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. And when his life had ended, so had Bosk's. He didn't even have revenge to keep him going anymore. So he nodded.
"Yeah. Sagan was. I don't care who knows it. If His Majesty sent you--"
"His Majesty didn't send me, Bosk." The stranger leaned back comfortably in the chair. "His Majesty doesn't give a damn about you, and you know it. Nobody gives a damn, do they, Bosk?"
"You do, apparently," Bosk said with a cunning not even the jump-juice could completely drown.
"I do, Bosk." The stranger opened the briefcase. "I care a lot."
Bosk stared. The briefcase was filled with plastic chips-black plastic chips, stamped in gold, arranged in neat stacks.
Bosk rose slowly to his feet to get a better look, half afraid that the liquor might be playing tricks on his mind. It had been almost four years since the night Snaga Ohme had been murdered. Four years since the night Warlord Derek Sagan had seized control of the dead man's mansion and its wealth. That night, as Sagan's army marched in the front, Bosk had exited the mansion via the secret tunnels in the back.
During these intervening four years, Bosk had never seen one black chip stamped in gold, much less ... how many were in that briefcase?... He took a conservative guess on the number of chips in each stack, counted the number of stacks across, counted the number of stacks down, did some muddled multiplication, and drew in a shivering breath
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