„You grazing in somebody else's pasture?"
„What?" He heaved himself to his feet, stumbled round looking for his clothing.
„Last night was only the second time this month."
He gave it the light treatment. „I'm getting old."
Something inside cawed sarcastically. He was fooling himself, not her. A nasty black chasm yawned at his feet. Trouble was, he did not know if it was waiting for him to try
jumping over or if he was on the other side looking back. „Is it another woman, Ragnarson?" There wasn't any kitten in her now. She was all bitch cat. The habitual brittle smile had left her lips.
„No." For once he was telling the truth. He didn't have a single little round-heel on the string. The soft curves, the warm mounds, the humid thighs did not set the fires roaring these days. They seemed more a distraction than a reason able interest. They irritated more than excited. Was it symptomatic of age? Time was an implacable thief. Ragnarson's growing indifference worried him. The de parture of the drive to collect scalps left a vacuum like the loss of an old friend. „You're sure?"
„Absodamnlutely, as friend Mocker might have said." „I wish I had met him," she mused. „Haroun, too. Maybe I'd know you better by knowing them." „You should've known them... ." „You're changing the subject."
„Honey, I haven't had no strange in so long I wouldn't know what to do. Probably just stand there with my thumb in my ear till the lady cussed me out."
Inger whipped a comb through her hair. Blonde rat's nests grabbed it. She was wondering. He had come tagged with a reputation, but had not lived up to it.
Maybe he was too busy. Kavelin was his extramarital lover. She was a demanding mistress.
He eyed this woman who was both his wife and Kavelin's Queen. She was the one gift the wars had given him. Time had done well by her. She was a tall, elegant woman of brittle beauty and even more brittle humor. She had the most intriguing mouth he had ever seen. No matter her mood, her lips seemed on the verge of a sarcastic smile. Something about her green eyes magnified that foreshadow of laughter.
First glance said she was a lady. Second might suggest an earthy soul. She was an enigma, an intriguing creature hiding inside a shell that betrayed a new mystery each time it opened. Bragi thought her as perfect a Queen as a King could ask. She had been born for the role.
That secret smile came out of hiding. „You just might be telling the truth."
„Of course I am."
„And you're disappointed, eh?"
He did not answer that one. She had a knack for caging him with questions he did not want to answer. „Maybe you'd better check the baby."
„You're ducking the issue again."
„Damned right."
„All right. I'll let up. What's on for today?" She insisted on being a full participant in royal affairs. He was new to the kinging business. Coping with a strong-willed woman com plicated his task.
His circle of old comrades agreed. Some had strong opinions about Inger's „interference."
She returned from the nursery. She carried their son Fulk. „He was sleeping like a rock. Now he wants to be fed."
Bragi slipped an arm around her. He stared down at the infant. Babies were still a wonder to him.
Fulk was his first by Inger, and her first ever. He was a lusty six-monther. Bragi told Inger, „I'm having the whole mob in about Derel's message this morning. After lunch I'm supposed to play Captures."
„In this weather?"
„They challenged. It's up to them to call it off." He began lacing his boots. „They're good mudders."
„Aren't you a little old for it?"
„I don't know." Maybe he was past it. The reflexes were going. The muscles could not take it the way they had. Maybe he was an old man with one hand desperately clamped on an illusion of youth. He did not enjoy Captures much. „What about you?"
„Terminal boredom. And it won't stop till the Thing adjourns. I feel like a governess."
He forbore reminding her that she had demanded the right to entertain the delegates' women.
Commencement for the spring session was a week away, but the wealthier members were in town already, sampling Vorgreberg's social possibilities.
Bragi said, „I'm going to get something to eat." He was an informal King. He had no patience with pomp and ceremo ny, and very little with the luxuries his position afforded. His was a warriorly background. He strove to maintain a spartan, soldierly self-image.
„Don't I get a kiss?"
„Thought you'd be kissed out."
„Never. Fulk too!"
He kissed the baby, left.
Maybe Fulk was the problem. He pondered it as he descended the stair. The battle had begun during the name-choosing. He had lost that round.
It had been a difficult birth. Inger wanted no more children. He did, though he did not consider himself a good father.
Too, Inger was worried about Fulk's patrimony. He was born of Ragnarson's second marriage. Bragi had three older offspring, and a grandson named Bragi. The latter might as well have been his own child. His father, Ragnarson's firstborn, had perished at Palmisano.
The King's first family lived at his private house, outside Vorgreberg proper. His son's widow managed the place and youngsters. He had not visited them in weeks. „Have to get out there soon," he muttered. His inattention to his chil dren was one of the few guilts he suffered.
He made a mental note to solicit a legal opinion from his secretary, Derel Prataxis, as soon as the man returned from his mission.
Ragnarson had led a charmed life. He thought his luck overdue to change. It was part of that fear of growing old. The edge was going. The reactions were slowing. The instincts might not be trustworthy. His mortality was catch ing up.
Maybe he could negotiate some succession understanding during the Thing's session. They had not made the kingship hereditary when they had dragooned him into it.
He approached the castle's main kitchen. Strong smells and a loud voice emanated from its open door.
„Yeah. That's no lie. Yeah. Nine women in one day. You know what I mean. In twenty-four hours. Yeah. I was a young man then. Fourteen days on a transport. I never even saw a woman, let alone had one. Yeah. You don't believe me, but it's the truth. Nine women in one day."
Ragnarson smiled. Someone had Josiah Gales cranked up. On purpose, no doubt. He was a one-man show when he got going. He grew louder and louder, flinging his arms around, dancing, stomping, rolling his eyes as he underscored every statement physically.
Josiah Gales. Sergeant of infantry. Bowman supreme. Minor cog in the palace machine. One of two hundred soldiers and skilled artisans Inger had brought as dowry because her cadet line of Itaskia's Greyfells family had fallen into genteel poverty.
He smiled again. They were still laughing up north, thinking themselves rid of an unruly woman cheaply, while gaining a connection with a prized crown.
The unseen sergeant whooped on. „Fourteen days at sea. I was ready. How many women you had in one day? I wasn't showing off. I was working. Yeah. That seventh one. I still remember her. Yeah. Moaning and clawing. She's going, ‘Oh! Oh! Gales! Gales! I can't take anymore.' Yeah. That's the truth. Nine women in one day. In twenty-four hours. I was a young man then."
Gales repeated himself over and over. The more wound up he was, the more he did so, mouthing every sentence at least once to everyone within hearing. His audience seldom minded.
Bragi approached the duty cook. „Skrug. Any chicken left from last night? I just want something to snack on."
The cook nodded. He jerked his chin in Gales' direction. „Nine women in one day."