The witchlet stared at it, brow puckering in furious concentration. Then she beamed, and nodded.
“All done?” Rod tested it; the paper was sealed all around the edges; molecules from each half of the sheet had wandered in among the other half’s. Rod grinned. “Thanks, cabbage.” He turned to Grathum, handing him the letter. “Present this to the sentry. Not being able to read, he’ll call the captain of the guard, who’ll call for Sir Maris, who’ll probably allow only two of you to come before Their Majesties—and even then, only when you’re surrounded by ten of the Queen’s Own Bodyguard. Don’t let them bother you—they’ll just be decoration.” He pursed his lips. “Though I wouldn’t make any sudden moves, when you’re in the throne room…”
Grathum bobbed his head, wide-eyed. “E’en as thou dost say, milord.” Then he frowned. “But… milord…”
“Go ahead.” Rod waved an expansive gesture.
Grathum still hesitated, then blurted, “Why dost thou call thy lass a ‘cabbage?’ ”
“ ‘Cause she’s got a head on her shoulders,” Rod explained. “Off with you, now.”
4
The family watched the little company march off southward. When they had disappeared into the woodland, Rod turned back to his family. “Thank you, children. I was very proud of you.”
They blossomed under his praise. Cordelia caught his hand and returned, “And I was proud of thee, Papa, that thou didst not lose thy temper!”
Rod fought to keep his smile and said only, “Yes. Well, every little improvement counts, doesn’t it?”
He turned to sit on a convenient rock. “We could use a little rest, after all that excitement.”
“And food!” Geoffrey plopped himself down on the grass in front of Rod. “May I hunt, Papa?”
“No,” Rod said slowly, “there are those laws against poaching, and this tinker disguise still seems to be useful.”
“But it doth not deceive the sorcerer and his coven,” Magnus said, folding himself down beside Geoffrey.
“True, but it does seem to make the folk we encounter more willing to talk. Grathum said things to the tinker, that he was careful to hold back from the Lord High Warlock.”
“Indeed,” Gwen confirmed. “He was so overawed that his true feelings did not even come into his mind, when he knew thou wert noble.”
“Which I still don’t believe,” Rod noted, “but he did. That’s what’s important. So we remain a tinker family, on the surface.”
“Then, no hunting?” Geoffrey pouted.
“Yes,” Rod nodded. “No.”
“But we’re hungry!” Cordelia complained.
“There is an answer to that.” Gwen opened a bundle and spread it out. “Biscuits, cheese, apples—and good spring water, which Magnus may fetch.”
Magnus heaved a martyred sigh and went to fetch the bucket.
“I know,” Rod commiserated. “It’s not easy, being the eldest.”
Magnus set the bucket down in the center of the family ring and scowled at it. With a sudden slosh, it filled with water.
Rod gazed at it, then lifted his eyes to his eldest. “I take it you remembered the last brook we crossed?”
Magnus nodded, folding himself down cross-legged. “Though milk would be better.”
“You may not teleport it out,” Rod said sternly. “How do you think the poor cow would feel? Besides, it’d take too long to cool, after Mama pasteurized it.”
“She could heat it in the cow,” Cordelia offered.
“Haven’t we done that poor beast enough meanness already?”
“Rabbit would be better,” Geoffrey groused.
Gwen shook her head. “There is not time to roast it. We must yet march northward a whiles this day, children.”
Geoffrey sighed, and laid a slice of cheese on a biscuit.
“Will we cross into Romanov this night, Papa?” Magnus asked.
“Not if I can help it. That’s one border crossing I want to make in daylight.”
“There are surprises enough, under the sun,” Gwen agreed. “We need not those of the moon, also.”
Cordelia shrugged. “We know the range of witch-powers. What new thing could they smite us withal?”
“An we knew of it,” Gwen advised her, “ ‘twould not be surprise.”
“Besides,” Rod said thoughtfully, “I don’t like what your Mama said, about that depth-hypnosis not having any feel of the mind that did it.”
The children all stared up at him. Magnus voiced for them. “What dost thou think it may be, Papa?”
But Rod shook his head. “There are too many factors we don’t know about.”
