"Just depend on me; I'll handle it."
After the stranger had gone, he shut off the sound reception, relying
on visual dumb-show to keep him informed of what was going on on the
Council floor. He didn't like the situation. It was too easy to say
the wrong thing. If only he knew more about the shadowy figures whose
messengers used his private door--
* * * * *
Coru-hin-Irigod held his aching head in both hands, as though he were
afraid it would fall apart, and blinked in the sunlight from the
window. Lord Safar, how much of that sweet brandy had he drunk, last
night? He sat on the edge of the bed for a moment, trying to think.
Then, suddenly apprehensive, he thrust his hand under his pillow. The
heavy four-barreled pistols were there, all right, but--_The money!_
He rummaged frantically among the bedding, and among his clothes,
piled on the floor, but the leather bag was nowhere to be found. Two
thousand gold _obus_, the price of a hundred slaves. He snatched up
one of the pistols, his headache forgotten. Then he laughed and tossed
the pistol down again.
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