Vyrtl laughed indulgently and sipped his wine.
"Even Tzyfol," added Wilkins, "might have been generous had she been young and pretty. Unfortunately, I suppose, it takes an old head to be an envoy."
The Emperor set his glass down very carefully.
"What did you say?" he demanded evenly.
Wilkins stared, with the expression of a man who fears he may suddenly recall having used an obscene word in polite company, or having bragged falsely and unwittingly of tax-evasion to an imperial collector.
Vyrtl repeated his question in a tone a note higher.
"I-I-I said that if she were young and p-pretty—"
"How old do you think she was?" rasped Vyrtl.
"About s-s-seventy. Maybe seventy-five."
"What?"