Chapter 15

Nine years. Nine years since the breaking of a vast empire. It really didn’t seem like it. The Viceroy looked at his hands. They were veined and thin, and the callouses were gone. Was he getting soft, or just getting old? A little bit--no, a great deal of both.

He sat in his study, in the Viceregal Palace at Kingston, chewing over the events of the past weeks. Twice, rumors had come that he was to be assassinated. He and two of his councilors had been hanged in effigy in the public square not long back. He had been snubbed publicly by some of the lesser nobles.

Had he ruled harshly, or was it just jealousy? And was it, really, as some said, caused by the Southerners and the followers of Young Jim?

He didn’t know. And sometimes, it seemed as if it didn’t matter.

Here he was, sitting alone in his study, when he should have gone to a public function. And he had stayed because of fear of assassination.

Was it--

There was a knock at the door.

“Come in.”

A servant entered. “Sir Martin is here, my lord.”

The Viceroy got to his feet. “Show him in, by all means.”

Sir Martin, just behind the servant, stepped in, smiling, and the Viceroy returned his smile. “Well, everything went off well enough without you,” said Sir Martin.

“Any sign of trouble?”

“None, my lord; none whatsoever. The--”

“Damn!” the Viceroy interrupted savagely. “I should have known! What have I done but display my cowardice? I’m getting yellow in my old age!”

Sir Martin shook his head. “Cowardice, my lord? Nothing of the sort. Prudence, I should call it. By the by, the judge and a few others are coming over.” He chuckled softly. “We thought we might talk you out of a meal.”

The Viceroy grinned widely. “Nothing easier. I suspected all you hangers-on would come around for your handouts. Come along, my friend; we’ll have a drink before the others get here.”

There were nearly twenty people at dinner, all, presumably, friends of the Viceroy. At least, it is certain that they were friends in so far as they had no part in the assassination plot. It was a gay party; the Viceroy’s friends were doing their best to cheer him up, and were succeeding pretty well. One of the nobles, known for his wit, had just essayed a somewhat off-color jest, and the others were roaring with laughter at the punch line when a shout rang out.

There was a sudden silence around the table.

“What was that?” asked someone. “What did--”

“Help!“ There was the sound of footsteps pounding up the stairway from the lower floor.

“Help! The Southerners have come to kill the Viceroy!“

From the sounds, there was no doubt in any of the minds of the people seated around the table that the shout was true. For a moment, there was shock. Then panic took over.

There were only a dozen or so men in the attacking party; if the “friends” of the Viceroy had stuck by him, they could have held off the assassins with ease.