"You see? It ends here!" Zenaor chuckled. "What it means, how the serfs were to use it against the weapon I plan to defeat them with, I do not know. But whatever its purpose, I have it, and its maker lies dead."
He snapped shut the case, dropped it back into the stand. "Back, now, both of you, while I call the guards."
The pulse in Craig Nesom's temple pounded. Turning, he started past Narla towards the door.
Her grey eyes dodged his. She stepped aside, fire-gun lowered.
"Guards...." That was Zenaor, at the com-box.
Craig stopped breathing, stopped thinking. Like lightning striking, he leaped sidewise, pivoting—back, behind Narla.
Zenaor roared a curse.
But already, Craig was clawing the girl close against him, snatching her fire-gun, blazing a flare straight at the baron.
Zenaor dived over the sleeping-couch. The fireball seared into the wall.
Craig jammed the gun against Narla. "Zenaor! If I die, she burns with me!"