“I know the procedure, Porenn,” Yarblek said. He squinted at her speculatively. “You’ll be turning authority here in Drasnia over to his Majesty here fairly soon, won’t you?” he asked her.
“In a few years, yes.”
“When this business in Mallorea is concluded, I think Silk and I might want to have a long discussion with you.”
“Oh?”
“What’s your feeling about accepting a junior partnership in our operation—after your obligations here in Boktor have all been satisfied?”
“I’m very flattered, Yarblek. What possessed you to raise such a possibility? ”
“You’re very shrewd, Porenn, and you’ve got all sorts of contacts. We might even be prepared to go as high as a five percent share.”
“Absolutely out of the question, Yarblek,” King Kheva interrupted surprisingly. “The percentage would have to be at least twenty.”
“Twenty?” Yarblek almost screamed.
*’ I have to protect my mother’s interests,” Kheva said blandly. “She won’t always be young, you know, and I’d hate to see her spend her declining years scrubbing floors.”
“This is highway robbery, Kheva!” Yarblek’s face had turned bright red.
“I’m not holding a knife to your throat, Yarblek,” Kheva said. “It might really be better in the long run if mother went into business for herself anyway. She should be able to do very well—particularly in view of the fact that all members of the royal family are exempt from Drasnian import duties.”
“I think you just stabbed yourself in the hand, Yarblek.” Vella smirked. “As long as you’re getting bad news today anyway, I might as well add my share. When this is all over, I want you to sell me.”
“Sell you? To whom?”
“I’ll tell you when the time comes.”
“Has he got any money?”
“I really don’t know, but that doesn’t matter. I’ll pay you your share of the price myself.”
“You must really think a lot of him to make that kind of an offer.”
“You have absolutely no idea, Yarblek. I was made for this man.”
“We were told to stay here, Atesca,” Bradorsaid stubbornly.
“That was before this long silence,” General Atesca said, nervously pacing up and down in the large pavilion they shared. Atesca wore his uniform and his gold-inlaid steel breastplate. “The Em-perort well-being and safety are my responsibility.”
“They’re as much mine as they are yours.” Brador was ab-
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sently rubbing the furry tummy of the half-grown cat lying ecstatic in his tap.
“All right, why aren’t you doing something about it then? We haven’t had word of him in weeks. Not even your intelligence network can tell us where he is.”
“I know that, Atesca, but I’m not going to disobey an imperial command just because you’re getting nervous—or bored.”
‘ ‘Why don’t you stay here and take care of the kittens, then?” Atesca said acidly. “I’m going to move the army out tomorrow morning.”
“I didn’t deserve that, Atesca.”
“Sorry, Brador. This long silence is making me a little edgy, and I’m losing my grip on civility.”
“I’m as concerned as you are, Atesca,” Brador said, “but all of my training rises up in protest at the notion of flying directly in the face of an imperial command.” The kitten in Brador’s lap nuzzled at his fingers affectionately. “You know,” he said, “I think that when his Majesty returns, I’ll ask him if I can have this kitten. I’m really growing rather fond of her.”
“That’s up to you,” Atesca said. “Trying to find homes for two or three litters of kittens every year might keep you out of trouble.” The broken-nosed general tugged thoughtfully at one earlobe. “How about a compromise?” he suggested.
“Ifai always willing to listen.”
“All right. We know that Urvon’s army has largely disbanded, and there’s fairly strong presumptive evidence that Ur-von is dead.”
“I’d say so, yes.”
“And Zandramas has moved her forces into the Dalasian protectorates.”
“That’s what my people report.”
“Now then, we’re both senior officials in his Majesty’s government, aren’t we?”
“Yes.”
“Doesn’t that mean that we’re expected to use our own initiative to take advantage of tactical situations that arise in the field without consulting Mal Zetn?”
“I suppose so. YouVe spent more time in the field than I have, though.”
“It’s standard practice, Brador. All right, then. Darshiva is virtually undefended. What I’m suggesting is that we restore order across the river in Peldane and move in to occupy Darshiva. That way we cut Zandramas off from her base of support.
