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Gregor Shreck. The Shreck sat behind an ugly but functional wooden table, covered with papers and reports. He nodded curtly to Valentine, the nearest he ever got to polite behavior, and plunged right in without bothering with any more amenities:
    “You’re in trouble, Wolfe. Parliament’s sent a force to investigate what you’re up to on Virimonde.”
    “Really?” said Valentine, unperturbed as always. “And just how large an army are they sending?”
    “It’s worse than an army. They’ve sent Deathstalker and d’Ark.” The three aristocrats looked quickly at one another and began to babble unhappily. Valentine waved for them to be quiet, and they were. The Wolfe smiled slowly at the Shreck’s image on the viewscreen, his great scarlet smile spreading across his deathlike face. “Dear Owen. I have so been looking forward to meeting him. I can’t wait to see what he thinks of what I’ve done with his old place. When can I expect the illustrious hero and his warlike companion?” “Hell, he and the bitch have probably already landed by now. I’m not as well connected as I used to be. Word takes longer to reach me these days.” “The Deathstalker can’t be here,” said the Kartakis. “The security systems would have taken out his ship. Or the sensors would have warned us—“
    “Don’t be silly,” said Valentine. “This is Owen Deathstalker we’re talking about.” He looked back at the Shreck. “You are still otherwise on top of things at your end?”
    “Of course. You supply the product, I’ve got people set up to move it.” Gregor scowled unhappily.
    “Never thought I’d end up a drug runner at my time of life.” “I’d have thought it was an occupation you were ideally suited for,” said the Silvestri, idly paring his fingernails with the edge of one of his knives.
    “But then, everyone rises to their true level eventually.” “At least I’m not a fugitive from what passes for justice these days,” snapped Gregor. “I still have my Tower and my people.”
    “But you’re not a Lord anymore,” said the Romanov, in between sucking chicken grease off his fingers.
    “We haven’t allowed Blue Block and that traitor Random to strip our rightful heritage from us.”
    “And we will be Lords again,” said the Kartakis flatly. “Even if we have to kill everyone else in the Empire who says otherwise.” “Big talk from a little man,” said Gregor, secure in the knowledge that the Kartakis was light-years away. “We tried fighting. We lost. Our only hope now is the Wolfe’s plan. And God help us all if it goes wrong.” “If it goes right, I’ll make gods of you all,” said Valentine calmly. “We will return in glory and know power beyond that even Lionstone wielded. But that’s the future. Tell me of the present, Gregor. How goes the cabal?” “Growing all the time,” said Gregor. “No one’s willing to come out in public, but more and more aristocrats and politicians are supplying people and money to help expedite your plan. No telling how many of them will actually stand up and fight when the time comes, but I’ll settle for them just abstaining at the right moment. The rebels and their pet Parliament may think they’re running things, but their precious new regime is built on sand.” “And the sands of time are running out for all of them,” said Valentine. “How I do love a good metaphor. Now, be a good boy, Gregor, and make yourself scarce. I must think. I have to prepare a suitable welcome for dear Owen and the redoubtable Hazel d’Ark.”
    “Watch yourself,” said Gregor. “They aren’t human anymore. If they ever were.
    They’ll take a lot of killing.”
    “If it was easy,” said Valentine, “there’d be no fun in it, would there?
    Goodbye, Gregor.” He shut down the viewscreen.
    “Let them come,” said the Silvestri. “We can handle them.”
    “We can,” said the Kartakis. “I’m not so sure about you.”
    Carlos Silvestri flushed pinkly,