He heard Michael howl. He watched the lean, pale man sail into the pack. Panthers began flying out of the mob.

Bragi writhed and cursed. Somebody was twisting his arm. There was a boot under his chin. The cord of thrashing limbs atop him was growing higher.

He heard Slugbait’s ecstatic haroo. “I got one!” A portion of the melee thundered back downhill and into the woods, the Panthers baying like bloodhounds.

Two Panther ballcarriers broke loose and raced for their castle. The main whoop and holler headed that way.

Ragnarson slithered out of the pile and tackled another ballcarrier. Michael grabbed his burden and did a quiet fade into the woods. Bragi yelled at and pummeled his teammates, trying to get them to eject a few more Panthers from the field.

The hullabaloo died away. Both teams faded into the woods. Panther victory horns sounded twice despite their being down so many players. From the Guards’ castle there was nothing but a dreary hoot indicating that one Guard ball had found its way home.

There was a lot of derisive noise from the Panther end, where their ousted players waited under the watchful eye of the goal judge.

Ragnarson and Trebilcock returned to their positions. Michael said, “Your strategy might be better suited to long Captures.”

“I think you’re right. Credence Abaca suggested it one time. Only he says when the Marena Dimura play, they tie and gag people and hang them up in the tall trees where nobody will find them. He says sometimes both sides get so busy doing that that the balls get forgotten and all of a sudden there’s not enough players to move them around.”

“You think he was stretching it? If it came to that point, you’d have people in the trees so long they’d starve to death.”

“Where are we?”

“Two zip. Panthers. And me with two hundred nobles on Guards to win.”

“Two hundred? Gods!” Ragnarson forgot his questions. “What are you? Some kind of fool?”

“I thought you’d come up with an angle.”

“I did, but it might be too late. Go on with what you were telling me. Anything more about the east?”

“Hsung’s Throyen puppets might occupy the Kotsūm coast of Hammad al Nakir. A put-up, so Hsung can pose a naval threat on Matayanga’s flank.”

Ragnarson smiled gently. “What is happening in Hammad al Nakir? They wouldn’t sit still for that, would they?”

“I don’t see what anybody could do about it. El Murid is hiding in Sebil el Selib. He has almost no followers now. He don’t seem interested in anything but opium. Megelin is such a clumsy king that people are just ignoring him, hoping he’ll go away.”

“That’s sad. Really sad. Haroun’s son. I thought, how could he be anything but good? He’s his father’s boy.”

“Your friend didn’t teach him much but how to fight. They say he’s a devil when there’s a war on, but if it weren’t for el Senoussi and Beloul his government would fall apart. I hear his officials are more corrupt than El Murid’s were.”