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Haldane risked a blow to ask. “What of the wizards of the West?”
    Morca waved the question aside as of no importance. “What of them?” he asked, roaring on. “They are dead. They died at Stone Heath and those that are left are small men, more theoretic than our Oliver, whom I can provoke to perform. Why else should I tolerate a man of magic? We were too weak to take the West after Stone Heath and the West lay helpless, too weak to defend itself. In our weakness, we did nothing. In their weakness, they survived. Our weakness is now strength—we have a new generation of Get fighting men. What does the West have? Still nothing. Lothor thought himself safe behind his mountains and his guarded passes. We spent a week crossing through snow and high rock on our mission of state, and Lothor still wonders from where we came. Give me an army and the West is mine. And yours after me.”
    Morca paused, for the moment talked to an end. He poured the last of the pitcher of ale into his leather cup, sipped, and looked upon Haldane to gauge the effect of his words.
    Haldane jumped up and seized Morca by the sleeve. “Call the Storthing together,” he said in excitement. “Please, father, tonight. Let us raise the barons and go take the West!”
    There had been no Storthing in Haldane’s lifetime, none since Morca’s election as King of the Gets. That gathering had been marked by quarrels and blood and Morca had prevailed only with the aid of his good friend Arngrim, who had been lieutenant to Garmund, though barely older than Morca. That was before Morca had taken Arngrim’s daughter Freda and paid no bride price for her, opening a breach that had taken years to heal. In the meantime, though parties to this quarrel and that had changed and changed again, the quarrels had hardly grown fewer.
    Morca pushed the boy away with his great hand, forcing Haldane to loose his fierce grip. Morca’s cup was never in danger.
    “Not yet,” said Morca. “Not yet, but soon. I will call the Storthing when I command the barons. If I am to hold the West, the Gets must be united behind me. I will have my homage. I am not nice about the reasons. I will have some through love and some through fealty, some by command of their land or life. But I will have my grip.”
    And he finished his cup and the last of the ale. As though his habits were well known and taken into account, which they were, the door opened and the serf outside announced that Morca’s dinner was served. While he stood with his hand to the door, the serf was brushed aside by Svein come pell-melling up the stairs.
    “I heard them talking,” Svein said. “That Princess Marthe is in the hall with her father. She expects to eat at the High Table. No one knows what to say.”
    Morca’s table and dun were celibate, it being Morca’s rule that no man should keep what Morca did not. Those of Morca’s men who cared to marry were encouraged to establish steads of their own under Morca’s protection.
    Morca said, “Go down and tell them that the girl is to be served privately in her rooms. The custom of my hall is not to be disturbed. Call me for dinner when all is settled.”
    Svein turned and went out with a glancing look at the serf at the door. In the old days before there were serfs, a Get carl did his own labor and was proud. Svein was proud.
    Haldane said, “When you speak from the balcony before a raid, you always say that women are to be taken where they are found and not dragged back to the dun. Do you intend to send this woman and me out to start our own homestead, our own dun?”
    “What is a custom in the face of an opportunity?” said Morca. “By damn, you have no sense! This marriage is part of my brightest planning. Men will follow you. They like the thought of long tradition. You there, Rab,” he said to the serf holding the door open yet. “If you were a Get would you follow Lord Haldane and Princess Marthe?”
    The serf nodded, “Oh yes, master, I would.