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.

He shook hands, exchanged greetings. There was no majestic aloofness in him. King he was, but here just another of a group of old friends.

Their impatience amused him. Of Sir Gjerdrum he asked, „How do the maneuvers look? Can the troops handle the summer exercises with the militia?"

„Of course. They're the best soldiers in the Lesser King­ doms." Eanredson could not remain still.

„Youth and its fury of haste." Sir Gjerdrum was yet in his twenties. „How goes it with the beautiful Gwendolyn?"

Eanredson growled something.

„Don't worry. She's young, too. You'll outgrow it. All right, people. Gather round. I'll only take a few minutes."