Brett and Vanjynk pursued the enemy across the sands, but when a group aboard fired on them with crossbows, MacKinnie shouted them back. He re-formed his little command behind Subao again and left them to rest easy in ranks while he surveyed the battlefield.

He had lost two native troopers, killed when the pirates broke ranks. Several others had deep cuts, and one had a throwing knife through his shoulder. In addition, MacLean had caught a wicked cut across the back of his hand from the dying efforts of a pirate Longway spitted. The others were unharmed. The Haven detachment had been always on the attack and the pirates had little chance of closing with them, nor were their weapons heavy enough to do much damage through chain mail unless given more time than Hal had allowed them.

There were thirty-four bodies on the sand between the two boats. Some wriggled feebly. Most lay well away from Subao, cut down in flight by Hal’s men or the cavalry in pursuit.

“It’s always like that,” he explained to Longway and MacLean as he climbed back on board. “I’ve never seen a battle where at the decisive moment the loser didn’t have enough strength to turn the table. Once they lose the will to fight, they’re finished. More men are killed in pursuit than battle every time.”

“But it seemed so easy!” Mary Graham said.

MacKinnie turned, surprised to see her on deck. “I told you to stay below,” he muttered. “As to easy, it wouldn’t have been if they’d caught us on our decks. If they’d swarmed aboard with our troops not in formation and no room to maneuver, they’d have won. They were fools to fight on our terms. What can you serve my men for lunch, freelady?”

She swallowed hard before she replied. “Will they come back?” she asked. “It will take time to prepare.”

“I doubt they’ve the stomach for it.” He turned to Loholo. “Will they try to attack again after we’re afloat?”

“Loholo shook his head. “We’ll both have enough trouble staying off that shore, Trader. There won’t be much time for fighting when the water wall comes.”

MacKinnie noted that while they had been fighting, the officers had broken out one of the ship’s anchors.

MacLean had it carried out and laid in the sand on the seaward side of Subao. “We’ll need that,” he explained. “Without it, the ship might be washed ashore when the tide returns. This ought to hold us until we can sail off.”

“Will the pirates have one out?” MacKinnie asked.

“If they have any sense.”

“I see. That gives me an idea. I’ll have to speak to Brett.”

There was no further action, but Nathan kept his crew in ranks on the sand. They ate in place. An hour before the tide was due in, Vanjynk’s horse was swayed aboard, and the rest of the crew then took their places behind the ship, leaving only Brett and his mount on the sand behind the ship. A few pirates approached to within a hundred yards, but the sight of Brett thundering around the side of the ship toward them put them to flight, and Brett returned to his post as Vanjynk fumed in the waist.

“We’ll have need of you, Vanjynk,” MacKinnie said. “You stand by to carry out your orders.” They waited.

“I see it!” Loholo shouted from the masthead. “The tide’s coming.”

MacKinnie waved to Brett. “Now.” he ordered.

The mounted rider galloped toward the enemy ship. He stayed well out of arrow range, going around until he found the anchor the pirates had laid out beyond their boat. He cut the anchor cable with a quick slash of his sword, then rode furiously back toward Subao. His armor and that of his mount had earlier been put aboard, and as Brett reached the ship, Vanjynk was ready with a belly sling. Rider and animal alike were swayed aboard, as the thunder of approaching water grew louder.

MacKinnie climbed partway up the shrouds and stared seaward. He saw a dark line not more than a kilometer away, and as he watched it advanced at incredible speed, a wall of water three meters in height boiling furiously toward them. The pirates screamed, one standing in the stern of his ship and shaking his fist at Subao. There was nothing they could do; by the time they could reach

Subao’scable, the wall of water would be on them, and it appeared that no pirate was willing to give his life to make trouble for MacKinnie. Their ship was carried relentlessly towards the rocks as MacLean gave the order to raise sail and prepare Subao for her long voyage.

Twelve light-years from Makassar Malcolm Dougal cursed as he followed a winding road uphill through thick forests. The forest had been a game preserve for all the centuries since the Secession Wars had devastated Prince Samual’s World, but Dougal ignored its loveliness, as he ignored the bird songs and the calls of the corkborers.

He did not know that the trees themselves had been imported from Earth. If he had, he would have cursed them, as he cursed everything of Earth.

He wore plain kilts. His round face, always rabbit-like in appearance, was screwed into a grimace that made him look less harmless than he usually did, but still few would have guessed his occupation. He considered his appearance an asset; as he sometimes said in rare moments when he could relax with his friends, what should a secret policeman look like?

A corkborer fluttered past, and Dougal actually lashed out at it, although he usually enjoyed the antics of the small flying mammals. Others darted near in curiosity, but Dougal took no notice. As he neared the lodge he muttered more curses.

Twenty years, he thought to himself. No. Be fair. More like fifty. Damn the Empire of Man! Where was the Empire when we needed help? When we were trying to rebuild a civilization out of radioactive ash and ruined cities? And now, with our own spaceships not more than fifty years away, the Empire has come — and they won’t give us fifty years. They won’t give us any time at all.

They’ve come, and I must meet the king in secrecy in this lonely place …

It disturbed Dougal’s sense of majesty. Instead of walking up this wooded hill to a lonely log cabin, he should be approaching his sovereign across a purple carpet, or meeting him privately in the working office behind the Audience Chamber. Now those rooms could not be trusted. Nothing could be trusted. The Empire had ears everywhere.

They’ll not learn this secret!

But they might. Fear warps us all, he thought. And so I meet King David out here, and not even the royal guardsmen know where His Majesty has gone.

The king’s instructions were explicit: Dougal was to tell no one of this meeting, and His Majesty would be alone. No one, not even the guardsmen, were to know the meeting had taken place. Only two men in the universe were to know that Dougal and King David were meeting here.

More did, of course. Malcolm had provided men to cover the hunting lodge. But they were reliable men, absolutely reliable, men who could be trusted to—

“Halt!” Two men stood in the deep alcove of the lodge doorway. Dougal recognized them as guards officers out of uniform. They carried both pistols and rifles, and they stood alertly. One eyed Dougal coldly, then nodded. “Pass, my lord.”

But — why? Dougal wondered. As he entered the lodge he had an even greater shock, for the king was not alone under the high-beamed ceiling.

“Our greetings, my lord,” David said formally. “We trust you are well.”

“Thank you, yes, Sire.” Dougal bowed to the king, then to the other man.

In contrast to King David’s handsome youthfulness, the Prime Minister was old. His face was wrinkled, and his belly spilled over his waistband. Malcolm Dougal was quite aware that he would probably look much like Sir