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Twenty-Seven

Tirros Hanorissio had ridden north out of Theedalit, then northeast. That way the country was rugged, its hills offering more security than the plateau to the south. He'd decided to ride northeast to the Neck, staying out of sight at all times, then into Djez Gorrbul. He'd tell King Gamaliiu what he knew about the foreigners, and the king would make a prince of him. Gamaliiu would be ready when the Almaeic fleet came, and with Tirros fighting in the van, he'd drive the invaders back into the sea. Then he, Tirros, would ride at Gamaliiu's side when the Gorrbian army marched into Theedalit, and the first person he'd have drawn and quartered would be his father.

By noon of the second day, Tirros looked as if he'd been on the road for a week. He was dirty, hungry, saddle-sore, and he'd hardly gotten started on the long, long ride to Haipoor l'Djezzer. The day before, he'd eaten nothing but some not-yet-ripe mornoles, plucked where the cart trail ran past an orchard, and they'd upset his stomach. That morning he'd killed a vehatto, then realized he had no firemaker, no way to cook it, He'd tried eating a bit of it raw, and managed to swallow a few bites, but decided he couldn't live like that for long. Sleeping on the ground he could get used to, but he'd have to chance stopping at inns to eat.

But to eat at inns cost money, and what he had with him wouldn't take him halfway to Haipoor l'Djezzer. He'd have to steal some. And the only place he could be sure of finding it in any quantity, without exposing himself to serious danger, was the ranch. He knew the place thoroughly, could find his way around the villa in the dark, and rob his Aunt Zeenia without anyone being the wiser.

Glancing at the sun, he turned his kaabor southward. He'd make a big semicircle and head for Sea Cliff. If he pushed really hard, he could be there the next night but one.

* * *

Brokols had slept like a baby for four hours, and awoke feeling renewed, without memory of dreams except that there'd been some. For a minute or two he didn't even remember what had happened earlier. When he did, it was like a cloud settling over him, but even so, he was in considerably better shape than he'd been on their ride home.

Reeno was sitting in the entryway when Brokols came out of his bedroom into the hall. The Hrummean looked up, a book open on his lap, then got to his feet. After Brokols had washed his face, they went out and ate a late lunch at a satta shop, took rikkshas to the Fortress and rode kaabors north out of the city, then up out of the valley onto the ridge above the firth.

It was a day without rain, without even a threat of it. The sky was a high vault of blue, with small white clouds. A breeze, cool for the season, moved the lush green of grasses and forbs. Reeno rode a dozen yards behind, saying nothing, leaving Brokols to himself, monitoring the Almite's thoughts and the pictures beneath them.

Brokols was reviewing mentally. His official function here was to keep Kryger informed of what went on in Hrumma, what the conditions and potentials were. And when the time came, to tell the Hrummeans of the Gorrbian intention to invade. And tell the amirr that a friendly Kryger had passed him the word. He was not, of course, to tell him that Kryger had instigated the invasion.

He was also to be sure that Hrummean forces would not collapse too readily.

Really, there was no great conflict between imperial orders and the proposal that Allbarin had made. He could satisfy the amirr without clear and overt treason against the emperor. Whereas, if he refused the amirr, there was deportation and the headsman's axe.

And perhaps something would come up—perhaps there'd be something he could do, as the emperor's agent, to protect Hrumma from occupation. Perhaps Hrumma could exist as an internally autonomous tributary of Almeon. Hrumma was not a rich and fertile land. The emperor might be satisfied with tribute. Admittedly it wasn't likely, but if he could work something . . . if the Hrummeans showed enough military strength, enough ferocity in battle, perhaps occupation would look too costly and troublesome. In that case, tribute might seem a good and intelligent alternative to occupation and direct rule.

At any rate, he'd go along with Allbarin's proposal.

And tonight—tonight he'd definitely have to report to Kryger. He needed to give that some thought. Lying would take more care than telling nothing but the truth.

* * *

Reeno watched the ambassador as they rode. He liked the man. He seemed to be into wishful thinking today, but given his circumstances that was just as well. And you couldn't help but hope.

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Framed