Rod pried open the playpen and took his son in his arms. “Well, he couldn’t have done it by levi—uh, flying, could he?”

“Nay, he hath not strength enough to lift the playpen along with him—that he would have to do by his own bone and sinew. But warlocks cannot…”

“Well, this one can.” He grinned down at the baby and chucked it under the chin. “How about that? I’ve fathered a genius!”

The baby cooed and bounced out of Rod’s arms.

“Whup! Come back here!” Rod jumped and snagged a fat little ankle before the baby could float off in the morning breeze.

“Oh, Magnus!” Gwen was on them in a rush, cradling the baby in her arms. “Oh, my bold babe! Thou shalt most surely be a most puissant warlock when thou art grown!”

The baby smiled back at her. He wasn’t quite sure what he’d done that was right, but he wasn’t going to argue.

Rod beamed with fatherly pride as he hefted the oaken playpen back into the cave. He was amazed at his son; that playpen was heavy

He got a hank of rope and started tying the pen down. “That kid!” he said, shaking his head. “Scarcely a year old—he can’t even walk yet, and… Gwen, what’s the age when they start levitating?”

“ ‘Levi—’ Oh, you mean flying, my lord!” Gwen came back into the cave, the baby straddling one hip. “Thirteen years, or thereabouts, my lord, is the age for young warlocks to fly.”

“And this kid started at nine months.” Rod’s chest swelled a trifle—his head, too. “What age do little witches start making their broomsticks fly?”

“Eleven, my lord, or mayhap twelve.”

“Well, he’s a little ahead of schedule for that, too—except that warlocks aren’t supposed to make broomsticks fly at all. What a kid!” He didn’t mention that Magnus was obviously a major mutation.

He patted the baby’s head. The child wrapped a chubby hand around his father’s finger.

Rod turned shining eyes to Gwen. “He’ll make a great agent when he’s grown.”

“My lord!” Gwen’s brow knit in concern. “Thou wilt not take him from Gramarye?”

“Perish the thought!” Rod took Magnus and tossed him up in the air. “He’ll have his work cut out for him right here.”

Magnus squealed with delight and floated on up toward the roof.

Rod executed a high jump that would have done credit to a pole-vaulter and snagged his errant son. “Besides, he may not even want to join SCENT—who knows?”

Rod was an agent of the Society for the Conversion of Extraterrestrial Nascent Totalitarianisms, the subversive wing of the multi-planet Decentralized Democratic Tribunal, the first and only human interstellar government in history not to be based on Terra. The Senate met by electronic communications; the Executive resided on a starship which was usually to be found between planets. Nonetheless, it was the most efficient democratic government yet established.

SCENT was the organization responsible for bringing the Lost Colonies of earlier Terrestrial empires back into the fold. Rod was on permanent assignment to Gramarye, a planet that had been colonized by mystics, romantics, and escapists. The culture was medieval, the people superstitious—and a small percentage of the population had “witch-powers.”

Consequently, the DDT in general, and SCENT in particular, were immensely interested in Gramarye; for the “witches” and “warlocks” were espers. Some had one set of psi powers and some had another—but all were telepaths to some degree. And, since the efficiency (and, consequently, the viability) of a democracy varies directly with the speed of its communications, and since telepathic communication was instantaneous, the DDT treasured its only colony of espers very highly.

So Rod had been assigned to guard the planet, and to carefully nudge its political system onto the road that would eventually lead to democracy and full membership in the DDT.

“Hey, Fess,” Rod called.

The great black horse grazing in the meadow outside the cave lifted its head to look at its master. Its voice sounded through a small earphone buried in Rod’s mastoid bone. “Yes, Rod?”

Rod snorted. “What’re you cropping grass for? Who ever heard of a robot burning hydrocarbons?”

“One must keep up appearances, Rod,” Fess reproved him.

“Next thing I know, you’ll be keeping up with the Joneses! Listen, bolt-head—it’s an occasion! The kid pulled his first telekinesis stunt today!”

“Telekinesis? I had thought that was a sex-linked female trait, Rod.”

“Well, all of a sudden it ain’t.” He put the baby in the playpen and clamped the cover down before Magnus had a chance to drift out. “How about that, Fess? This kid’s gonna be a champion!”

“It will be my great pleasure to serve him,” the robot murmured, “as I have served his forebears for five hundred years, since the days of the first D’Armand, who founded…”

“Uh, skip the family history, Fess.”

“But, Rod, it is a vital portion of the child’s heritage; he should…”

“Well, save it until he learns to talk, then.”

“As you wish.” The mechanical voice somehow managed a sigh. “In that case, it is my duty to inform you that you will shortly be receiving company, Rod.”

Rod stilled, cocking an eyebrow at his horse. “What do you see?”

“Nothing, Rod; but I detect the sounds characteristic of bipedal locomotion of a small being conveying itself through long grass.”

“Oh.” Rod relaxed. “An elf coming through the meadow. Well, they’re always welcome.”

An eighteen-inch body burst out of the grass at the cave-mouth.

Rod grinned. “Welcome, merry wanderer of the night.”

“Puck!” Gwen squealed. She turned to their guest. “Assuredly, thou art most…”

She stopped, seeing the look on the elf’s face.

Rod had sobered too. “What’s right, Puck?”

“Naught,” said the elf grimly. “Rod Gallowglass, thou must needs come, and right quickly, to the King!”

“Oh, I must, must I? What’s so urgent all of a sudden? What’s all the panic about?”

“Beastmen!” The elf gasped for breath. “They have raided the seacoast at the Duchy of Loguire!”

The Royal Guard rode south, with the King at their head.

A lone rider sat his grazing horse at the side of the road, playing a pipe with a low and mournful sound.

Tuan frowned, and said to the knight beside him, “What ails yon fellow? Is he so bemused by his own music that he doth not see armed horsemen approaching?”

“And can he not see thy crown?” the knight responded, dutifully putting into words what his sovereign was thinking. “I shall waken him, Majesty.” He kicked his horse’s sides and cantered ahead.

“Ho, fellow! Dost thou not see His Majesty approacheth?”

The rider looked up. “Why, so he does! Say, isn’t that a handy coincidence? I was just thinking about him.”

The knight stared, then backed his horse away. “Thou’rt the High Warlock!”

“ ‘High’?” Rod frowned. “Not a word of truth in it. Totally sober, good knight—haven’t even thought about intoxicants since last Friday!”

The knight frowned, irritation overcoming awe. “Eh, thou’rt as unmannerly as a churl! Know that the King hath created thee High Warlock!‘’

“ ‘‘Tis even so,” the King confirmed, drawing rein beside them. Then, rather unwillingly, “Well met, Lord High Warlock—for this poor Isle of Gramarye doth lie in need of thine art, and thy wisdom.”

Rod inclined his head. “I am ever obedient to my adoptive homeland’s call. But why do I get a high title out of it? I’d come just as quickly without it.”

“ ‘Tis thy due, is it not?” Tuan’s lips pressed thin. “And it describes thy place aptly. Folk fight better when they know from whom to take orders, and to whom to give them.”

“An understatement,” Rod admitted. “You’ve gotta have a clear flow chart if you want to get anything done. Very true, Your Majesty; I should’ve known better than to question you.”

Tuan’s eyebrows lifted. “Pleasantly said; I would not have expected it of you.”