„Anyone who can afford to assemble a caravan has one put together already. They'll trample each other when I say the magic words."

„Then I wasted a lot of people's time, having them hang around to talk to you."

„There are thoughts to be aired. Viewpoints to share."

„They weren't sharing anything with anybody last week."

„Let me make them mad. They'll say what they're think­ ing."

„I don't... ."

Women screamed near Abaca's Marena Dimura group. Men shouted angrily. Ragnarson heard steel meet steel.

He flung himself off his throne. „Get the hell out of my way!" he roared as he pushed through the crowd. Taller than most of his guests, he saw the surge as the Guards moved in. Good. They had been on their toes. He had not expected to get through the evening without at least one fracas. „Will you get the hell out of my road?" he snarled at a heavy old matron. She promptly threatened a faint.

The Guards had the men separated when he got there. One was Credence Abaca. The other was a young gentleman of the Estates, the son of a baron in town for the Thingmeet. The Baron himself was shoving through the crowd.

Abaca and the youth both shouted accusations. „Shut up!" Ragnarson snapped. „You first." He indicated the younger man.

„He made improper advances to my sister." The young noble was sullen and defensive. It was an attitude increas­ ingly common to his class.

„Credence?"

„I asked her to dance, sir." Abaca had regained his aplomb. Perhaps he had not lost it. He was a tactician in more than the military sense. He was a master manipulator and could be as heartless as a spider. There was no apology in his manner.

„That's all?"

„On my honor, Sire."

„You have no honor, you. ..."

„Shut your mouth, boy," Ragnarson snapped. „You're in up to your ears now." He looked for the woman in question. Her father had driven her away from the confrontation. The man wore a thin smile of anticipation. Ragnarson wondered if it hadn't been Abaca who had been maneuvered this time. The Estates remained mortally offended because a Marena Dimura had been appointed second in command of the army. Only the most trustworthy Nordmen were permitted to participate professionally.

Ragnarson turned to the youth. „You dared draw a blade in the Palace? Against one of my officers?"

The Nordmen would not keep his mouth shut. „Some­ body has to teach these... these... animals their place. I challenge!"

„You don't have a right to challenge," Ragnarson told him.

„I'll accept anyway," Abaca said. He was a small, lean, olive man. He had big black mustachios and deep lines in his face. His dark little pupils were flakes of obsidian.

„Credence!" Bragi said. „That's enough." Abaca stepped back, relaxed. He had superb self-control. „Good." Bragi faced the youth. „Son, you committed a felony. The Estates are allowed their weapons in the Palace, but you don't have a right to use them." He indicated the Marena Dimura group. Only Abaca was armed. „That's an honor, not a right. You abused it. You forfeited your right of challenge when you broke the law. It's a capital offense. I could have you hung." The youth blanched. „But it would be a shame to do that. The real crimes here are stupidity, arrogance, and a bad choice of parents. Sergeant Wortel," he snapped at the Guardsman nearest Abaca.

„Sire?"

„Take the boy outside. Give him twenty lashes. Just hard enough to make him think next time his mouth threatens to override his common sense."

„Yes, Sire." Wortel was pleased and did not hide it. An older man of Wesson stock, he had grown up to the crack of Nordmen whips.

Ragnarson ignored the departure. The youth did a lot of yelling and threatening. When he realized that he would actually get the whipping, he became silent, pale, and scared.

Bragi faced the young man's father.

There was a new order and a new law. The Estates no longer rode roughshod over the land. Nothing had to be said. The Nordmen knew they had to pay when their old habits got the best of them.

Nevertheless, Ragnarson wanted to make a point. He asked, „Would you rather have him dead?"

The Baron croaked, „Dead?"

„He'd be dead now if I'd let them fight."

The Baron sneered. „A Marena Dimura kill him? That's ridiculous."

„Lie to yourself if you like. Baron, I considered your son's age. He's not old enough to know better. I did what I had to to save him." A cry echoed in the courtyard. Murder flared in the Baron's eye. „I'd let you fight Credence, though. I figure you put the boy up to this, so it's really your battle. Credence. Choose your weapons."

„Knives, Sire. They don't like knives, the gentlemen of the Estates."

How can such a small mouth stretch into such a big grin? Ragnarson wondered. „My Lord Baron? Are you ready?"

The Nordmen reddened, sputtered, looked for support from his peers. Any he may have seen existed only in his own imagination. He drew himself up, said, „That's hardly the way gentlemen... ."

„What gentlemen?" Bragi asked. „This mess came up because you won't accept Colonel Abaca as a gentleman. Why expect him to change now?" Not wanting to pour it on too heavy, Ragnarson added, „One of the bases of the law, Baron, is that we all have to face the consequences of our actions. Birth doesn't grant you immunity anymore. It only allows you limited privilege. In return, you're supposed to protect and guide the people of your fief. It's all set forth in the traditional oath of fealty, which goes all the way back to Jan Iron-Hand. You yourself swore that oath three times. Before the old King. Before Queen Fiana. Then before me. All I've ever asked of the Estates is that their lords fulfill that oath."

He thought he was getting through. The Baron had begun to squirm. „Let's drop the whole business, shall we? Send your family back to their quarters. Wait for your boy. I'll have Doctor Wachtel attend him. Credence, confine your­ self to barracks for the night. I'll have more to say to you later. Derel, let's put some life back in this party."

When they were out of earshot of the Baron, Ragnarson asked, „How did I do?"

„Pretty good," Prataxis replied. The scholar had indulged in his own form of intimidation. He had written down every word spoken. The Nordmen had an almost superstitious fear of the magical recall of his notes. „Do you know him? Is he likely to hold a grudge?"

„I don't think so. He's just impulsive. He survived the civil war. I haven't had to hang him since. That's about the best you can expect from the Estates. Take a couple notes. Have the old noose hung out. The one we used on Lord Lindwedel, Sir Andybur, and the Captal. As a gentle re­ minder. And ask Varthlokkur to have the Unborn show himself. That should do it."

Ragnarson paused to obtain wine for Prataxis and beer for himself. „It's so damned depressing sometimes. Here I am, the third consecutive monarch to bust his ass to make this a good country to live in. And if you get more than a bowshot from Vorgreberg's gates, you're up to your ears in the same old hardheaded, completely irrational bullshit the old Krief met head-on when he was crowned."

„This is a feudal state, Sire. Rigidity is one of that form's characteristics. And it's a positive characteristic, consider­ ing the forces which act to create feudal societies. The structure has a place for every man, with his responsibilities and privileges clearly defined. The weakness of the form is its inflexible response to novel ideas. It's been rocked by too many of those during our lifetimes, dating back to the Scourge of God, who did not fade from the field at harvest time. Now it wants to make like a turtle and pull its head in till the worst blows over. Only the storm won't go away. So the mossbacks strike back. Civil strife is one result."

„You trying to tell me something?"