Trebilcock gave him a funny look. Ragnarson knew he was wondering exactly what had just been said. “Maybe you made the right bet after all. The one this morning. Experience counts for as much as energy and enthusiasm. You’ve got the energy here, so you slide down behind them and run them to me. I’ll bushwhack them.”

Michael nodded and faded into the woods. His face was paler than usual.

Bragi watched him go. Had he made his point? Friend Michael was walking a tightrope. It could end up knotted around his neck.

Michael did not look lucky enough to pull off a big one. He looked like a man with the seal of doom stamped on his forehead.

Ragnarson didn’t want anything to happen to Michael. He was fond of the man.

“Damn you, Kavelin,” he murmured as he slipped into his ambuscade. And, “Michael, for gods’ sakes get the message. It’s almost too late.”

He crouched and remembered Sir Andvbur Kimberlin of Karadja, a young knight he had known during Kavelin’s civil war. Another man he had liked. Sir Andvbur would have become one of Kavelin’s great men had he not been too idealistic and impatient. Instead of lying on goosedown, he lay in his grave, his neck broken by a rope.

“Just don’t start thinking you’ve got the only answer, Michael. You’re all right as long as we can talk.”

A twig cracked a few feet away. He gathered himself for his charge.

FOUR: YEAR 1016 AFE
FAMILY LIFE

It was a weird sunset. There were pastel greens in the clouds scattering the western horizon. Green was rare. Ragnarson wondered why.

The old man had to shout twice to get his attention. “I’m sorry. What did you say?”

“Was you out to Captures today?”

Ragnarson laughed. “Was I? Was I ever.” Every muscle in his body ached. They would need a hoist to get him off his horse.

“What was the score? Fellow told me the Guards won. Why would a guy lie that way? I want to know on account of maybe I beat the spread.”

“Who’d you bet?”

“Panthers by three. That was the best I could get.”

“Hope you didn’t bet the daughter’s dowry, Pops. You’re hurting.”

Dismay—yea, even despair—blackened the old man’s face. Ragnarson could not stifle a bark of laughter.

He felt good, not being recognized. For these few minutes he could be just another man. The old-timer didn’t expect anything of him.

“You wouldn’t lie just to see an old man squirm, now would you?”

“I don’t want to ruin your evening. But you did ask. It was five to three. Guards.”

“That’s impossible.”

“You know how it goes. The Panthers got too cocky.”

“The King played, didn’t he? I should have known. King’s luck. He could fall in a cesspool and come up wearing gold chains.”

Ragnarson faked a coughing spasm to keep a whooping laugh from busting loose. He? Lucky? With everything that had happened to him?