“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 whimsical 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?”

The group howled. Gales flung his arms into the air. He let out a great wail of mirth. He stomped and shouted back, “Fifty-eight years old. Yeah. That’s right. I’m not lying.”

“You didn’t answer the question, Gales. What’s she do?”

The sergeant went into contortions. He evaded answering.

Ragnarson dropped his chicken. He was laughing too hard to hang on.

“Low humor,” the cook growled.

“The lowest,” Bragi agreed. “Straight out of the gutter. So how come you can’t wipe that grin off your face?”

“If it was anybody but Gales….”

The sergeant’s audience trampled his protests. They buried him in questions about his elderly friend. He reddened incredibly. He bounced around, roaring with laughter, vainly trying to regain control of the group. “Tell us the truth, Gales,” they insisted.

Bragi shook his head and murmured, “He’s a wonder. He loves it. I couldn’t stand it.”

Soberly, the cook asked, “But what’s he good for?”

“A laugh.” Bragi stifled a chuckle. It was a sound question. Inger’s dowry-men had proven useful, but he often wondered what their presence signified. They were not loyal to himself or Kavelin. And Inger remained an Itaskian at heart. That might prove troublesome one day.

He munched chicken and watched Gales. His military adjutant came in.

As always, Dahl Haas looked freshly scrubbed and shaved. He belonged to that strange fraternity who could walk through a coal mine in white and come out spotless. “They’re ready in the privy audience chamber, Sire.” He stood as rigid as a pike. His gaze darted to Gales. Disgust flickered across his face.

Bragi did not understand. Dahl’s father had followed him for decades. The man had been as earthy as Gales.

“Be there in a minute, Dahl. Ask them to be patient.”