"I don't believe it!" Jotan shouted. He leaped from his chair to face the monarch. "Ever since I can remember you and my father were the closest of friends!"
"And long before that Jotan," Jaltor said quietly.
"Yet because some common killer gave his name, you believe such an impossible story? My father could have no reason for wanting you dead. What have you done to him?"
Jaltor ignored the last question. He said in the same quiet voice: "Not a common killer, Jotan. It was old Heglar who so named your father."
The young Ammadian nobleman fell back a pace in complete amazement. "Old Heglar? Why, he wouldn't...." His voice trailed off.
"Exactly. Heglar would not lie."
Jotan lifted a shaking hand to rub his forehead in a kind of dazed helplessness that struck to the heart of every person in the room. "No," he said, his voice suddenly loud, "I do not believe it. Where is my father? Let me talk to him."
"Where," Jaltor said coldly, "would apt to be any man who plotted the death of Ammad's king?"
Slowly Jotan's hand fell from before his eyes as the meaning of those chill words came home to him. "You—you killed him? Garlud? My father? Your friend?"