Brim felt a momentary twinge of anguish as he glimpsed the ruin of her husband at closer range.
"Aside from a little rain," Brim answered pensively, "life has been good, Margot."
The Princess nodded and glanced meaningfully out onto the floor where Romanoff was standing with Ursis, staring back with an impassive countenance. "I can see it has, Wilf," she said quietly,
"That woman loves you fiercely." She shook her head sadly. "When I finally admitted to myself that I must eventually lose, I prayed it might be to someone like her." A tear welled the corner of her eye; she blinked it back. "She hates me—needlessly, of course. I have... other... loves now. But once..." She suddenly turned her face as another flash of lightning lit the hall.
"Enough," the palsied LaKarn grunted beside her. "I can no longer tolerate the sight of this Carescrian assassin. Will you move on, whore, or do you plan to spread your legs for him here in the reception line?" With a clawlike hand, he clumsily slipped Margot's bodice from her right breast. "Here," he crowed, "I shall even help, I've always wanted to watch you two at it."
Brim had never seen her nipple shriveled and colorless as it was now. He heard himself gasp in dismay.
Margot shut her eyes and replaced the bodice with a deft movement of her hand while her face turned a sickly white and her whole carriage appeared to droop. She stood that way for a long moment, blinking back tears of utter humiliation. Then, with a sigh of resignation, she straightened her shoulders and assumed a more customary countenance. "Goodbye, Wilf," she said presently through tight, bloodless lips, "I wish both you and Anna the best of the Universe."
Then, without another word, she turned to offer her hand to Moulding while LaKarn doddered along at her side.
During those brief moments, Brim came to realize he had been living under a delusion. He had definitely not left behind all emotion for Margot Effer'wyck; the wave of anguish that swept his psyche as he stared helplessly at her lovely back disabused him of that forever. Years of loneliness had erased most of the erotic passion he once felt for the magnificent Princess, but nothing had dimmed his concern. He desperately wanted to help in some way—any way—but trapped in the reception line as he was, he could do nothing! Immediately, a new couple replaced the LaKarns, gushing imbecilically about "space racers" and what it felt to be "out there among the stars." In his utter shock, he heard no more than ten words they babbled. If he reacted correctly to them, and to at least the next ten dignitaries that followed, it was clearly done on "autohelm," for he remembered no more of the evening until the royal couple departed—an event that transpired no more than a few cycles after they completed the reception line. At the door, they were surrounded by a whole squad of Controllers from the League—not native Grenzen from the Torond. Clearly, Triannic was keeping his puppet rulers under close supervision, indeed.
By the time the stream of newcomers at last began to wane, Brim had once again relaxed sufficiently to peer around the room and frown. "We've met just about all the important Leaguers who came for the race," he said to Moulding, "but I haven't seen hide nor hair of Valentin. Is he here, do you suppose?"
Moulding rubbed his chin for a moment. "I say," he started, "I know I've caught a glimpse of him tonight—he couldn't possibly miss an event like this without drawing a bloody lot of attention to himself. But you're certainly right. He hasn't come near the line." He frowned. "I wonder..."
"So do I," Brim said grimly, still scanning the guests.
"There" Moulding said, nodding his head, "—in that group of Controllers near the turquoise alcove. Isn't that our bloody friend leaning against the door?"
Brim turned slowly, trying not to appear obvious. "I don't know," he said. "It's pretty dim there in the alcove. But..." Lightning flared, momentarily illuminating the slim figure of Kirsh Valentin against the streaming door. "Yes. That's him." He narrowed his eyes. "Perhaps I ought to extend some sort of personal greetings, now that our 'special duty' on the reception line seems to be at an end."
"Do you think that's wise?" Moulding inquired with a worried look on his face. "It would look rather bad if you started something, you know. Could even give them the race by default—especially if you did in their Principal Helmsman."
Brim nodded sullenly. "Yeah," he said, "I know. But the bastards wouldn't have much of a leg to stand on themselves if Valentin looks like I think he does." He pursed his lips. "Perhaps I'll go pay my respects."
"Right ho," Moulding said, starting the other way. "And I shall go collect Ursis and Borodov—just in case his Leaguer companions decide to be uncooperative."
Brim dodged his way across the crowded room in rapid order; however, Valentin's vigilant "friends" had closed ranks before he was even halfway there. "Excuse me, gentlemen," the Carescrian said, attempting to push his way between two of the high-booted toughs in dress blacks, "but I'd like to speak to my friend Kirsh there."
It was like trying to move a solid rock wall. Nothing budged at all, and the faces of the Controllers remained impassive, as if they understood no Avalonian.
Brim repeated the words in Vertrucht, securing an identical reaction for his linguistic pains: nothing. He was about to apply a sudden elbow to one of the Leaguer's kidneys when, abruptly, a squadron of twelve large Imperial "guests" in civilian evening clothes nonchalantly drifted by to encircle Valentin's Leaguer convoy—and there was no mistaking their intent.
Shortly thereafter, Drummond appeared at Brim's side, dressed in magnificent soup-and-fish that must have cost the price of a small starship. He calmly eyed one of the Leaguers, then placed his hands on his hips. "Move aside, whoreson filth," he demanded quietly in lowest gutter Vertrucht, "—I defecate on they father's slopsyard grave."
Blind rage blazed suddenly in the proud Leaguer's eyes. Reflexively, he reached for the little General only a moment before both his forearms were broken by short, deadly chops from Imperials who had moved in silently on either side. It was over so quickly no one behind them on the reception floor could have possibly seen, but Brim distinctly heard bones crack—and it was clear that the remainder of Valentin's guards had too. The wounded Leaguer's face turned a pasty gray and beads of sweat broke out on his forehead as the pain began to register. Instantly, he was supported by his burly Imperial assailants, who slowly turned him, 'round so his startled colleagues could share the view.