The Envoy, Her, H. B. Fyfe [best romantic books to read .txt] 📗

arly the next morning, after the engineers had arranged a dawn for his benefit, Vyrtl called a council of his commanders. Chief-of-Staff Robert Tzyfol reported on the situation.

The rebellious Jursans were sending a representative to ask for terms. In the Marshal's strongly expressed opinion, no leniency was necessary. The imperial fleets were slowly but surely stamping out all resistance, making Jursa unlivable.

"Abject submission is their only course," he declared.

It was the sort of declaration with which Vyrtl might have agreed, had he been able to voice it first.

As it was, he announced that he would keep it in mind when judging the fate of the rebels. He had no inclination to destroy a perfectly good, tax-paying planet if he could whip its inhabitants into line by other means.

He ended the conference by stating his intention to ride in the artificial forest. He enjoyed the glances of relief among the generals—especially the older and more brittle ones—when he gave them leave to resume their military duties instead of attending him.

A few hours later, Wilkins found Vyrtl and a small retinue resting beside a pool at the edge of the forest.

"The rebel envoy has arrived, Sire," he reported.

Vyrtl kicked a pebble into the pool and spat after it. "We shall see him immediately," he announced. "No use wasting ceremony on the villain."

Returning to the palace, he strode into the audience chamber and signaled for the envoy to be admitted. Still warm from his ride and insultingly disheveled, he sat in the imitation of the great throne on his capital planet, Hebryxid.

"If he isn't brisk," he muttered to Wilkins, "we may teach him promptness by hunting him through the forest tomorrow."

Above the whispers of hastily assembled officers, courtiers, and a few of Vyrtl's wives, a chamberlain announced, "The Jursan envoy, Daphne Foster."

"A woman?" murmured Vyrtl.

"So it seems. She looks quite ... distinguished."

"Ha! The witty Wilkins! A pretty choice of words."

The woman approached the throne amid a low buzz from Vyrtl's attendants, and bowed gracefully. Gracefully but not too abjectly, considering the situation and his own position, Vyrtl thought. She raised her head and endured his deliberate scrutiny.

She would have to be a rebel, Vyrtl told himself. He supposed they had scoured all Jursa for a real beauty to dazzle him; but they would discover that it would not work.

At first glance, she had seemed slim, but he saw now that, though tall, she was very well proportioned. A net of tiny, glittering jewels was woven into the black hair that hung to her shoulders. Her features were regular, but expressively alive compared to the artificial placidity of the court beauties.

But what disturbed the Emperor of Pollux most was the way she looked at him! He felt that it was stretching diplomacy a bit far.

A smile in deep blue eyes was pleasant, when someone was sufficiently accomplished to muster it in his presence; but this was a shade too familiar. She seemed to put herself on a level with him—as if to share an amusement beyond the others present.

The next moment, he was trying to decide just what quality made hers the most beautiful female voice he had ever heard. Consequently, he missed most of the formula about "the gratitude of all Jursa" at his receiving "his humble slave."

hat smile lit the blue eyes again. It was hard to tell if a ghost of it lingered at the corners of the full lips, but the total effect was of anything but humility. He pulled himself together, aware that Wilkins had noticed his hesitation.

"So the Jursans seek to soften our just anger?" he said. "They send their surrender by one who is obviously the loveliest jewel of their misguided world."

A few of the courtiers snickered dutifully. Vyrtl was annoyed; he had not meant to be funny. He glanced swiftly at the half-dozen wives present, but their expressions showed no jealousy. He decided that the empty-headed creatures had at least learned not to embarrass him publicly.

"Your Illustrious Sublimity is too gracious," replied the envoy. "I regret that my message is not unqualified surrender."

Vyrtl frowned. "You dare ask terms?"

"I must carry out the commands laid upon me by the Council."

She smiled into his eyes and made a rueful little gesture with both hands, which she allowed to fall gracefully to her sides. Vyrtl's gaze was led up and down her figure again.

He forced himself to meet her glance. Rather than expressing any resentment of his appraisal, it suggested that her resistance to his demands would be merely formal.

They've sent me a clever one, he thought, but they will find I cannot be bought off so cheaply. Still, it can do no harm to show that Vyrtl can be the diplomat as well as a soldier.

"We are unprepared for any discussion," he said aloud. "Since we are not disposed, however, to be hasty in our judgement, you may wait upon us in the council chamber in two hours."

The envoy stepped lithely aside when he rose. With some difficulty, Vyrtl kept his eyes front as he strode from the hall with Wilkins and his personal guards at his heels. He hastened to his own chambers for a bath and change of clothes.

He allowed himself to be bathed, scented, and dressed in the most imperial costume he had brought from Hebryxid. Blonde Xota, his official favorite who had taken no chance of losing her place by absence from his side, admired his dazzling jewels and scarlet silks extravagantly. Vyrtl permitted her to serve him a light lunch, paying little attention to her chatter.

Once, when he had taken her from the Co-ordinator of his sixth planet, he had fancied himself in love with her; now he merely amused himself guessing from day to day to whom she sold her supposed influence. He sometimes wondered if any wife he owned were innocent of spying.

He rose, summoned Wilkins, and led a small procession to the council chamber. They found the necessary quota of high officers waiting. Daphne Foster was summoned.

Vyrtl took his place on a dais at the head of the table, and his aide arranged the gold-stiffened ceremonial robe. The generals made little professional jokes, each striving to act as if the victory had been mostly his own doing. Even the lean Chief of Staff, Tzyfol, looked satiated.

The Jursan envoy was announced.

nce again, Vyrtl was so fascinated by the girl that he paid scant heed to the ceremonious greetings. He decided she was younger than he had thought earlier.

Finally, the conference got down to business.

"My people," said Daphne Foster, "ask but a few minor concessions, which we believe will benefit the remainder of the Empire as much as Jursa."

"We are disposed to believe your good intentions," said Vyrtl encouragingly.

He caught himself smiling, and immediately resumed the mask of dignity.

The Jursans, it developed, would give up demands for autonomy and resume allegiance to the Empire. They pleaded, however, for freedom of scientific research, promising that their discoveries would be placed promptly at Vyrtl's disposal.

In the matter of indemnities, they were willing, Daphne Foster said with an intimate glance for Vyrtl alone, to rely upon his generosity. They asked only that they be allowed a reasonable time to restore the damage suffered in the fighting and that they be permitted to make part of the payments in the technical equipment they were so skilled at manufacturing.

Some of the officers raised objections that Vyrtl thought well-put, but he overruled them. The main point, he pronounced, was to restore a valuable possession to productivity. There would be no looting and destruction.

He felt less sure of himself when old Tzyfol protested that free research was one of the roots of the trouble. Consequently, perhaps, the imperial glare that silenced the Marshal