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they had been altered over countless generations to suit the requirements of the men who bred them. And whereas on the Rhadan worlds the animals had been mutated to produce mounts of great swiftness, ferocity, and intelligence, the Veg had bred a strain of armored beasts, immensely strong but sullen and devoid of the rudiments of language and telepathy. Karston watched the sunlight glistening from the armored carapaces and the articulated platelets of silvery hide. The animals suited the Vegan character, he thought with Rim-world arrogance. The Veg were specialists in defense and dedicated to victory through intransigence rather than maneuver.
    But the troop had a certain elegance, Karston had to admit--a flamboyance of manner and dress that belied the true character of the races of Vega. The harness worn by the warmen was of extreme design, heavily ornamented with gems and precious metals. The officer in command wore a circlet of brilliantly colored feathers in his helmet, and the horsemen carried crossbows slung across their backs. Vegan Imperials--the praetorians of the Second Stellar Empire. All were laughing and talking, and there seemed no semblance of discipline or order in their approach. Karston wondered what this particular detachment had been doing below in the hazy valley. The officer carried a bundle, slung in a stained black cape, at his saddlebow.
    “I see by your expression that you don’t think much of Household Imperials.”
    Karston turned to the speaker. General the Honorable Alain Veg Tran had come onto the terrace quite soundlessly. Karston studied the square face, ornamented with a small beard around the tiny, compressed mouth. Tran’s dark eyes were like lumps of tarnished silver in the sunlight. He was a large and athletic man, running slightly to fat now in his fortieth year. His hair was long and caught with silver clasps in the Vegan style, and he wore the unadorned tunic of a Vegan Imperial prefect. His near-austerity contrasted strangely with the peacock magnificence of the troops approaching the lodge gatehouse.
    “They’re well enough for parade troops, I suppose,” Karston replied, with a touch of insolence.
    A movement of Tran’s thin lips suggested a smile. “Don’t allow their manner to fool you, my young friend. In open battle--give me Rhadans every time, of course. But when the task is subtle, there are no better men than the warmen of the Vegan Imperials. I should think the operation on Aurora would have convinced you of that.”
    “Janessa is on Gonlan, not here, General. At least half the operation failed.”
    Tran leaned on the terrace rail and looked out over the valley. Far to the west, toward the Sierras, great white towers of cumulus clouds rose from the haze. “I think it is time you learned some facts, Karston. If you are going to dabble in interstellar politics, you must become a realist.” Karston frowned at the older man but said nothing. It occurred to him for the first time that his anxiety to come into his inheritance had brought him to a risky position. He was alone in an Imperial stronghold; in the power of a man whose reputation for ruthlessness was legend throughout the Empire. And he had--his mind would not accept the word “betrayed,” but his actions would certainly be so regarded among his own people if they knew--he had contrived to align himself with powers operating on a scale far beyond his own limited hopes and expectations. Alain Veg Tran was the Imperial power. Torquas was a verse-writing, remote figurehead. Weak Galactons created strong generals. Tran and his AbasNav party controlled the forces of the Empire: that much was fact.
    At the outset, Karston had imagined he could use this power to take what would one day be his, in any case--the power in Gonlan. But power was tricky stuff to handle, and now the young prince was having some second thoughts. Pressure was useful, yes. But it was a matter of degree. And from the first day Karston had