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Derel-and we'll deal with them in an orderly fashion."
    Mocker was appalled. "Is end. Is perished. Is dead, absolute, friend of youth, wrapping self in cocoon of time, coming forth from chrysalis as perfect bureaucrat, all impatient and indifferent. Or is imposter, taking place of true gentleman of former time? Rising from Sea of Perdition, snakes of rules and regulations for hair-not my department, go down hall to hear same-Bastard Beast-Child of order.... Enough. Self, am beloved get of Chaos. Am having business of own. Otherwheres. Open door."
    He was irked. And Ragnarson was tempted to apologize, except he wasn't sure what to apologize for. "Let him go, Luther. Tell Malven to take him to his room." One by one, he palmed the double nobles.
    Part of his failure came from inside, he reflected. He had changed. But as much blame lay with Mocker. Never had he been so touchy.
    Michael Trebilcock, one of the faces Mocker didn't know, asked, "What now?"
    Ragnarson gestured for silence.
    Mocker didn't make it past Luther. As the guard steppedaside, the fat man turned and asked musingly, "Double nobles five?" He grinned. "Hai! Might soothe conscience, same being sufficient to keep wife and son for year or two in eventuation of certain death of cretinic chaser-after-dreams of old friends." He then railed against the Fates for several minutes, damning them for driving him into a corner from which he had no exit but suicide.
    It was all for show. The mission Bragi had shouldn't be dangerous.
    They settled it then, with Mocker to leave Vorgreberg the following morning. The group gradually dissolved, till only Bragi and Fiana remained.
    They stared at one another across a short space that, sometimes, seemed miles.
    Finally, she asked, "Am I getting boring?"
    He shook his head.
    "What is it, then?"
    He massaged his face again. "The pressure. More and more, I have trouble giving a damn. About anything."
    "And Elana, a little? You think she knows?"
    "She knows. Probably since the beginning."
    Fiana nodded thoughtfully. "That would explain a lot."
    Bragi frowned. "What?"
    "Never mind. You have trouble with your conscience?"
    "Maybe. Maybe."
    She locked the door, eased into his lap. He didn't resist, but neither did he encourage her. She nuzzled his ear, whispered, "I've always had this fantasy about doing it here. On the table. Where all the important laws and treaties get signed."
    There were some things Ragnarson just couldn't say, and first among them was "no" to a willing lady.
    Later, he met with Colonel Balfour, who commanded the Guild regiment being maintained in Ravelin till the country produced competent soldiers of its own. High Crag was growing a little arrogant, a little testy, as the inevitable withdrawal of the regiment drew closer. Each year the Guild grew less subtle in its insistence that the regiment's commission be extended.
    There were mercenaries and Mercenaries. The latter belonged to the Guild, headquartered at High Crag on the western coast just north of Dunno Scuttari. The Guild was abrotherhood of free soldiers, almost a monastic order, consisting of approximately ten thousand members scattered from Ipopotam to Iwa Skolovda, from the Mountains of M'Hand to Freyland. Ragnarson and many of his intimates had begun their adulthood in its ranks and, nominally, remained attached to the order. But the connection was tenuous, despite High Crag's having awarded regular promotions over the years. Because the Citadel recognized no divorce, it still claimed a right to demand obedience.
    The soldiers of the Guild owned no other allegiance, to men, nations, or faith. And they were the best-schooled soldiers in the west. High Crag's decision to accept or reject a commission often made or broke the would-be employer's cause without blows being struck.
    There were suspicions, among princes, that the Citadel- High Crag's heart, whence the retired generals ruled-was shaping destiny to its own dream.
    Ragnarson entertained those