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."

„I've heard this one before."

„What do you think?"

„He's consistent. He doesn't make it bigger when he retells it."

„You were at Simballawein when the Itaskians landed, weren't you?"

„It was Libiannin. I didn't run into Gales. I would've remembered him."

The cook laughed. „He does make an impression." He produced a tray of cold chicken. „This do the job, Sire?"

„That's plenty. Let's sit over here and watch the show."

Gales had an audience of serving people come to town with the advisers and assistants Bragi was to meet later that morning. For them the sergeant's stories were fresh. They responded well. Gales undertook further flights of whimsi­ cal autobiography.

„I've been all over this world," Gales declared. „I mean, everywhere. Yeah. Itaskia. Hellin Daimiel. Simballawein.

Yeah. I've had every kind of woman there is. White women. Black women. Brown women. Every kind there is. Yeah. That's no lie. I got five different women right now. Right here in Vorgreberg. I've got one, she's fifty-eight years old."

Someone catcalled. Everyone laughed. A passing palace guard leaned in the doorway. „Hey! Gales! Fifty-eight? What's she do when she goes down? Gum you to death?"