“An empire runs on what works,” Straton said. “Or it doesn’t run. We can be very
practical.”
Jubal considered a moment. A grin spread on his dark, lined face, all theater.
“This is my friend.” He looked left and right at his lieutenants, and his voice
hit registers that ran along the spine. “This is my good friend.” Looking back
at Straton. “Let’s call it a deal-friend Straton.”
Straton stared at him, with less of relief than of a profound sickness in his
gut. But it was a victory. Of sorts. It just did not come with parades and
shouting crowds. It came of common sense. “Fine,” he said. “Does this include a
deal about that stupid blindfold? Where’s my horse?”
“At the contact point. I’m afraid it doesn’t include my whereabouts, friend. But
I’ll send you back with a man you know, how’s that? Vis.”
Mradhon Vis slipped his knife into sheath and let the front legs of his chair
meet the floor as he got up.
It was not the man Strat would have chosen to go with, blindfolded and helpless,
down an alley. Protesting it sounded like complaint and complaint did nothing
for a man’s dignity in this situation that had little enough of dignity about it
and precious little leeway. Straton stood up, his arms at his sides as a man
behind him took the chair away. Another man put the blindfold back in front of
his eyes and tied it with no less uncomfortable firmness. “Dammit, watch it,”
Straton muttered.
“Be careful of him,” Jubal’s deep voice said. But no one did anything about the
blindfold.
It was less trouble finding Tempus than Crit had anticipated when he talked to