“We do know that the Tyrant Sorcerer is aged,” Gregory piped up.
The others stared at him. “What makes thee say so?” Cordelia demanded.
“I heard the soldier speak thus, when he told Papa of the battle with Count Novgor.”
“Such as it was.” Rod searched his memory, and realized Gregory was right. But it was such a slight reference! And “venerable” didn’t necessarily mean “old.” He glanced at Gwen, and found her eyes on him. He turned back to Gregory. “Very good, son. What else do we know?”
“That he has gathered other witches and warlocks about him!” Cordelia said quickly.
“That they are younger than he,” Magnus added, “for Grathum did not mention age when he spoke of the warlock Melkanth.”
“He did not say Melkanth was young, though,” Gregory objected, “and neither he nor the soldier said aught of the other sorcery folk.”
Magnus clamped his jaw, and reddened. “Other than that there were more than a few of them—and enough to defeat a dozen armed men!”
“Well, he did use the plural,” Rod temporized, “and Grathum and Arlinson both probably would’ve mentioned it, if they’d been old.”
Magnus glanced up at his father gratefully.
“Still…” Rod glanced at Gregory, whose face was darkening into obstinacy. “…that is something we’ve guessed, not something we know. We’ve got to be ready to change that opinion in a hurry.”
Gregory’s expression lightened.
“We know there is a crafter of witch-moss among them,” Gwen said slowly, “and I would presume ‘tis the one we met with two nights agone.”
“Probably,” Rod agreed, “and at least one of their witches is good enough at telekinesis, to come up with fireballs.”
“That doth take skill,” noted Gwen, who could light both a match and a barn a mile off.
“And a projective who can manage a quick hypnotic trance that’s good enough to hold a dozen demoralized soldiers,” Rod mused. “Presumably, that’s the tyrant himself.”
“Thou dost guess, Papa,” Gregory reminded.
Rod grinned. “Good boy! You caught it.”
“And one among them can plan the use of all these powers, in such wise as to easily defeat an armed force,” Geoffrey said suddenly.
Rod nodded. “Good point—and easy to miss. What was their strategy?”
“To gobble up first the peasants, then the knights,” Geoffrey’s eyes glowed. “They began with the small and built them into strength, then used them to catch something larger. They should therefore attack Duke Romanov and, after him, some others of the Great Lords—Hapsburg and Tudor, most likely, sin’ that they are nearest neighbors. Then they might chance attack on the King and Queen, sin’ that they’ll have the Royal Lands encircled—or, if they doubt their own strength, they might swallow up Bourbon, DiMedici, and Gloucester ere they do essay King Tuan.”
The family was silent, staring at the six-year-old. Rod reflected that this was the child who hadn’t wanted to learn how to read, until Rod had told him the letters were marching. “That’s very good,” he said softly, “very good—especially since there wasn’t much information to go on. And I did say strategy, when I really meant tactics.”
“Oh! The winning of that one battle?” Geoffrey shrugged. “They sent witch-moss monsters against the armed
band, to busy them and afright them. Then, the whiles the monsters held their attention, the other warlocks and witches rained blows on them from all sides. ‘Twas simple—but ‘twas enow; it did suffice.”
“Hm.” Rod looked directly into the boy’s eyes. “So you don’t think much of their tactician?”
“Eh, I did not say that, Papa! Indeed, he did just as he should have—used only as much force as was needed, and when and where it was needed. I doubt not, had Count Novgor proved stronger than he’d guessed, he’d have had magical reserves to call upon.” Geoffrey shook his head. “Nay, I could not fault him. His battle plan in this skirmish may have been, as thou hast said, simple—but he may also be quite able to lay out excellent plans for elaborate battles.” He shrugged. “There is no telling, as yet.”
Rod nodded slowly. “Sounds right. Any idea on the number of subordinate warlocks and witches?”
“Four, at the least—one to craft witch-moss, and direct her constructs; one to fly above, and drop rocks; two, at least, who did appear and disappear, jumping from place to place within the melee, wreaking havoc and confusion. There may be a fifth, who threw fireballs; and also a sixth, who did cast the trance spell.”
