.

than the late twenties, or no more than thirty at most, though that was only the magic of Martin Sair, since more than eighty years had passed since his birth in the mountains of Mexico. He wore the warrior’s garb of the southlands, a shirt of metallic silver scales, short thigh-length trousers of some shiny, silken material, cothurns on his feet. His bronzed body was like the ancient statues Hull had seen in Selui, and he looked hardly the fiend that most people thought him. A pleasant seeming man, save for something faintly arrogant in his face—no, not arrogant, exactly, but proud or confident, as if he felt himself a being driven by fate, as perhaps he was.

      He spoke again, now to his men. “Camp there,” he ordered, waving at Ormiston square, “and there,” pointing at a fallow field. “Do not damage the crops.” He rode forward, and a dozen officers followed. “The Church,” he said.

      A voice, a tense, shrieking voice behind Hull. “You! It is, Hull! It’s you!” It was Vail, teary eyed and pale. “They said you were—” She broke off sobbing, clinging to him, while Enoch Ormiston watched sourly.

      He held her. “It seems I failed you,” he said ruefully. “But I did do my best, Vail.”

      “Failed? I don’t care.” She calmed. “I don’t care, Hull, since you’re here.”

      “And it isn’t as bad as it might be,” he consoled. “He wasn’t as severe as I feared.”

      “Severe !” she echoed. “Do you believe those mild words of his, Hull? First our taxes then our lands, and next it will be our lives—or at least my father’s life. Don’t you understand? That was no eldarch from some enemy town, Hull—that was Joaquin Smith. Joaquin Smith! Do you trust him?”

      “Vail, do you believe that?”

      “Of course I believe it!” She began to sob again. “See how he has already won over half the town with—with that about the taxes. Don’t you be won over, Hull. I—couldn’t stand it!”

      “I will not,” he promised.

      “He and Black Margot and their craft! I hate them, Hull. I—Look there! Look there!”

      He spun around. For a moment he saw nothing save the green-eyed youth who had turned death-laden eyes on him at Eaglefoot Flow, mounted on the mighty black stallion. Youth! He saw suddenly that it was a woman—a girl rather. Eighteen—twenty-five? He couldn’t tell. Her face was averted as she scanned the crowd that lined the opposite side of the street, but the sunset fell on a flaming black mop of hair, so black that it glinted blue—an intense, unbelievable black. Like Joaquin Smith she wore only a shirt and very abbreviated shorts, but a caparison protected the slim daintiness of her legs from any contact with the mount’s ribs. There was a curious grace in the way she sat the idling steed, one hand on its haunches, the other on withers, the bridle dangling loose. Her Spanish mother’s blood showed only in the clear, transparent olive of her skin, and of course, in the startling ebony of her hair.

      “Black Margot!” Hull whispered, “Brazen! Half naked! What’s so beautiful about her?”

      As if she heard his whisper, she turned suddenly, her emerald eyes sweeping the crowd about him, and he felt his question answered. Her beauty was starkly incredible—audacious, outrageous. It was more than a mere lack of flaws; it was a sultry, flaming positive beauty with a hint of sullenness in it. The humor of the Master’s mouth lurked about hers as mockery; her perfect lips seemed always about to smile, but to smile cruelly and sardonically. Hers was a ruthless and pitiless perfection, but it was nevertheless perfection, even to the faintly Oriental cast given by her black hair and sea-green eyes.

      Those eyes met Hull’s and it was almost as if he heard an audible click. He saw recognition in her face, and she passed her glance casually over his mighty figure. He stiffened, stared defiantly back, and swept his own gaze insolently over her body from the midnight hair to the diminutive cothurns on her feet. If she acknowledged his gaze at all, it was by the faintest of all possible smiles of mockery as she rode coolly away toward Joaquin Smith.

      Vail was trembling against him, and it was a great relief to look into her deep but not at all mysterious blue eyes, and to see the quite understandable loveliness of her pale features. What if she hadn’t the insolent brilliance of the Princess, he thought fiercely. She was sweet and honest and loyal to her beliefs, and he loved her. Yet he could not keep his eyes from straying once more to the figure on the black stallion.

      “She—she smiled at you, Hull!” gasped Vail. “I’m frightened. I’m terribly frightened.”

      His fascination was yielding now to a surge of hatred for Joaquin Smith, for the Princess, for the whole Empire. It was Vail he loved, and she was being crushed by these. An idea formed slowly as he stared down the street to where Joaquin Smith had dismounted and was now striding into the little church. He heard an approving murmur sweep the crowd, already half won over by the distribution of land. That was simply policy, the Master’s worshipping in Ormiston church, a gesture to the crowd.

      He lifted the steel bow from his back and bent it. The spring was still in it; it had been heated enough to scorch his skin but not enough to untemper it. “Wait here!” he snapped to Vail, and strode up the street toward the church.

      Outside stood a dozen Empire men, and the Princess idled on her great black horse. He slipped across the churchyard, around behind where a tangle of vines stretched toward the roof. Would they support his weight? They did, and he pulled himself hand over hand to the eaves, and thence to the peak. The spire hid him from the Master’s men, and not one of the Ormiston folk glanced his way.

      He crept forward to the base of the steeple. Now he must leave the peak and creep precariously along the steep slope around it. He reached the street edge and peered cautiously over.

      The Master was still within. Against his will he glanced at Black Margot, and even put cord to feather and sighted at her ivory throat. But he could not. He could not loose the shaft.

      Below him there was a stir. Joaquin Smith came out and swung to his white horse. Now was the moment. Hull rose to his knees, hoping that he could remain steady on the sharp pitch of the roof. Carefully, carefully, he drew the steel arrow back.

      There was a shout. He had been seen, and a blue beam sent racking pain through his body. For an instant he bore it, then loosed his arrow and went sliding down the roof edge and over.

      He fell on soft loam. A dozen hands seized him, dragged him upright, thrust him out into the street. He saw Joaquin Smith still on his horse, but the glistening arrow stood upright like a plume in his silver helmet, and a trickle of blood was red on his cheek.

      But he wasn’t killed. He raised the helmet from his head, waved aside the cluster of officers, and with his own hands bound a white cloth about his forehead. Then he turned cool grey eyes on Hull.

      “You drive a strong shaft,” he said, and then recognition flickered in his eyes. “I spared your life some hours ago, did I not?”

      Hull said nothing.

      “Why,” resumed the Master, “do you seek to kill me after your eldarch has made peace with me? You are part of the Empire now, and this is treason.”

      “I made no peace!” growled Hull.

      “But your leader did, thereby binding you.”

      Hull could not keep his gaze from the emerald eyes of the Princess, who was watching him without expression save faint mockery.

      “Have you nothing to say,” asked Joaquin Smith.

      “Nothing.”

      The Master’s eyes slid over him. “Are you Ormiston born?” he asked. “What is your name?”

      No need to bring troubles on his friends. “No,” said Hull. “I am called Hull Tarvish.”

      The conqueror turned away. “Lock him up,” he ordered coolly. “Let him make whatever preparations his religion requires, and then—execute him.”

      Above the murmur of the crowd