"Perhaps. So they told me. And it was, after all, the old seat of the Empire, and its shrunken remnant of territory is still greater than any other domain. So I came here to see for myself." Alfric grinned, a wolfish gleam of teeth in the night. "Also, I heard tales--restlessness, a struggle for power between Temple and Imperium, with the Emperor an old man and the last of his line, unable to get a child on his young queen Hildaborg. It seemed opportune." "How so?" He thought she breathed faster, lying there beside him. * * * * * He chuckled, a harsh iron sound in his corded throat. "How should I know? Except that when such a hell's broth is bubbling, a fighting man can always scoop up loot or power or--at the very least--adventure. If nothing else, there might be the Empress. They say she's a half barbarian herself, a princess of Choredon, and a lusty wench giving hospitality to every visiting noble or knight." He felt Freha stiffen a little, and added: "But that doesn't interest me now, when I've found you. Freha, leave this place with me tomorrow and you'll wear the crown jewels of Valkarion." "Or else see your head on a pike above the walls," she said. Faintly through the window and the whining night-wind, they heard the crash of a great gong. "Dannos is rising," whispered Freha. "Tonight he mates with Mother Amaris. It is said that the Fates walk through the streets of Valkarion on such nights." She shivered. "Indeed they do on this eve." "Perhaps," said Alfric, though the hackles rose on his neck. "But how do you know?" "Have you not heard?" Her voice shuddered, seeming to blend with the moan of wind and steady, slow boom of gong. "Have you not heard? The Emperor Aureon is dying. He is not expected to last till dawn. The Thirty-ninth Dynasty dies with him, and--and there is no successor!" The wind mumbled under the eaves, rattling the window frame and flowing darkly through the alley. "Ha!" Alfric laughed harshly, exultantly. "A chance--by Ruho, what a chance!" Of a sudden he stiffened, and the voice of danger was a great shout in his head. He sat up, cocking his ears, and heard the faint scratch and scrape--aye, under the window, coming close-- He slid from the covers and drew his sword where it lay on the floor. The boards felt cold under his bare feet, the night air fingered his skin with icy hands. "What is it?" whispered Freha. She sat up, the dark hair tumbling past her frightened face. "What is it, Alfric?" He made no answer, but padded over to the window. Flattened against the wall, he stood waiting as a hand raised the sash from outside. The pale cold light of Amaris fell on the hand that now gripped the sill. A body lifted itself, one-handed, the other clutching a knife. For an instant Alfric saw the flat hairless face in the moonlight, the double crescent brand livid against its horrible blankness. Then in one rippling motion the slave was inside the room.