THE HIGH PLACES OF KORIM
227
We set up a main line of resistance along the edge of those mountains to repel her forces if they try to return. We’ll have effectively brought these two provinces back under imperial control. We might even get a few medals out of it.”
“His Majesty would be rather pleased if that happened, wouldn’t he?”
“He’d be overjoyed, Brador.”
“I still don’t see how occupying Darshiva is going to get us any closer to locating his Majesty.”
“That’s because you’re not a military man. We have to keep track of the enemy. In this case, that means the Darshivan army. Standard military procedure in such situations is to send out patrols in force to make contact with the enemy to determine his strength and probable intentions. If those patrols should just happen to encounter the Emperor in the process, well—” He spread his hands eloquently.
“You’d have to brief the officers in command of those patrols rather thoroughly,” Brador pointed out cautiously. “A green lieutenant might get flustered and blurt out things we’d rather not have the Emperor aware of.”
“I said patrols m force, Brador.” Atesca smiled. “I was thinking along the lines of full brigades. A brigade is commanded by a colonel, and I Ve got a number of fairly intelligent colonels.”
Brador grinned at his friend. “When do we start?” he asked.
“Did you have anything planned for tomorrow morning?”
“Nothing that I can’t postpone,” Brador said.
* ‘But why didn’t you know it was coming?” Barak demanded of Drolag, his bosun. The two of them stood on the aft deck with the wind-driven rain sheeting almost horizontally across the rail to tear at their beards.
Drolag mopped at his face with one hand. “I haven’t got the faintest idea, Barak,” he admitted. “That leg has never iailed me before.” Drolag was one of those unfortunates who at some time in the past had broken one of his legs—in Drolag’s case it had happened in a tavern brawl. He had discovered not long after the bone had knit that the leg was extraordinarily sensitive to weather changes. He was able to predict the onset of bad weather with uncanny accuracy. His shipmates always watched him very closely. When Drolag winced with every step, they began searching the horizons for oncoming storms; when he limped, they shortened sail and began rigging safety lines; and
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when he fell down with a surprised cry of pain, they immediately battened down all hatches, rigged the sea anchor, and went below. Drolag had turned a temporary inconvenience into a lifetime career. He always commanded top pay, and nobody ever expected him to do any real work. All he had to do was pace the deck where everybody could watch him. The miraculous leg even made it possible for him to predict with some degree of certainty just exactly when a given storm would hit. But not this time. The storm that swept the Seabirtfs decks with wind and pelting rain had come unannounced, and Drolag was as surprised by its arrival as any man on board.
“You didn’t get drunk and fall down and break it again, did you?” Barak demanded suspiciously. Barak had very little knowledge of human anatomy-—except about where to hit someone with an axe or to run a sword through him that would have the desired, and usually fatal, results. The big red-bearded man reasoned somewhat foggily that if Drolag had achieved his weather sensitivity by breaking his leg, a second break might very well have taken it away again.
“No, of course I didn’t, Barak,” Drolag said disgustedly. “I’m not going to risk my livelihood for a few tankards of bad ale.”
“How did the storm sneak up on you, then?”
“I don’t know, Barak. Maybe it’s not a natural storm. Some wizard may have summoned it. I don’t know if my leg would react to something like that.”
“That’s always an easy excuse, Drolag,” Barak scoffed. “Anytime an ignorant man can’t explain something, he blames it on magic.”
“I don’t have to take this, Barak,” Drolag said hotly. “I earn my way, but I tanot responsible for supernatural forces.”
“Go below, Drolag,” Barak told him. “Have a long talk with your leg and see if it can come up with a better excuse.”
Drolag staggered down the pitching deck talking to himself.
Barak was in a foul humor. Everything seemed to be conspiring to delay him. Not long after he and his friends had witnessed Agachak’s unpleasant demise, Seabird had struck a submerged log and sprung a seam. It had only been by dint of herculean bailing that they had been able to limp downriver to Dal Zerba and to haul the leaky ship up onto a mud bar for repairs. That chore had cost them two weeks, and now this storm from nowhere added to the delay. Then Unrak came up from below, trailed by the dull-faced King of the Thulls. Unrak