"Curious. Men he's used before. When he wanted murder done. Think-he's up to something?"

"Hai! Always. When was Haroun, master intriguer, not intriguing? Is question like Trolledyngjan, 'Does bear defecate in wilderness?'"

"Yeah, the bear shits in the woods. The question is, does he have plans for us? He can't manage on his own. I wonder why? He's always so self-sufficient." Faced with a real possibility of becoming involved, Ragnarson's lust for adventure perished quickly. "Andy have anything else to say?"

"Men named vanished, no word to friends or paramours. Seen crossing Great Bridge. Nervous, in hurry. Self, expect communication from old sand devil soon. Why? Haroun is one-man nation, yes, but must justify villainous activities of self to self. Must have associates, men of respected morals. Kingship thing. Must have mandate of, license from, men with values, with judgments of respect. He respects? You see? Itaskian knife swingers are tools, not-men, dust beneath feet, of morals to spit on. Hairy Trolledyngjan and fat old rascal from east, self, not much better, but honorable in mind of Haroun. Men of respect, us. Comprehend?"

"Makes sense in a left-handed way. An insight, 1 think. I always wondered why he never put the knife work on us. Yes."

Mocker did a most un-Mockerlike thing. He pushed his chair back while food remained on the table.

Ragnarson started to follow him to the front of the house.

"Don't get involved with Haroun," said Nepanthe.

"Please?"

He searched her face. She was frightened. "What can I do? When he decides to do something, he gets irresistible as a glacier."

"I know." She bit her lip.

"We're not planning anything, really. Haroun would have to do some tall talking to involve us. We're not as hungry as we used to be."

"Maybe. Maybe not." She began clearing the table. "Mocker doesn't complain, but he wasn't made for this." With a gesture she indicated the landgrant. "He stays, and tries for my sake, but he'd be happier penniless, sitting in the rain somewhere, trying to convince old ladies he's a soothsayer. That way he's like Haroun. Security doesn't mean anything. The battle of wits is everything."

Ragnarson shrugged. He couldn't tell her what she wanted to hear. Her assessment matched his own.

"I've made him miserable, Bragi. How long since you've seen him clown like he used to? How long since he's gone off on some wild tangent and claimed the world is round, or a duck-paddled boat on a sea of wine, or any of those crackpot notions he used to take up. Bragi, I'm killing him. I love him, but, Gods help me, I'm smothering him. And I can't help it."

"We are what we are, will be what we must. If he goes back to the old ways, be patient. One thing's sure. You're his goddess. He'll be back. To stay. Things get romanticized when they slide into the past. A dose of reality might be the cure."

"I suppose. Well, go talk. Let me clean up." She obviously wanted to have a good cry.

vi) An owl from Zindahjira

Ragnarson and Mocker were still on the front step when darkness fell. They were deep into a keg of beer. Neither man spoke much. The mood was not one suited to reminiscing. Bragi kept considering Mocker's homestead. The man had worked hard, but everything had been done sloppily. The patience and perfection of the builder who cared was absent. Mocker's home might last his lifetime, but not centuries like Ragnarson's.

Bragi glanced sideways. His friend was haggard, aging. The strain of trying to be something he was not was killing him. And Nepanthe was tearing herself apart too. How bad had their relationship suffered already?

Nepanthe was the more adaptable. She had been a man-terrified twenty-eight-year-old adolescent when first their paths had crossed. She was no introverted romantic now. She reminded Bragi of the earthy, pragmatic, time-beaten peasant women of the treacherous floodplains of the Silverbind. Escape from this life might do her good too.

Mocker had always been a chimera, apparently at home in any milieu. The man within was the rock to which he anchored himself. What was visible was protective coloration. In an environment where he needed only be himself, he must feel terribly vulnerable. The lack of any immediate danger, after a lifetime of adjustment to its continual presence, could push some men to the edge.

Ragnarson was not accustomed to probing facades. It made him uncomfortable. He snorted, downed a pint of warm beer. Hell with it. What was, was. What would be, would be.

A sudden loud, piercing shriek made him choke and spray beer. When he finished wiping tears from his eyes, he saw a huge owl pacing before him.

He had seen that owl before. It served as messenger for Zindahjira the Silent, a much less pleasant sorcerer than the Visigodred who employed Marco.

"Desolation and despair," Mocker groaned. "Felicita­tions from Pit. Self, think great feathered interlocuter maybe should become owl stew, and tidings bound to leg tinder for starting fire for making same."

"That dwarf would be handy now," said Ragnarson. Both ignored the message.

"So?"

"He talks to owls. In their own language."

"Toadfeathers."

"Shilling?"

"Self, being penurious unto miserhood, indigent unto poverty, should take wager when friend Bear is infamous as bettor only on sure things? Get message."

"Why don't you?"

"Self, being gentleman farmer, confirmed anti-literate, and retired from adventure game, am not interested."

"I ain't neither."

"Then butcher owl."

"I don't think so. Zindahjira would stew us. Without benefit of prior butchery."

"When inevitable is inevitable... Charge!" Mocker shouted the last word. The owl jumped, but refused to retreat.

"Give him a beer," said Ragnarson.

"Eh?"

"Be the hospitable thing to do, wouldn't it?" He had drunk too much. In that condition he developed a childish sense of humor. There was an old saw, "Drunk as a hoot owl," about which he had developed a sudden curiosity.

Mocker set his mug before the bird. It drank. "Well, we'd better see what old Black Face wants." Bragi recovered the message. "Hunh! Can you believe this? It says he'll forgive all debts and transgressions—as if any existed—if we'll just catch him the woman called Mist. That old bastard never gives up. How long has he been laying for Visigodred? Tain't right, hurting a man through his woman."

Mocker scowled. "Threats?"

"The usual. Nothing serious. Some hints about something he's afraid to mix in, same as Visigodred."

Mocker snorted. "Pusillanimous skulker in subterra­nean tombs, troglodytic denizen of darkness, enough! Let poor old fat fool wither in peace." He had begun to grow sad, to feel sorry for himself, A tear trickled from one large, dark eye. He reached up and put a hand on Ragnarson's shoulder. "Mother of self, long time passing, sang beautiful song of butterflies and gossamer. Will sing for you." He began humming, searching for a tune.

Ragnarson frowned. Mocker was an orphan who had known neither father nor mother, only an old vagabond with whom he had traveled till he had been able to escape. Bragi had heard the story a hundred times. But in his cups, Mocker lied more than usual, about more personal things. One had to humor him or risk a fight.

The owl, a critic, screeched hideously, hurled himself into the air, fluttered drunkenly eastward. Mocker sent a weak curse after him.

A little later Nepanthe came out and led them to their beds, two morose gentlemen with scant taste for their futures.