A madness seized Craig Nesom. Savagely, he hurled himself at his tormentor.
But the guards were too quick, too strong. Brutally, they jerked him back.
He writhed helpless, raging.
Only then a voice—a woman's voice, low and gentle as the hiss of the asp is gentle: "Your enemies, Zenaor—like me, perhaps?"
Craig went rigid. The guards, too; Zenaor; Narla.
A hanging moved aside. Dark Vydys the Cruel stood framed in a doorway—fire-gun in hand, liveried warriors behind her.
"Vydys—!" Zenaor's color was draining.
The woman laughed softly. "Surely, my lord, my coming does not surprise you? By way of a test, I injected some of the fluid you gave me into a serfman, then sent him out to meet the ourobos. But they swallowed him up as they would any other, so I came here to discuss it." Airily, she gestured. "Of course, there was some small difficulty with your men at the gates. My troops had to slay them—"
Zenaor sucked in air.
Vydys said, "Your plans for the spaceships—they please me. The fleet shall blast for Odak according to schedule." A pause. A cat's smile. "Of course, you'll not be with it. It's better that you stay here with the Baemae."