It was the sort of declaration with which Vyrtl might have agreed, had he been able to voice it first.
As it was, he announced that he would keep it in mind when judging the fate of the rebels. He had no inclination to destroy a perfectly good, tax-paying planet if he could whip its inhabitants into line by other means.
He ended the conference by stating his intention to ride in the artificial forest. He enjoyed the glances of relief among the generals—especially the older and more brittle ones—when he gave them leave to resume their military duties instead of attending him.
A few hours later, Wilkins found Vyrtl and a small retinue resting beside a pool at the edge of the forest.
"The rebel envoy has arrived, Sire," he reported.
Vyrtl kicked a pebble into the pool and spat after it. "We shall see him immediately," he announced. "No use wasting ceremony on the villain."
Returning to the palace, he strode into the audience chamber and signaled for the envoy to be admitted. Still warm from his ride and insultingly disheveled, he sat in the imitation of the great throne on his capital planet, Hebryxid.
"If he isn't brisk," he muttered to Wilkins, "we may teach him promptness by hunting him through the forest tomorrow."
Above the whispers of hastily assembled officers, courtiers, and a few of Vyrtl's wives, a chamberlain announced, "The Jursan envoy, Daphne Foster."
"A woman?" murmured Vyrtl.