“What of the rest, gentlemen? Twenty thoheeksee, almost two-thirds of the original Council, died senselessly and uselessly while fighting like curs over a stinking piece of offal!
“I say: no more, gentlemen, no more! If we name another of our own number king, how long will it be before one or more of us is tempted to overthrow him, replace him, eh?”
There were sober nods and mutterings of agreement around the table.
At length, Thoheeks Bahos grunted the obvious question. “Then what are we to do, Grahvos? Our kindgom must have a strong ruler, but a tyrant tike Hyamos and bis lousy son will beget another rebellion.”
“The High-Lord Milo of Kehnooryos Ehlahs, Kar-aleenos keh Kuhmbuhlun has freely offered the thirty-three duchies of the Southern Kingdom full-standing memberships in his Confederation. All nobles will retain their lands, cities, rights, and titles; only their sworn allegiance will change. We will have no king; each thoheeks will act as royal governor of his duchy for the High-Lord. The High-Lord or his emissary will meet with the full Council each year to work out taxes and any other business matters.”
The first to speak after Grahvos had dropped his bombshell was Mahnosv “What of our warbands?”
“We will, of course, be expected to furnish men for the Army of the Confederation, and to see to the training of the spear levy. Nor will noblemen be denied bodyguards and armed retainers, but the large warbands are to be dissolved.”
Mahnos nodded emphatically. “Good and good again. Give a man a small army to play with and all hell breaks loose. Besides, I’d rather see my people pushing plows than pikes. You have my ‘aye,’ Grahvos.”
Within a scant hour it was settled, for the firm yet fair government of Kehnooryos. Ehlahs had been the subject of speculation and admiration for the thirty years since its inception; and all the thoheeksee agreed that almost any form of rule was preferable to the last few years. The meeting broke up and they scattered to their various commands to order their forces, agreeing to meet, each with retinues of reliable, well-armed men, at Zastros’ pavilion at a specified time.
Lillian leisurely set up the transceiver, attaching it to the powerpack in the matching chest and to its antenna—that long, slender brass rod that she, while in Zastros’ body, had had permanently affixed to the highest point of the pavilion. Then she plugged in the mike and carefully adjusted the frequency. There was, she knew, no chance of discovery or interruption this time, for Zastros was heavily sedated—even were he not, only the timbre of-her voice and those words known to no other could bring him out of his trance-state. Nor were the guards to be expected to check this far into the pavilion until they changed, and that was at least two hours away.
She depressed the button that gave out her call signal. Almost immediately a man’s voice crackled from the set.
“This is the J. & R. Kennedy Center. Who’s calling, please?”
“Dr. Landor. This is Dr. Lillian Landor. Who is the board member on duty tonight?”
“Uhhh, Dr. Crawley, ma’am. You wish to speak with him?”
“Of course I want to speak with him, you dunce! Why else do you think I called? And, wait a minute!” she snapped. “I hold four degrees buster. I’ve as much right to the title ‘Doctor’ as has any other board member. If I hear one more goddamned ma’am out of you, you’ll spend the next ten years in the body of a goddamned alligator! You get me, you goddamned chauvinist?”
The man stammered some unintelligible reply. Then there was dead air for a short while while she fidgeted and silently fumed.
A new voice came through the speaker. “This is Bud Crawley, Lily. What seems to be the problem this time?”
“Dr. Crawley,” she replied icily, “I warned you all about the riskiness of this insanity from the start, and I knew I was right, even if you didn’t. Well, the army is at the Little Pee Dee River, just west of the ocean swamps, and it cannot go any farther north, not without help from the Center.”