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."