He could be a king, George thought. Not a titular king like Arl, but the real thing—a king in the true sense of the word, the old sense of the word. He'd want something—anything—and it would be his. Just like that.
"No more treasure," Myra said. "It isn't raining anymore."
George looked. The room was abrim with precious stones, and apparently Narka had enough for this trip. She had stolen a king's ransom—more than that. And there was that word again: with this power, George could be a king.
"No," he said.
"What's that?"
"Um, nothing, Arl. Nothing. Just thinking out loud." He did not want to be a king, not that way. Human values were too high, and he had moved on the straight and narrow path too long. Not that there was anything wrong with the straight and narrow path. Suddenly he liked it—it was very important to him, and although he remembered Narka as he had seen her, naked and beautiful, he thought of her now only as a cheap thief. The wild urge had gone—this was not the way to kinghood.
Abruptly, Narka was there. One moment there were only the three of them and the treasure. The next, she stood next to George, and when she materialized, she was leaning on George's arm.
"I'm back," she said.
She wore a tunic, only it was more translucent than a tunic had a right to be. But George didn't mind. He didn't mind in the least. It was unfortunate, though, that he was so interested in the effects Narka's arrival would have on Arl. He looked at the woman only for a moment, and then he turned his eyes to her husband.