“Your tidings, Xantol,” snapped Destho.
“I have been sent to inform your highness of a rumor being circulated in Uxpo, to the effect that Grandon of Terra has been slain.”
“A rumor, say you? You bring us stale news, fellow. We have already been apprised that the villainous imposter is dead and that his mutilated body lies in state in the palace.”
Destho turned to the guard. “Who signed this man’s papers?”
They are signed by Malcabar.”
“By Malcabar? Let me see them.”
He examined the papers carefully. “The writing and signature seem genuine,” he said. “Send for that courier again!”
As Torbo reentered, bowing low, Destho snarled: “Sol You found it expedient to lie to me, Torbo!”
“I lie to your highness?” exclaimed Torbo in surprise. “Surely it pleases your highness to jest with his humble servant.”
“You told me Malcabar was slain yesterday morning. I have here a letter, written and signed by him last evening. Can the dead write letters?”
“If you have a letter from Malcabar, then indeed can the dead write letters, for I swear by the bones of Thorth that I saw him lead the attack on the usurper yesterday morning and a huge armored guard clove him from crown to chin.”
Destho looked searchingly from Torbo to the soldier, and from the soldier back to Torbo.
“One of you lies, that is certain,” he said, “and you may rest assured, both of you, that the guilty man will be discovered and dealt with for his perfidy.”
“May I ask who brought the letter?” asked Torbo.
“I brought the letter,” replied the soldier.
“And who are you?”
“Xantol of Uxpo, resident helper of Malcabar.”
Torbo flushed angrily. “This man lies,” he said. “Malcabar had no Uxponian helpers. All were men of Reabon, and all died with him yesterday morning.”
“You were acquainted with Malcabar’s assistants?” asked Destho.
“Every one of them.”
“And you have never seen this man before?”
“I have seen him somewhere,” replied Torbo, knitting his brows. “His face is familiar yet unfamiliar.” He approached the soldier and scanned his features carefully. Then he burst into a loud laugh.
“Shoot me for a hahoe if this man wears not a false beard,” he said, and to prove his statement he suddenly reached forward and plucked a handful of hair from the man’s face.
The Uxponian whipped out his scarbo, but strong arms pinioned his own from behind, and, in a moment, he was deprived of his blade and stood helpless in the grip of the two burly guards.
“Pluck a few more feathers from this bird and see if you can identify him,” said Destho.
“That is unnecessary,” replied Torbo, “for I have recognized him already. He is Grandon of Terra!”
Had a thunderbolt crashed through the arched ceiling at that moment it could hardly have created more surprise. Destho was dumbfounded.
“Grandon of Terra?” he exclaimed. “But you told me that he was dead.”
“I did not tell you that I saw him die,” replied Torbo, “and this man here is unquestionably Grandon of Terra.”
A gleam of triumph shone in the eyes of Destho at these words.
“You are more of a fool than I took you to be, Grandon of Terra,” he said. “Perhaps even more of a fool than you took me for.”
It is possible that I surpass you in folly. You have, however, two other qualities on which I must yield you all honors.”
“And those are…”
“Treachery and cowardice!”
“Away with him,” Destho said. “Let him meditate on his folly in the darkness of the dungeon until we have use for him.”
The burly guards hustled Grandon out of a side door and along a, narrow passage to a winding stairway which seemed o lead into the very towels of the planet, so long were they in descending. After manacling his wrists and ankles they pushed him into a dark, foul-smelling hole and slammed and fastened a heavy metal door which fitted so snugly that not the tiniest ray of light was admitted.
As he lay on the damp, slimy floor, Grandon pondered the words of Destho. The phrase “until we have use for him” was puzzling. After a short interval, two guards entered Grandon’s dungeon, removed the manacles from his ankles, and led him up the spiral stairway.
They did not go all the way to the top, but turned off through a narrow doorway which Grandon judged to be about halfway to the ground level. A short walk along a dimly-lighted passage brought them to an underground chamber which looked to Grandon like a workshop or laboratory of some sort, for it contained several unusual appearing contrivances.
In one corner was a raised circular platform covered with a resilient material greatly resembling rubber. He noticed that there was a hole in the center of the platform, and that a pipe, evidently connected with the, hole, led from under it to a small motor which stood nearby. A huge glass bell was suspended by a pulley above the platform and a steel chair stood beside it. The only other articles of furniture in the room were a wooden chair and table on which were writing materials.
The two guards chained Grandon to the steel chair and, lifting him between them, placed him on the raised platform directly above the hole.
A moment later Destho entered. He looked at Grandon with a grim smile. Then he turned to the nearest guard.
“I see you have things in readiness. Now bring her imperial majesty and see that her face be veiled so that none may recognize her on the way.”
Scarce had the guard left to do the bidding of his master ere Bopo, captain of Destho’s private guards, entered. “Where is the document, dolt?” demanded Destho. “Have failed to prepare it?”
“Here,” replied Bopo, drawing a scroll from beneath his garments. “I kept it hid, as your majesty commanded secrecy in the matter.”
“Good. Let me have it.”
Destho read the document hastily. Then he read it again more slowly.
Are you sure this is the correct legal form?”
“I am positive, your majesty.”
Destho placed the scroll on the table, then crossed the room and bowed politely as the guard returned, leading a woman whose face was heavily veiled.
Suddenly she flung back her veil and rushed forward with a little smothered cry, paying no attention whatever to Destho. Grandon’s heart leaped to his throat at sight of her pale face and golden tresses.
“Vernia!” He would have risen, but the chains held him.
“My Grandon—my hero!” she cried as her lips found his and clung there, and her arms went about his neck. He tried to lift his manacled hands to smooth her hair as she buried her face on his shoulder, sobbing incoherently.
“But why did you come here alone—to certain death?”
Grandon whispered his answer in her ear. “Zueppa, though fearfully wounded, managed to reach me with tidings of your whereabouts. It would have been futile to bring my small army, so I came alone, disguised as the helper of an assassin who attempted my life!”
“Enough of this whispering!” said Destho, smiling as he tore her from