He gripped the guard's arm. "Now—Vydys!"
"This way." The other turned, shuffling ahead. "End chamber...."
Craig shifted the fire-gun in his hand; laid the butt hard across the guard's head behind the ear.
The other crumpled to the floor, unconscious. Stripping off the man's harness, Craig donned the livery himself and lashed his prisoner's wrists and ankles, rolling him out of sight behind a long, sofa-like seat.
Then he was at the door, the door to the Lady Vydys' chambers.
He paused for a moment, listening with his ear against the panel.
No sound came.
He gripped the handle ... turned it slowly ... let the weight of his shoulder press against the door.
Ever so slowly, it swung open a fraction. Craig peered into the living room beyond—a place fully as ornate as the corridor, with furnishings sleekly trimmed in polished chromite.
Craig slipped inside and closed the door behind him.