People began to file out. Bragi stopped General Liakopulos briefly. „Should I send someone to the funeral?"
„It would be a mark of respect. Sir Tury was your champion in the Citadel."
„I will, then. He was a great man. I owe him."
„He had a special feeling for you and Kavelin."
Bragi watched his people go. Most had not spoken at all, except to exchange greetings. Was that a portent?
He had a bad, bad feeling down deep in his gut. He was headed for a season of changes. Fate was marshalling its forces. Dark clouds were piling beyond the horizon.
2
Year 1016 AFE; Conversations
„there goes a long-term problem in the making," Michael Trebilcock observed. „But you've got time to head it off."
„What?" the King asked.
„There were what? Twenty people here today? The insid ers who make Kavelin work. Hold up a hand. Count the natives. Gjerdrum. Mundwiller. Aral. Baron Hardle. That's all. Who wasn't here? The Queen. Prataxis. And Credence Abaca. That's one more native, and Abaca is only Marena Dimura."
„What are you trying to say?"
„Undue foreign influence. Nobody worries about it now. We've got Shinsan on the brain. Suppose this deal goes through? We cuddle up to the Dread Empire. Trade turns the economy around. When people stop worrying about making it, and about Shinsan, what's left? Us. They haven't lost their ethnic consciousness. You could end up in a tighter spot than the last Krief."
„College boy," Bragi grumbled. But Michael had a point.
Kavelin was the most ethnically mixed of the Lesser Kingdoms. Four distinct groups contributed to the popula tion: Marena Dimura descendants of ancient natives, Siluro descendants of the civil managers of the days when Kavelin had been a province of the Empire of Ilkazar, Wesson descendants of Itaskians the Empire had transported from their homeland, and Nordmen descendants of the people who had destroyed the Empire. Friction between the groups spanned the centuries.
„You might have a point, Michael. You might have a point. I'll think about it."
„Why did you want me?"
„Got a Captures game this afternoon. I'm playing right point. I want you as my side."
Trebilcock grunted in disgust. He disliked games and loathed any exercise more strenuous than his morning rides with friends. Captures was demanding. It could go on forever if the teams were evenly matched. „Who are we playing?"
„The Charygin Hall Panthers."
„The merchant boys. I hear they're good. There's money behind them."
„They're young. They have staying power. But not much finesse."
„Speaking of young. Aren't you getting a little old for Captures? Meaning no offense, of course."
Captures was a Marena Dimura game originally played over vast expanses of forest. They settled inter-village squabbles by playing—though the dirt of rules left casual ties all over the woods.
The citified version was played on more limited ground. Vorgreberg's „field" covered one square mile north of the city cemetery. There were forty players to a team. There were rules intended to make the game fun.
Everyone cheated.
Captures resembled Steal the Flag. The teams tried to capture balls from their opponents and carry them to their own „castles." Each started with five oxhead-sized balls. Each tried to prevent opposing players from seizing its own balls, or to recover them once stolen. The game was played in two forms. In the short the first team to convey all its opponent's balls to its own castle won. In the long, the winner was the team which acquired all the balls. The long could continue for weeks. Round Vorgreberg they played the short form.
„I don't have the wind I used to," Bragi admitted. „And the legs get tired faster. But it's the only fun I have anymore. It's the only time I can get off by myself and think. There aren't any distractions out there."
„And on the point there's no one to listen if you want to have a little heart-to-heart with your side?" „Even the walls have ears here, Michael." Trebilcock groaned. He did not want to waste an after noon running through the woods. ... He grinned. He could get himself thrown out of bounds. A player could not return to the game if his opponents ejected him in front of a judge.
That was the crucial point. A judge had to witness any infraction. Creative cheating was the soul of the game.
„Meet me out there," Bragi said. „We drew the west castle. Try to show up by noon." He smiled. He knew how Michael felt about Captures. „Wear something old."
„Your wish is my command. Can I go?"
„Head out. We'll talk there."
Trebilcock slouched away. Bragi watched him go. The tall, lank spymaster looked like a caricature of a man. His skin was so pale it seemed never to have seen the sun. He appeared to be a weakling.
Looks were deceiving. Trebilcock was all wire and stub born endurance. He had carried out several harrowing missions during the Great Eastern Wars. His successes had won him a reputation as a super-agent. Some of the inner circle were more awed by him than were the enemies he watched and hunted.
„Michael," Bragi murmured, „are you one of the prob lems I'm going to face down the road?"
Trebilcock was one of Ragnarson's most competent peo ple. He had a strong, fatherly affection for the youth. But Michael was prone to go his own way, within his shadow world. He was an embarrassment occasionally.
Ragnarson settled at the table. For a while he wandered memories of the events that had led him to this moment, this place, this position. He reiterated his losses. ... He shook like a hairy old dog after swimming a creek. Enough of that! A man could go whacky worrying about what he should have done differently.
„Got to see the kids tonight," he muttered. „If I don't come in too sore to drag over there."
Michael coaxed his mount out the castle gate. He slouched in the saddle. The drizzle pasted his hair to his head in strings.
Guardsmen rendered indifferent salutes from the gate house. „That one is a real spook," one whispered.
„Looks like he's late for his own funeral," another ob served. „Who is he?"
The first shrugged. „One of the King's people. Don't see him around much anymore."
They would have recognized Trebilcock's name. His reputation burned into the deep shadows. The belly side of society watched for him over their shoulders. He was tight with the wizard Varthlokkur, whose creature the Unborn looked into the darks of men's minds. The plotters of great crimes and treasons invariably caught Michael's eye. Then the pitiless hammer fell.
Trebilcock had extended himself to create his nasty image.
Aral Dantice met him on the cobbled way linking the castle with the surrounding city. They turned their horses into the parkland encircling the palace. Cherries and plums were in bloom.
„Late start this morning," Michael observed. For years they had ridden the park when they could. Usually they shared the bridle trails with others from the castle. This morning they were alone with the drizzle.
„Would have been nastier earlier," Dantice replied.
They talked out old times and finished gossiping. Now they grew guarded.
Aral was a squat, wide man in his middle twenties. He looked more street thug than prominent merchant. Before his father's death he had been more the former than the latter. Since, he had turned his father's nearly bankrupt caravaneer outfittery around. He had become a major supplier of tack and animals to the Royal Army.
„I suppose." Trebilcock swung a hand. His gesture took in their surroundings. „I'd like to redesign this. At the Rebsamen I had this adviser. His hobby was landscaping. Whoever did this didn't have any imagination. It's nothing but a damned orchard."