Octobers Baby by Glen Cook Page B

an overgrown street gang.” He had been sour for days. First, Mocker had insisted on coming south. Bragi would rather he were in charge at home. Elana was unpredictable. Bevold had no imagination. And the two were sure to feud.
    His last hope of evading the Kavelin committment had evaporated when Royalist rowdies, at the gate of Itaskia’s citadel, had murdered Duke Greyfells.
    The shock waves were still rattling windows and walls. A quiet little war between Haroun’s partisans and those of El Murid, in the ghetto, was no cause for excitement. But an assassination...
    Half of Itaskia had gone into shock. The other half had gone on a witchhunt.
    “Look what Reskird’s recruited. Children.” Ragnar-son indicated a line of young swordsmen being drilled by a grizzled veteran.
    “Self,” Mocker observed with a chuckle, “remember boy from icy northland, big as a horse, bald-chinned...”
    “That was different. My father raised me right.”
    “Hai!” Mocker cried. “‘Raised right,’ says he. As reever, arsonist, Her in ambush...”
    Bragi was in no mood for banter. He didn’t argue. He continued surveying the encampment. The area occupied by Kildragon’s trainees pleased him. They had even put up a log stockade behind a good deep ditch.
    But the Trolledyngjan camp was a despair. He had seen better among savages. This had come on recently, too. There had been no sloppiness when they had camped at his place.
    “The families. We’ll have to do something, or there’ll be trouble. First time some girl gets caught in the puckerbushes with an Itaskian...”
    “Self, am no expert... Hai! Such strange expression. Am, admittedly, expert in most things, being genius equal to girth, but even for genius of such breadth, self, all things not known. But don’t tell. Public thinks fat old reprobate infallible, omniscient, near divine in wisdom.”
    “How about turning your omniscience to the point?”
    Mocker did so, but Ragnarson paid little attention.
    They entered the Trolledyngjan encampment. Ragnar-son’s nose rose. Trolledyngjans were notoriously undisci-plined and unfastidious, but this much filth meant deep trouble and a lack of leadership.
    He heard angry voices. “May get to try your sug-gestion.”
    “Uhn,” the fat man grunted. He, too, had been surveying the surly faces watching from tents and wagons. “Self, will keep hand to hilt.”
    The voices proved to be those of Blackfang and a large, brutish young man, arguing amidst a mass of grumbling Trolledyngjans. With Mocker’s donkey in his wake, Bragi forced his mount into the press.
    The onlookers moved reluctantly, with hard glares. How could Haaken have let it go this far?
    Ragnarson thundered. “What the hell is this, Black-fang? A pigsty?” He studied the man facing his foster brother.
    A brute. A young swine. But that was more in mind and manner than appearance. Not too bright, greedy, and a catspaw, Ragnarson guessed.
    Blackfang saluted, replied, “A bit of difficulty explaining something, sir. Some folks think we ought to be raiding, not running off to some bird-in-the-bush Lesser Kingdom.”
    “Eh? What kind of fool are you? You recruit suicides? Settle it. Thrash the lout, get this camp cleaned up, and report to my quarters.”
    Blackfang’s antagonist could contain himself no longer. “Who’s this old swineherd muck-mouth, and where’s she get off giving orders to men?” Ragnarson wore Itaskian dress. “Are we slaves to every eunuch who rides in?...”
    Ragnarson’s boot found his mouth. He looked up from the ground puzzledly, a finger feeling loosened teeth.
    “Ten lashes,” Bragi said. “Special consideration so it won’t be said I spite the children of old enemies. But I’ll hang him next time.”
    The man was about to spring. Discretion bit him. He frowned questioningly.
    “Up, you,” Ragnarson ordered. “Which of Bjorn Thorfinson’s whelps are you?”
    “Eh? Ragnar...”
    “Ragnar? The gall of the man. But no matter.