"So I die!" It was the mirth of a madman. "Go on, you fools! Kill me! But I die holding a secret that spells your doom, also!"
Up on the dais, Lord Zenaor stiffened. He caught Vydys' arm. "Wait! Hold back the roller!"
The youth raved on: "Our day is coming, you cutthroats—the day of the Baemae! We have summoned one who will sit in judgment on you, a man from the far Federation! Already, this moment, his starship approaches—"
Zenaor surged from his seat. His bull-roar filled the hall: "The night's games are over! I, Zenaor, decree it!" And then, to his guardsmen: "Take that serf to my chambers!"
The crowd swirled in tumult. Dark Vydys turned on him. "You cannot—!"
"I can, and I do!"
For a moment their eyes locked ... a taut, vibrant moment.
Then the woman looked away. "If you will it...." The words came out sullen.
But already Zenaor was turning, striding off through the light-wall that served as backdrop for the dais, away to the force-shift that led to his quarters.
Out again at the seventh level, he stalked into the living-chambers.