„You were at Simballawein when the Itaskians landed, weren't you?"

„It was Libiannin. I didn't run into Gales. I would've remembered him."

The cook laughed. „He does make an impression." He produced a tray of cold chicken. „This do the job, Sire?"

„That's plenty. Let's sit over here and watch the show."

Gales had an audience of serving people come to town with the advisers and assistants Bragi was to meet later that morning. For them the sergeant's stories were fresh. They responded well. Gales undertook further flights of whimsi­ cal autobiography.

„I've been all over this world," Gales declared. „I mean, everywhere. Yeah. Itaskia. Hellin Daimiel. Simballawein.

Yeah. I've had every kind of woman there is. White women. Black women. Brown women. Every kind there is. Yeah. That's no lie. I got five different women right now. Right here in Vorgreberg. I've got one, she's fifty-eight years old."

Someone catcalled. Everyone laughed. A passing palace guard leaned in the doorway. „Hey! Gales! Fifty-eight? What's she do when she goes down? Gum you to death?"

The group howled. Gales flung his arms into the air. He let out a great wail of mirth. He stomped and shouted back, „Fifty-eight years old. Yeah. That's right. I'm not lying."

„You didn't answer the question, Gales. What's she do?"

The sergeant went into contortions. He evaded answer­ ing.

Ragnarson dropped his chicken. He was laughing too hard to hang on.

„Low humor," the cook growled. „The lowest," Bragi agreed. „Straight out of the gutter. So how come you can't wipe that grin off your face?" „If it was anybody but Gales... ." The sergeant's audience trampled his protests. They bur­ ied him in questions about his elderly friend. He reddened incredibly. He bounced around, roaring with laughter, vain­ ly trying to regain control of the group. „Tell us the truth, Gales," they insisted.

Bragi shook his head and murmured, „He's a wonder. He loves it. I couldn't stand it." Soberly, the cook asked, „But what's he good for?" „A laugh." Bragi stifled a chuckle. It was a sound question. Inger's dowry-men had proven useful, but he often wondered what their presence signified. They were not loyal to himself or Kavelin. And Inger remained an Itaskian at heart. That might prove troublesome one day.

He munched chicken and watched Gales. His military adjutant came in.

As always, Dahl Haas looked freshly scrubbed and shaved. He belonged to that strange fraternity who could walk through a coal mine in white and come out spotless. „They're ready in the privy audience chamber, Sire." He stood as rigid as a pike. His gaze darted to Gales. Disgust flickered across his face. Bragi did not understand. Dahl's father had followed him for decades. The man had been as earthy as Gales.

„Be there in a minute, Dahl. Ask them to be patient."

The soldier strode out as though he had a board nailed to his back. Second generation, Ragnarson thought. The others were gone. Dahl was the last.

Palmisano had claimed many old friends, his only broth­ er, and his son Ragnar. Kavelin was a hungry little bitch goddess of a kingdom, eager for sacrifices. He sometimes wondered if it didn't demand too much, if he hadn't made the biggest mistake of his life when he had allowed himself to be made King.

He was a soldier. Just a soldier. He had no business ruling.

Vorgreberg shivered with gentle excitement. It was not the great dread-excitement foreshadowing dire events, it was the small, eager excitement that courses before good things about to unfold.

There had been a messenger from the east. His tidings would touch the life of every citizen.

The magnates of the mercantile houses sent boys to loiter by the gates of Castle Krief. The youths had strict instruc­ tions to keep their ears open. The traders were poised like runners in the blocks, awaiting the right word.

Kavelin, and especially Vorgreberg, had long reaped the benefits of being astride the primary route connecting west and east. But for several years now there had been little exchange of goods. Only the boldest smugglers dared the watchful eyes of Shinsan's soldiers, who occupied the near east.

There had been two years of war, then three of peace occasionally interrupted by furious border skirmishes. East­ erner and westerner perpetually faced one another in the Savernake Gap, the only commercially viable pass through the Mountains of M'Hand. Neither garrison permitted travellers past their checkpoints.

Merchants on both sides of the mountains railed against the neverending, knife-edged state of confrontation.

Rumor said King Bragi had sent another emissary to Lord Hsung, the Tervola proconsul at Throyes. He was to try again to negotiate a resumption of trade. The whisper had raised almost messianic hopes among the merchants. No heed was paid the fact that past overtures had been rebuffed.

Warfare and occupation had shattered Ravelin's econo­ my. Though the kingdom was primarily agrarian and resil­ ient, it had not yet come all the way back in the three years since liberation. It needed resumption of trade desperately. It needed a freshened capital flow.

The King's henchmen had gathered. Michael Trebilcock and Aral Dantice stood at the foot of a long oak table in the gloomy meeting room, chatting in soft voices. They had not visited in months.

The wizard Varthlokkur and his wife Nepanthe stood before the huge fireplace, silent. The wizard seemed deeply troubled. He stared into the prancing flames as though studying something much farther away.

Sir Gjerdrum Eanredson, the army's Chief of Staff, paced the parqueted floor, smacking fist into palm repeatedly. He was as restless as a caged animal.

Cham Mundwiller, a Wesson magnate from Sedlmayr and King's spokesman in the Thing, puffed on a pipe, a fashion recently introduced from far southern kingdoms. He seemed engrossed in the arms of the former Krief dynasty hanging over the dark wood of the chamber's eastern wall.

Mist, who had been princess of the enemy empire till she was deposed, sat near the table's head. Exile had made of her a quiet, gentle woman. A knitting bag lay open before her. Needles clicked at an inhuman pace. A small, two-headed, four-handed imp manipulated them for her. Its legs dangled off the table's side. One head or the other muttered constantly, apprising the other of dropped stitches. Mist shushed them gently.

There were a dozen others. Their backgrounds ranged from sickeningly respectable to outrageously shady. The King was not a man who selected friends for appearance. He made use of the talent available.

Sir Gjerdrum mumbled as he stalked. „When the hell will he get here? He dragged me all the way from Karlsbad."

Others had come farther. Mundwiller's Sedlmayr lay near Kavelin's far southern border, at the knees of the

Kapenrung Mountains, in the shadow of Hammad al Nakir, beyond. Mist, now Chatelaine of Maisak, had descended from her fortress eyre in the Savernake Gap. Varthlokkur and Nepanthe had come from the gods knew where; proba­ bly Fangdred, in the impenetrable knot of mountains known as The Dragon's Teeth. And pale Michael looked like he'd just returned from a sojourn in shadow.

He had. He had.

Michael Trebilcock mastered the King's secret service. He was a man largely unknown personally but his name was a whisper of dread.

The King's adjutant entered. „I just spoke with His Majesty. Stand by. He's on his way."

Mundwiller harumphed, tapped his pipe out in the fire­ place, began repacking it.

Ragnarson arrived. He surveyed the group. „Enough of us are here," he said.

Ragnarson was tall, blond, physically powerful. He had scars, and not all on the flesh, to be seen. A few grey hairs peeped through the shag at his temples. He looked five years younger than he was. Captures kept him fit.