“Hypnosis,” Rod corrected.
“Hip-no-siss.” Geoffrey nodded, with intense concentration. “As thou sayest. And, of course, there was the Tyrant-Sorcerer, this Alfar; it may have been he who cast the trance spell, which would make his lesser warlocks and witches only the five.”
Rod nodded. “So. We can be sure there’re Alfar, and four subordinates—but there may be more.” He checked his memories of Gavin Arlinson’s account, but while he was checking, Gregory confirmed, “‘Tis even as Geoffrey doth say. Word for word, he hath counted them.”
Geoffrey cast him a look of annoyance. “Who did ask thee, babe?”
Gregory’s face darkened.
“Children!” Gwen chided. “Canst thou not allow one another each his due share of notice?”
Cordelia sat up a little straighter, and looked virtuous.
Rod leaned back on his hands, staring up at the sky. “Well! I didn’t know we knew all that much! I expected you children to help out on the odd jobs—but I didn’t expect this!” He looked down at his brood, gloating. “But—if they’ve got all that going for them—why did they worry about some escaping peasants? Why did they send their brand-new army to chase them down?”
“Why, ‘tis simply said!” Geoffrey looked up, startled. “ ‘Twas done so that they might not bear word to Duke Hapsburg, or Earl Tudor—or e’en Their Majesties!”
They were quiet again, all staring at him.
Geoffrey looked from face to face. “But—‘tis plain! Is’t not?”
“Yes, now that you’ve told us,” Rod answered. “But what bothers me, is—why doesn’t Alfar want anyone to know what he’s doing?”
“Why, ‘tis even plainer! He means to conquer the Duke, and doth not wish any other Lord to send him aid!”
His brothers and sister watched him, silent.
Rod nodded, slowly. “Yes. That’s what I was afraid you were going to say.”
Count Drulane and his lady rose, and all their folk rose with them. At the farthest end from their dais, the family of tinkers rose, too—though Gwen had to prod Geoffrey into putting down his trencher long enough to remember his manners.
“A good night to you all, then,” the Count intoned. “May your dreams be pleasant—and may you wake in the morning.”
The habitual phrase fell rather somberly on their ears, considering the tenor of the table conversation. The Count may have realized it; certainly, his departure through the door behind the dais, with his lady, was a bit brusque.
Gwen leaned over to Rod and murmured, “Is such fear born only of silence?”
Rod shrugged. “You heard what they said. The peasants are used to meeting Romanov peasants at the markets, and suddenly, they’re not there. And the Count and Countess are used to the occasional social call—but there haven’t been any for two weeks, and the last one before that brought rumors of the Romanov peasants being upset about evil witches.”
“I would fear,” said Magnus, “if such visits stopped so suddenly.”
“Especially if you had relatives up there,” Rod agreed, “which most of them seem to. I mean, who else are the knights’ daughters going to meet and marry?” He clasped Magnus’s shoulder. “Come on, son. Let’s help them clean up.”
“Geoffrey, now!” Gwen said firmly and the six-year-old wolfed the last of his huge slice of bread as he stepped back from the table. Then he reached out and caught his wooden cup just as Rod and Magnus lifted the board off its trestles and turned it sideways, to dump the scraps onto the rushes.
“Tis not very cleanly, Papa,” Cordelia reminded.
“I know, dear—but when you’re a guest, you do what your hosts do. And make no mistake—the Count and Countess are being very kind, to let a family of poor tinkers spend the night in their castle.”
“Especially sin’ that their own smith doth mend their pots,” Magnus added, as he turned to carry the board over to the wall. Rod followed, and they waited their turn to drop their board onto the growing stack.
“It must be that the witches have done it,” the serf in front of them was saying to his mate. “When last I saw Horth—mind thou, he that is among Sir Orlan’s hostlers?—he did say an evil warlock had come among the peasants, demanding that they pay him each a penny ere Midsummer.”
“And Midsummer hath come, and gone.” The other peasant shook his head. “What greater mischief ha’ such warlocks brewed, ere now?”
As they dropped their board, Magnus looked up at Rod. “Such words strike greater fear into my breast than doth the silence itself, Papa.”
