Nine years. Nine years since the breaking of a vast empire. It really
didn't seem like it. The Viceroy looked at his hands. They were veined
and thin, and the callouses were gone. Was he getting soft, or just
getting old? A little bit--no, a _great deal_ of both.
He sat in his study, in the Viceregal Palace at Kingston, chewing over
the events of the past weeks. Twice, rumors had come that he was to be
assassinated. He and two of his councilors had been hanged in effigy in
the public square not long back. He had been snubbed publicly by some of
the lesser nobles.
Had he ruled harshly, or was it just jealousy? And was it, really, as
some said, caused by the Southerners and the followers of Young Jim?
He didn't know. And sometimes, it seemed as if it didn't matter.
Here he was, sitting alone in his study, when he should have gone to a
public function. And he had stayed because of fear of assassination.