Now that I felt comfortable and safe, my mind kept me awake. Tired though I was. First, my attention went to Jenoor. From her it went to the Empire. What was I doing about it? I lay there scratching occasionally and feeling frustrated. So far, all my attention had been on surviving; I hadn't accomplished a thing toward establishing a rebel base. But survival was something, and when we got to Palermo, I'd meet Roger. And Guis-card, if he was there. And if Arno didn't volunteer an introduction..,

Arno interrupted my thoughts. "Larn," he murmured.

"Yes?"

He spoke in slow Evdashian. "I feel ill at ease here, apart from the Varangians. It may be unsafe."

I remembered my feeling about Gilbert. "Why?"

"I do not trust this baron."

"Was there something he did? Or said?" I couldn't help remembering Isaac ben Abraham's words about Norman treachery.

"I'm not sure. But this much I can say, although it falls well short of accounting for my feeling. Gilbert de Auletta was born in Italy, and his father before him; I believe you heard him say it. Some of those early families resent greatly the successes of the sons of Tancred de Hauteville, whom they consider upstart latecomers: They plotted and fought almost constantly against William Iron Arm until his death. And do against Guiscard when they dare. Roger arrived from Normandy only fifteen years ago, and his success here galls them most of all.

"And finally, they resent those newcomers of us who've attached ourselves to Guiscard or to Roger and have prospered by our loyalty."

Dimly I could see him get to his knees, his face a lighter blob in the darkness. "Gilbert may not be one who feels like that, but I do not trust him, for whatever reason. We should go back out among the Varangians."

Neither Tarel nor Moise had gone to sleep yet, so they'd heard all that. Together we got up, belted on our weapons, and left to spend the night on straw in the dining hall. I thought of taking my mattress, but decided it wasn't the thing to do. One of the Varangians was awake, sitting on a table, apparently a guard, and I wondered if Gunnlag was suspicious too. Or whether it was simply standard practice for Varangians among strangers in a strange stronghold.

It was Arno who woke me up. The sun was shining through the windows. I'd have been glad to sleep for two or three more hours, but servants were setting up for breakfast. By daylight, with the busy, ordinary sounds of breakfast being put on the table, our fears of the night before seemed a little silly. To me at least. Breakfast showed me again how the Normans in the south had changed from those I'd known in Normandy. We had fruit as well as porridge and cheese, custard as well as meat and bread and eggs.

I wished I'd brought a toothbrush with me.

The weather had turned almost summery-quite warm, no wind, bright sun, and only a few fluffy white clouds. After breakfast we loafed around outside, napped in the sunshine, snacked on dates and some small wrinkly fruits called raisins, and occasional little cakes with a fruit in them called figs, which I'd tasted first in Marseille. They were brought to us by servants that Arno told me were Saracens.

Like Roger's place at Mileto, and unlike any castles I'd seen in Normandy, the grounds here were landscaped. Like the Byzantines, the Saracens definitely had a stronger aesthetic sense than Normans did, but I'd bet ten credits that the Normans would pick it up from them. Like they were picking up bathing.

Later, some of the Varangians left on horses to get the wounded we'd left behind in the mountains. Most of the rest were feeling energetic enough to wrestle, and one of them challenged Arno. Arno took him on, and it seemed to me that neither of them was clearly the winner.

Tarel suggested to me that he and I spar for them, using hand-foot art, and see what they thought of it. I turned him down, and told him why. The Varangians wrestled with lots of energy and violence, as well as quite a bit of skill. They didn't hold back. And while he and I were supposedly holy monks, it seemed to me the Varangians might scorn just sparring. They might look down their noses at us for holding back when we "fought" each other. Besides which, hand-foot art was my secret-my weapon of last resort.

That afternoon I noticed Arno and Gunnlag talking alone together in a corner of the garden. They seemed pretty serious. Then Arno came over and started talking to me in Evdashian, piecing it out with Norman French where he didn't know a word.

"We may be in trouble here," he told me. "This morning when Gunnlag arranged for horses to bring the wounded, Gilbert said ten Varangians should go, with ten horses. Each of them could then take one wounded on his horse to bring him back. And Gilbert sent with them three knights as an escort, a symbol of his protection. The Varangians wore no hauberks nor carried any shields. Their horses were old, such animals as pages learn to ride on. Gilbert said he would not have good mounts ridden by men other than Normans trained to ride and care for them, and that old horses would have trouble enough carrying two men each without shields and armor.

"Gunnlag felt uneasy, a little, but Gilbert had been very friendly last night, so he agreed. Besides, it all seemed reasonable enough."

It sounded reasonable to me, too. These warriors could be paranoid. But I remembered my misgivings of the night before, and Amo wasn't done yet.

"Then, a little while ago," he went on, "I climbed the tower to look over the countryside. A dozen of Gilbert's knights were riding east down the road, on destriers, and carrying lances. But soon they left the road, riding south toward the ravine we came out of yesterday. They could have been leaving on patrol of course, but I have a feeling it is more than that.

"I told Gunnlag what I saw, and he feels as I do. Gilbert may have sent them to attack the Varangians."

"Why would he do that?"

"Last night, I am told, Gilbert asked many questions about you. He must have heard of your power from the Varangians. He may wish to take you hostage."

Like you did, I thought. But there was a difference between Arno and Gilbert, a difference in character that I'd felt the evening before.

"And he knows the Varangians would defend you," Arno was saying. "If he kills ten of them, there will be only fifteen left."

I looked at that. "You said a dozen of his knights seemed to have followed them. And there were already three knights riding escort. How many of the knights would the ten Varangians kill, do you think?"

"The Varangians do not expect an attack. Not by Normans. And they took neither hauberks nor shields. If they were tricked, surprised at close quarters… They do not fight skillfully on horseback, it is not their way. They could be killed without killing any of Gilbert's men, or maybe two or three, if they are lucky."

It could happen that way. On the other hand, Gilbert's knights could very well have gone out on patrol, with no idea of attacking the Varangians.

"Let me ask you a question," I said. "Would you be willing to get hold of a horse-steal one if necessary- follow Gilbert's men with your blast pistol and stunner, and attack them if they attacked the Varangians?"

Arno didn't have a quick answer for that. I thought of making him an offer that occurred to me, but decided against it. I'd let my question be a test.

After a long ten seconds, he passed it, "I will see about a horse," he said. "A hunting horse. They are faster, and with this"-he patted the holster on his belt-"I do not need a destrier. I'll let them believe I've come out to join them. I'll tell them that Gilbert and I have talked things over."

I unslung my blast rifle and handed it to him. "Then take this," I told him. "It is accurate at a distance."

He looked at me without expression, then nodded. I wished I knew what he was thinking. Not because I feared treachery just now, but because I'd like to understand him better. Maybe this would help ensure an introduction to Guiscard or Roger. Whether it did or not, I owed it to the Varangians.