„Hsung's Throyen puppets might occupy the Kotsum coast of Hammad al Nakir. A put-up, so Hsung can pose a naval threat on Matayanga's flank."

Ragnarson smiled gently. „What is happening in

Hammad al Nakir? They wouldn't sit still for that, would they?"

„1 don't see what anybody could do about it. El Murid is hiding in Sebil el Selib. He has almost no followers now. He don't seem interested in anything but opium. Megelin is such a clumsy king that people are just ignoring him, hoping he'll go away."

„That's sad. Really sad. Haroun's son. I thought, how could he be anything but good? He's his father's boy."

„Your friend didn't teach him much but how to fight. They say he's a devil when there's a war on, but if it weren't for el Senoussi and Beloul his government would fall apart. I hear his officials are more corrupt than El Murid's were."

„Probably the same people. Without the restraint of religious righteousness."

„Whatever. The west can declare the threat of Hammad al Nakir a dead issue. The sleeping giant isn't snoring anymore. He's belly up and the maggots are about done with him."

„That's not good. If the Itaskians stop worrying about Hsung and El Murid, we'll be out a lot of military aid. You have people in Al Rhemish?"

„Two good men."

„And in Sebil el Selib?"

„One of my best people."

„Send in someone else. Someone independent. Double check. I don't believe a word you're telling me. Maybe somebody is lying to you."

„Sire!

„Watch your temper. Michael, I trust you when you do it yourself. Still, you're a devious type. Maybe too devious for your own good. I think people lie to you and you believe them because you've gotten them to lie to somebody else for you. Damn! I lost something. I'm not even making sense to me. What am I trying to say here?"

„I think I understand. And maybe you're right. I get too involved in the game side, and underinvolved with the people. It's true. Just because I enlist them doesn't mean they're going to be my faithful eyes and ears. I can think of three or four who probably don't know whose side they're on themselves."

„What about the rest of the world?"

„Aral could tell you more than me. I use his trader friends in the west. I get the feeling he edits everything before it gets to me."

Ragnarson stared at the moldy forest floor. That had been, at best, an evasion. It might be an outright lie. Michael had scores of foreign contacts. His family's busi­ ness acquaintances. Old school friends. People met during the war. All glad to keep an eye on this or that for him. Some of the things he had deigned to pass on could have come from no other source.

Bragi let it slide. „How about here in Ravelin?"

„Your enemies are keeping their heads down. They'll keep on that way as long as Varthlokkur and the Unborn wander through once in a while. They figure the only thing to do is wait for you to die."

„Nobody planning to hasten my appointment with the Dark Lady?"

„Not that I've heard of. It's a waste of time watching anymore."

Ragnarson rose. He said, „There's a couple Panthers trying to sneak past us in that gully down there. They've got one of our balls. Act casual."

Trebilcock glanced once. He saw nothing. He had heard nothing. He believed his eyes and ears were better than the King's. „Are you sure? How could you know?"

„When you've been playing these games as long as I have, Michael, you smell the tricks before they happen. If you get to be my age, you sit on a rock somewhere with somebody your age and think about that."

Trebilcock gave him a funny look. Ragnarson knew he was wondering exactly what had just been said. „Maybe you made the right bet after all. The one this morning. Experi­ ence counts for as much as energy and enthusiasm. You've got the energy here, so you slide down behind them and run them to me. I'll bushwhack them."

Michael nodded and faded into the woods. His face was paler than usual.

Bragi watched him go. Had he made his point? Friend Michael was walking a tightrope. It could end up knotted around his neck.

Michael did not look lucky enough to pull off a big one. He looked like a man with the seal of doom stamped on his forehead.

Ragnarson didn't want anything to happen to Michael. He was fond of the man.

„Damn you, Kavelin," he murmured as he slipped into his ambuscade. And, „Michael, for gods' sakes get the message. It's almost too late."

He crouched and remembered Sir Andybur Kimberlin of Karadja, a young knight he had known during Kavelin's civil war. Another man he had liked. Sir Andybur would have become one of Kavelin's great men had he not been too idealistic and impatient. Instead of lying on goosedown, he lay in his grave, his neck broken by a rope.

„Just don't start thinking you've got the only answer, Michael. You're all right as long as we can talk."

A twig cracked a few feet away. He gathered himself for his charge.

4

Year 1016 AFE; Family Life

It was a weird sunset. There were pastel greens in the clouds scattering the western horizon. Green was rare. Ragnarson wondered why.

The old man had to shout twice to get his attention. „I'm sorry. What did you say?"

„Was you out to Captures today?"

Ragnarson laughed. „Was I? Was I ever." Every muscle in his body ached. They would need a hoist to get him off his horse.

„What was the score? Fellow told me the Guards won. Why would a guy lie that way? I want to know on account of maybe I beat the spread."

„Who'd you bet?"

„Panthers by three. That was the best I could get."

„Hope you didn't bet the daughter's dowry, Pops. You're hurting."

Dismay—yea, even despair—blackened the old man's face. Ragnarson could not stifle a bark of laughter.

He felt good, not being recognized. For these few minutes he could be just another man. The old-timer didn't expect anything of him.

„You wouldn't lie just to see an old man squirm, now would you?"

„I don't want to ruin your evening. But you did ask. It was five to three. Guards."

„That's impossible."

„You know how it goes. The Panthers got too cocky."

„The King played, didn't he? I should have known. King's luck. He could fall in a cesspool and come up wearing gold chains."

Ragnarson faked a coughing spasm to keep a whooping laugh from busting loose. He? Lucky? With everything that had happened to him?

He rode toward his home in Lieneke Lane, thinking he should have brought presents. Some little guilt offering for his kids.

He was passing the park when the man in white stepped into his path. He yanked his sword from its scabbard, looked round for the other two. The Harish always worked in threes.

The man held a lantern to his own features. „Peace, Sire." He had a gentle, priestlike voice. „No dagger has been consecrated with your name." The Harish were assassin devotees of the fanatic religion El Murid had brought forth from the barren womb of the deserts of Hammad al Nakir. In its youth the sect had spread across east and west with the wild violence of a summer storm. It had declined as the charisma of its Disciple faded. Today it had few adherents outside Hammad al Nakir, and even there its followers were dwindling.

„Habibullah? Is that you?"

„It is, Sire. I was sent by the Lady Yasmid."

Ragnarson had not seen the man since before the wars. In Fiana's time he had been Hammad al Nakir's ambassador to Kavelin. In those days El Murid had ruled the desert kingdom. Haroun had been alive. His son Megelin had not yet donned the crown and led Royalist armies victorious into Al Rhemish. Haroun's wife, El Murid's daughter Yasmid, had come slipping into Vorgreberg, hoping he would help her end the bitter strife between her men. He had sent her to her father with this same Habibullah, then had heard nothing more.