“Yes,” Rod agreed, “because it threatens us, personally. That’s the real danger, son—and not just to us.” He clasped Magnus around the shoulder as they went back. “The peasant reaction. Your mother and I, and Queen Catharine, with Tuan’s help, were beginning to build up the idea that espers could be good guys—but one power-grabber can undo all that, and send the peasants out on witch-hunts again.” He broke off, grinning at the sight of Cordelia and Geoffrey, struggling toward him with one of the trestles between them. “Hold it, you two! You’re just not big enough to handle one of those things, yet—with just your hands, anyway!”
Cordelia dropped her end and glared up at him, fists on her hips. “I’m a big lass, Papa!”
“Not yet, you’re not—and you won’t be, for at least five more years.” Under his breath, Rod added, God willing. “But you’re a real sweetheart, to try and help. Mama needs you, though, to help clean a spot for our blankets.”
Cordelia shuddered, and Geoffrey pointed out, “It’d be more pleasant outside, Papa.”
“We’re after gossip, not comfort.” Rod turned him around and patted him on his way. “Go help Mama; she needs someone to talk a cat into staying near us all night.”
Geoffrey balked.
“Cats fight rats,” Rod reminded.
Geoffrey’s eyes gleamed, and he scurried back toward Gwen.
Rod picked up his end of the trestle. “Okay, up!”
Magnus hoisted his end, and turned toward the wall. “E’en an witches could conquer all of Gramarye, Papa, they could not hold it—against such peasant fear and hate.” He shrugged. “We number too few.”
“Watch the personal references.” Rod glanced quickly about, but none of the peasants were close enough to have heard. “Good thing none of them wants to be seen near a tinker… No, son, an evil esper, such as this Alfar, could hold power—but only by a very harsh, cruel, absolute rule.”
Magnus scowled. “Tis as bad as witch-hunts.”
“Worse, for my purposes—because it’d stifle any chance of democracy on this planet. And I want Gramarye’s telepaths to be the communications system for an interstellar democracy, some day.” Rod straightened, eyes widening. “So that’s it!”
Magnus loo
ked up, startled. “What, Papa?”
“Where the futurians come in—you know, the villains who kidnapped us all to Tir Chlis?”
Magnus’s face darkened. “I mind me of them—and of the peril they placed us in. But what sign of them is there in this coil, Papa? I see naught but an aged wizard, who hath at long last struck out in bitterness and sense of being wronged.”
“That’s what they want you to see. Okay, son, up onto the stack—heave!” They swung the sawhorse up onto the top of the stack, and turned away to go get the other one. “But if there’s the likelihood of a repressive government showing up, there’s a high probability of totalitarians from the future, being behind it.”
Behind his ear, a methodical voice intoned, “Generalizing from inadequate data…”
“But surely that is not enough sign of their presence,” Magnus protested, “only the harshness of Alfar’s rule!”
“You’ve been talking to Fess again,” Rod accused. “But keep your eyes open, and you’ll see more signs of their hand behind Alfar. Myself, I’ve been wondering about what your mother said—that there’s no trace of a mind, behind that ‘instant’ hypnosis spell Alfar used on these soldiers.”
Magnus stared in consternation. “But… Papa… how could that…”
“Up with the trestle,” Rod reminded, and they bent to pick it up, and started toward the wall again. “Think, son—what doesn’t? Think, that is. What can do things, but doesn’t think?”
Magnus was silent as they hoisted the trestle to the top of the stack. As they turned away, he guessed, “A machine:”
“You have been talking to Fess, haven’t you?” There was a brief, nasty buzz behind his ear. “I’d call that a good guess.”
“But only a guess,” Magnus reminded him.
“Of course.” They strolled up to Gwen where she knelt, just finishing spreading their blankets out over the rushes. “Managed to banish the vermin, dear?”
“Indeed.” She glanced at him. “Cordelia and I did think to gather fresh rushes the whiles we were on our way here, so we’ll sleep sweetly enow.”
Something about the phrase caught Rod’s attention. He stared down at the blanket, then lifted his gaze slowly to look deeply into Gwen’s eyes.
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