A Life for Kregen by Alan Burt Akers Page A

reactions in more or less having the embassy slung out must have been right, instinctively right. And I had promised myself not to flare up into that old intemperate rage. Almost, I had broken that promise. I tried not to feel smug as I went back to the people waiting for the news.
    “So, majister,” said Nath, somewhat heavily. “Does this mean you ally us with the Racters now that Jhansi is once more foresworn?”
    “I don’t see why you had to let the kleeshes go!” burst out Barty. He was furious, and, in his eyes, rightly so. “They betrayed their embassy, all their talk of heraldic immunity was a mere base trick. String ’em all up, that’s the way of it — or should be.”
    Delia regarded him, for she favored him as a son-in-law when our daughter Dayra returned to the fold. Barty spluttered and splashed and covered his face drinking a cup of good vydra tea. Oh, yes, a right hellion our Barty Vessler in matters of chivalry and honor.
    My people knew our ways well enough by now to talk freely among themselves discussing the offer from the Racters. Also, they knew that while I would take cognizance of what they said, the final decision was down to me. That was what being an emperor was about. I felt inclined to hear what Delia had to say. She was an emperor’s daughter. But in all this idle chatter about emperors, I never forgot what I had promised myself on Voxyri Drinnik. The ways of emperors were not for me.
    The talk flowed. The tea was quaffed. The food was eaten. We all had busy lives to lead with much to do and the few murs we could spare for this kind of pleasant interlude had already been exceeded. By ones and twos the company began to leave and the clepsydra on the shelf would have collapsed if worried stares carried physical force.
    Nath Nazabhan and Barty Vessler were talking to Delia and I crossed to them, having had a few words with Jago De-Ka, a Pachak Jiktar who had come in from Zamra with news. The island was almost clear of the reiving mercenaries and flutsmen, he reported, and the Pachaks who had made a part of the island their home were now more than ever wedded to their new way of life. I expressed myself as satisfied, keeping a grave mien, as was seemly in so important a matter to a Pachak. Pachaks are a race of diffs with whom I delight in doing business.
    Barty was still rather high on indignation, and Nath was as grimly ferocious as ever when I joined them.
    Archolax the Bones, the deep lines in his face more pronounced than ever, walked across to us with a most determined air about him. I sighed. I could guess.
    “...until they dangled for two sennights!” quoth Barty.
    “But you have friends up there, do you not?” inquired Delia with that devastating simplicity that snicks in like a rapier between the ribs.
    “Friends? Oh, aye, friends. But if they wear the white and black these days, how can they be friends?”
    Old Archolax sneezed. With great ceremony he withdrew an enormous square of yellow silk and blew. While the stentorian bellow was still echoing through the room he spoke up, swirling the yellow silk about grandly.
    “Majister! The treasury is scraped to the bottom so hard I swear you would not get a single stiver out of the dust in the vaults. The Racters are all the grievous things we know them to be. But, majister! They have money. They are rich. Their estates up there are fabulously wealthy. An alliance there would fill our coffers. We could hire mercenaries and throw the damned mercenaries from Hamal out of Vallia.”
    He did not finish with: “I have spoken.” Had he done so it would have fitted perfectly.
    Delia’s face bore that knowing, half-mocking, teasing smile.
    The way these old buffers use their sneezing and their kerchiefs always amuses me — and causes me some facetious admiration, too, seeing that they thereby cloak their own highly individual designs. Old Evold Scavander, the wisest of the wise men of Valka, could always get that haughty and