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.