Narla stood framed against a drape-shrouded door to his right. She gripped a fire-gun in her hand.
She raised her voice before he could speak. "Father!"
Zenaor came awake with a twist, a jerk of covers. The coal-black eyes gleamed beneath the heavy brows. "So—visitors!" And then, to Narla: "My daughter...."
"It's nothing. They spoke too loudly. I heard them."
The fire-gun in her hand stayed very steady.
"You'll not regret it." Zenaor groped a weapon of his own from a stand by his sleeping-couch. His lips set in a thin, mirthless smile. "Welcome, Vydys. You come in strange company."
"He ... forced me...."
"He forced you!" Mockery rang in Zenaor's harsh laughter. And then, the mirth dying: "Woman, you go back to your chambers. Under open guard, this time, with every man ordered to kill you if you so much as smile at him."
Vydys' lovely face flushed. "Zenaor, you dare not!"
"Because if I do you'll kill me?" Of a sudden Zenaor's voice echoed flat menace. "You'll try, you mean, you bitch—just as you tried here, tonight. And you'll fail again. Only perhaps by then I'll have less need to let you live for the sake of Kukzubas unity, and I can watch you writhe and die instead, as you should die now!"