized as that of Strahteegos Grahvos spoke harshly. “Zastros! Zastros! Damn your eyes, Zastros, wake up!” The hand let go and the boots clumped back. “He’s out like a snuffed torch, gentlemen.”
Someone muttered something Zastros’ ears could not pick up the meaning of.
“How many times do I have to tell you to stop that foolishness!” barked Grahvos’ voice. “Sorcery, my calloused butt! Wine or drugs did this, probably both together; we all know he kept his wife drugged most of the time, so he obviously uses them, too.
“But it doesn’t matter; awake or asleep, he’s still deposed. Let High-Lord Milo waken him. We came mainly for the jewels and the gold. Let’s find them and get on the march. One of you pull off his house signet and find his sword. They should go to his nephew, Kathros. But no obvious plundering, gentlemen; if you’must steal, steal small. I don’t want our prospective overlord to think ill of us, nor should you; remember, our future lies with his Confederation.”
After a brief period of pushing about of furniture, dragging and clattering noises, and a short, sharp pain in Zastros’ right thumb as his signet was jerked off, Lillian heard the men’s voices fade away into the distance, leaving her alone in her refuge-become-prison. She made a stab at re-entering the body in the other room, but the way was closed, and no amount of will could budge so much as the tiniest muscle of Zastros’ hulk.
There was a short, deadly battle with the former High King’s bodyguard officers when the nobles bore the royal treasures from the pavilion and made to load them onto a waiting wagon, but the retainers of the thoheeksee ruthlessly cut down any who drew sword or lowered spear against them. With the officers all dead or dying, the rest of the guard wisely slipped away, tearing off their Green Dragon tabards as they went—naught could be gained in the support of a deposed and probably dead king.
Grahvos, well aware that whatever was left would certainly be looted by the unattached camp followers, stationed two hundred heavy infantry under command of Vahrohnos Mahvros to guard the ex-King’s pavilion and its environs until the High-Lord’s troops arrived. He also entrusted to the younger man a large package of documents—written oaths of fealty to the Confederation—all signed, witnessed, and sealed, from every landholder in the dispersing army.
A full day and then another night had been required to prepare the warbands for the retrograde movement. By the thirty-sixth hour after the nobles had looted Zastros’ treasures, the Green Dragon banner atop his pavilion waved over a scene of desolation. Outside the royal enclosure, precious few tents remained. Only discarded or broken equipment was left and a horde of human scavengers flitted through swarms of flies feasting on latrines and garbage pits.
Thoheeks Grahvos was the last to leave, having seen most of the troops on the march before dawn. Leaving his personal detachment at the foot of the hill, he rode up to the royal enclosure and dismounted before the pavilion.
“Any trouble so far, Mahvros?”
The young nobleman shook his head. “Nor do I expect any, my lord. Oh, my boys had to crack a couple of heads before we convinced the scum that we meant business, but we’ve been avoided since then.”
“And when the rest of us are on the road?” asked the Thoheeks skeptically.
“There’re damned few soldiers down there, my lord. And none of the skulkers are organized—it’s every man for himself. No, everything will be as it is when the Confederation troops get here.” Mahvros smiled.
Grahvos asked, “What of Zastros? Has he awakened yet?”
“No, my lord, he lives, but still he sleeps,” replied the Vahrohnos, adding, “but we had to bury the Lady Li-lyuhn. She was beginning to stink.”
Grahvos shrugged. “It couldn’t be helped. That guard probably killed her. There was fresh blood on his spear butt. But tell the High-Lord that I’m sorry.
“Also, Mahvros, tell him that I’ll see that the Thirty-three convene in the capital whenever he desires. I am certain that he and King Zenos will want some form of reparations, but emphasize, please, that some few years will be necessary to put our demesnes back on a paying basis.”
He put foot to stirrup, then turned back. “One other thing, Mahvros, my boy; the Council met for a short session this morning. Thoheeks Pahlios was your overlord, was he not?”