"So—?" Lord Zenaor raised a mocking coal-black eyebrow. "No wonder they call you 'Vydys the Cruel' behind your back, my dear! If you had your way, there'd soon be no Baemae left alive to serve us."
Visibly, Vydys stiffened. Her head came round—dark eyes flashing, jet hair ashimmer; and when she spoke her words were edged with fury. "Have a care, Zenaor! I've no taste for taunts, even from the chief of barons."
"The truth is no taunt." Zenaor gave not a fraction. "Because pain is your passion, you drive our serfs to rebellion."
"Rebellion—!" The woman's eyes glinted like crater diamonds. "How many of the Baemae have flown south with their cursed discs already, off to the djevoda ranges? There lies your rebellion—and only torture will stop it!" Her laugh rang gall-bitter. "Or perhaps, like that Narla, you believe we should free them?"
"Keep your tongue off my daughter!" It was a command that brooked no discussion. "As for the free range, the discs, cross them off. They'll soon be no menace."
"Oh?" Vydys' lips twisted, mocking. "No, doubt you have a plan, my lord Zenaor—"
"I have a plan indeed." Zenaor's tone was icy. "One word too many, and you'll die as its first step."
Vydys faltered.
"You see, my dear, our goals are different." Zenaor clipped, smiling thinly. "You lust after pain, I after power. As chief of barons, I mean to have it—and that means holding down the Baemae. But I'll waste no time on half-way measures. When I strike, it will be in my own way, and it will win. And"—now he leaned forward, close to Vydys—"and even one lovely as you shall die if in that moment she plots against me."
Vydys' nostrils flared. But before she could speak, the chief of barons turned away. He raised his voice till it echoed through the great vaulted hall. "Wench! Are you ready?"