"I'm changing sides, Rhodar," King Drosta lek Thun replied with an almost hysterical laugh. "I'm joining forces with you. I've been in touch with your queen for weeks. Didn't you get her messages?"

"I thought you were playing games."

"Naturally I'm playing games." The Nadrak King giggled. "I've always got something up my sleeve. Right now my army's opening an escape route for you. You do want to escape, don't you?"

"Of course I do."

"So do I. My troops will butcher the Malloreans in those trenches, and then we can all make a run for it."

"I don't trust you, Drosta," Rhodar said bluntly.

"Rhodar," Drosta said in mock chagrin, "how can you say that to an old friend?" He giggled again, his voice shrill and nervous.

"I want to know why you're changing sides in the middle of a battle - particularly when your side's winning."

"Rhodar, my kingdom's awash with Malloreans. If I don't help you to defeat them, 'Zakath will simply absorb Gar og Nadrak. It's much too long and involved to talk about now. Will you accept my aid?"

"I'll take all the help I can get."

"Good. Maybe later we can get drunk together and talk things over, but for right now, let's get out of here before 'Zakath hears about this and comes after me personally." The King of Gar og Nadrak laughed again, the same shrill, almost hysterical laugh as before. "I did it, Rhodar," he exulted. "I actually betrayed 'Zakath of Mallorea and got away with it."

"You haven't gotten away with it yet, Drosta," Rhodar told him dryly.

"I will if we run fast enough, Rhodar, and right now I really feel like running."

'Zakath, dread Emperor of boundless Mallorea, was a man of medium height with glossy black hair and a pale, olive-tinged complexion. His features were regular, even handsome, but his eyes were haunted by a profound melancholy. He appeared to be about thirty-five years old, and he wore a plain linen robe with no ornament or decoration upon it to indicate his exalted rank.

His pavilion stood in the center of the camp of the Malloreans, a vast sea of tents standing on the plains of Mishrak ac Thull. The earthen floor of the pavilion was covered with priceless Mallorean carpets, and the polished tables and chairs were inlaid with gold and with mother of pearl. Candles filled the pavilion with glowing light. Somewhere nearby, a small group of musicians played subdued melodies set in a minor key.

The Emperor's only companion was a half grown cat, a common, mackerel-striped tabby with that gangling, long-legged awkwardness of the adolescent feline. While 'Zakath watched with a sort of sad-eyed amusement, the young cat stalked a scrap of balled-up parchment, her feet noiseless on the carpet and her face set in a look of intent concentration.