“Fool!” hissed Hah. “It is death to offer violence to your king.”
“But is not that what Yuri has just done?” Cabot replied. “Then why should not he suffer the penalty?”
“Because Yuri was crown prince when he fired the shot,” Hah explained, “hence that very crime which killed his uncle, made him king, and thus immune to punishment.”
But Cabot had to have the last word. “In that case, had we not better page Prince Toron, who is next in the line of succession?”
In a moment he was sorry he had spoken. During his brief conversation, the new king had been standing with his arms folded, and a sneer on his handsome face. But now he became visibly agitated.
“Good Builder!” he exclaimed. “I had forgotten about my brother. A full sarkarship and complete immunity to whoever brings me his head.”
“But, sire,” one of Yuri’s henchmen interposed, “there be those who say that the death of Kew makes thy brother king, and not thee.”
“The Valley to whoever says it from now on!” was Yuri’s curt reply.
Those around him blanched with horror at the mention of this most terrible of all Porovian punishments, the Valley of the Howling Rocks, where condemned criminals are confined until the terrific din drives them mad, and they perish.
All this took place in much less time than is required for the telling of it. Meanwhile a bodyguard of the yellow faction had gathered about Yuri, and had disarmed and handcuffed Myles Cabot and all the other occupants of the royal box. Another bodyguard was protecting the three ant men down in the arena.