“Then listen to me, and heed me. I am willing to be thy Shakar, to lead thy fight—but I am beyond the point where I will serve as willing pawn of any officialdom. I will not follow where another commands—I lead, or I do nothing. Choose! Choose now. Take me for thy Shakar—place your destiny and your trust completely in me—and I swear to you by all the thousand Gods of Space that I will serve you well, and will do aught that a man could do to render Valadon into your hands again—or decline my services. Speak!”
She looked at him long and steadily, with those marvelously keen and penetrating eyes … weighing the honest sincerity that rang in his tones and shone in his eyes … measuring the lean, explosive strength and clean, fighting manhood of him—and decided.
“Very well.”
He took out Asloth and laid the golden sword at her feet, in the old, old Rilké ceremony. She took it up and handed it to him, hilt-forward. He kissed the naked blade and returned it to its scabbard.
“Now then, my lady. The help of Pelaire is lost to you— through no action of mine, but through the treachery inherent in your would-be collaborator, Yaklar of Pelaire, whom I exposed before your chieftains—nor do I apologize for it. To have kept silent would be to have betrayed the confidence you have just demonstrated towards me. Answer—could I have done other than I did, in honor?”
She smiled faintly, just a little, at the earnest—and rather boyish—intensity and forcefulness of this new Raul Linton—a stranger whose commanding ways she rather liked.
“No,” she agreed soberly, “you did right. I was distraught, seeing my plans collapse, or I would not have flung out my words at you so recklessly.”
“Very well! But although Pelaire is lost—we have still to deal with the problem of those accursed warships lurking up the Rift, but between us we shall dream up some pretext for getting rid of them—although Pelaire is lost, we need not give up Valadon. In fact, your hope of regaining your domain was never more certain of fulfillment than it is at this moment.”
A puzzled frown creased her smooth brow: “How so? Frankly, I prefer my victories to bear less resemblance to a rout,” she said, unknowingly paraphrasing the words of a very ancient but no less lovely queen, uttered under situations not very dissimilar from these.
He laughed.
“You know it not, but the battle is half-won! Although it is not to be fought in the manner of which you would probably prefer—we shall have to forego the brave bugles, banners snapping in the breeze, and bloodied tyrants, broken and kneeling at your feet!”
Her frown deepened, and she began to tap the fingers of one hand on her throne-chair.
“I do not follow you, and now I begin to mistrust you! What do you mean? Do you imply you will not lead my forces into battle?”
Blithely—and abruptly—he ignored the present trend of conversation, with a blunt question:
“What is your first name?”
She blinked. “Innald,” she said, “but I demand that you tell me—”
“Innald. I like it. Strong and hard, yet female. A good, brave-sounding name. Now, you be a brave girl—trust me—and I promise my plan will see you clearly out of this.”
“Shakar Lin-ton! I must insist—you have seized the initiative from me—you are speaking beyond me, but I must know what you intend—!”
He laughed again, a bit wildly.
“I shall take from you more—much more, Innald—than that! To follow me, as you have sworn, you must give up all your dreams of conquest and war and of splendid gory revenge! I shall take them all, each one—and give you Valadon on the point of this golden sword!”
Her eyes blazed. Innald could endure insult, defiance, even betrayal—but her royal (and womanly, as well) sense of pride balked at being laughed at and gentled as if she were only a woman.
She opened her mouth to speak, but he silenced her with a lifted hand.
“Enough questions for now! I have much to do.”
“Are not you aware that you are only my officer—and that you are seizing command a trifle impetuously—that you are being a bit forward?” she hissed, icily.
“Have you selected me as your Shakar because you assumed that I was shy, meek, retiring, and—backwards?” he shot back instantly. It rocked her a bit, he noticed.
“Hai! You are the most stubborn, difficult, hard to manage, impolite, infuriating and insulting man that I have ever met! How dare you speak to me—”
“And you,” he snapped back, not giving her time enough to finish her profile of his character and deportment, “are one of the most wrong-headed, self-righteous, self-pitying, selfmartyred women I have ever met! And one of the most beautiful. No, I rescind that last statement, if you will permit. You are the most beautiful woman I have ever met. But, to return to your description of me: let me remind you that I did not choose to come here—I was invited. I did not apply for the position of your Shalcar—I had it offered to me. I did not agree to take it on your terms—j/om agreed to my terms. Now be a good girl and let me get about my business. I’ll win Valadon for you, or do my best. But I must have a free hand!”
She was so furious she could not speak. Her eyes snapped sparks and her tawny face flushed with heady color, brightening cheeks and mouth.
“You are utterly adorable when you are angry. Did no one ever tell you that before, Innald? You should always be mad—cultivate it!”
With that, and a gay salute, he was gone, leaving her gasping with rage and tingling all over with fury. But when she got her breath back and had a few moments to digest the swift-moving flow of events, a half-smile warmed her lips. What woman, however aggressive, does not secretly desire to meet a man capable of mastering her? Before long a small dimple showed at the comer of her wonderful mouth, and the bright hardness of her eyes turned soft, almost dream-full, as she stared meditatively at the door through which he had just passed ….
It was twenty minutes later. Raul had just met with Wilm Bardry in his quarters. Gundorm Varl had related occurrences to Bardry and he was jubilant with the turn of events, saying things were working out precisely according to his plans. Now they must get rid of the war-fleet waiting down the Rift, and summon official government forces to Valadon, to whom they would deliver the captive Arthon and his crew, and to whom they could turn (having thus saved the Cluster a small, brief, but terribly expensive war) for redress of ills, revocation of exileship and outlawry, and restoration of the Dais of Valadon to its rightful Kahani.
Events, however, had taken another turn—and very much for the worse!
Sharl came crashing into the suite, with a half-dozen armed men behind him, including Zarkandu and the old Shann of Kartoy.
“Linton! Quick! Somehow the Arthon has broken loose—his guards have seized weapons and are fighting their way to the skimmer now!”
Raul sprang to his feet and headed for the door.
“Wilm! Gundorm—with us! There’s no time to lose—once they reach the skimmer, Yaklar’ll call his fleet on the comset. We’ve got to head them off!”
Sharl pointed with his sword. “This way—they will be taking the other route—it is longer, but they cannot know it—we may be able to reach the skimmer before they do!”
They followed his lead, hurtling down the corridor, boots hammering on smooth-worn stone, and then down a winding stair, stumbling, half-falling in their haste. Raul felt his heart thudding with anxiety, pounding as if it would burst free of the cage of his ribs. They must stop the Warlord from contacting his fleet!