I said, “Suppose, then, they do not believe I am Vazkor’s?”

“You shall be tested,” a new voice answered me.

I turned my head and saw Zrenn. Softer than a cat he had come creeping in. He no longer wore the black garments and silver skull, but ocher picked out with silver ornaments, delicate as a girl’s, and a silver fox-mask.

Kortis turned also.

“Well, what news?”

Zrenn bowed. There was a yellow topaz in the fox’s brow, catching the torchlight.

“The messenger went out, my Javhovor, and returned. Nemarl, also Erran, agree to meet us, as you stipulated, but first they have sent a man to view our prisoner. Their caution does them credit, my lord, don’t you agree?”

Kortis said, “Is the man here? Then let him come in. Why wait on ceremony?”

Zrenn gestured into the corridor. One of the guards called to another, and there came again the tramp of feet and pitch of torches. Soon the emissary entered. His clothes were more ragged even than the scabby splendor of the Phoenix and his captains, and his mask was of a gray cloth. Some lower citizen, an unfortunate appropriated for this work by the rival princes, he was expendable and entirely aware of the fact.

He immediately fell on his knees before Kortis, fumbling off his mask. His teeth were grayer than the cloth, his face nearly as gray.

“I entreat the immunity of a messenger, great lord, Kortis Javhovor. Don’t harm me, only an old man who is nothing, nothing—”

Zrenn slapped him lightly across the head.

“Shut your foul gob, decrepit. Identify the warrior, as you were told to by your gentle masters. My lord Kortis is sick already of your noise.”

At this, the emissary looked up at me.

His red-rimmed eyes bulged as if they would burst the sockets. From being on his knees to Kortis, he now plunged face downward before me, whimpering.

Zrenn kicked him.

“Vazkor, it is Vazkor,” the old man shrilled. He edged crawling along the floor, over the rat droppings, and clasped my manacled feet. “Mercy, Overlord,” he whined to me, peering up as if into a strong irresistible glare.

Zrenn broke into his soft and sinuous laughter.

“Proof indeed,” he said, and laughed again.

“How does the old man know him?” Kortis inquired. You could tell nothing from his tone.

“He is a tame creature of Prince Erran’s. The prince says the old man was among the infantry that marched on Purple Valley, under Vazkor. He got some wound that saw him home before the offensive broke.”

“Ask him if this is true.”

“My lord.” Zrenn strolled over to the old man and toed him away from me as if clearing garbage. “Do you hear the Javhovor? Did you fight under Vazkor?”

The emissary stumbled upright. He mumbled an affirmative. His eyes pleaded with me not to visit my wrath on him. The bronze guard clanked through the narrow door at some fresh signal of Zrenn’s, and pulled the gray messenger away.