Rod glanced from face to face again. He hadn’t said anything about guilt or expiation, but he could see remorse turn into fanaticism in their expressions. He turned to Grathum. “We can trust them. Strike off their bonds.”

Grathum eyed him uncertainly, but moved to obey.

Rod felt a tug at his belt, and looked down.

“Papa,” said Gregory, “will the guards allow them to speak to the King?”

“I’ll have to see if I can get you a job as my memory.” Rod turned away to fumble in Fess’s pack, mumbling, “We did bring a stylus and some paper, didn’t we?”

“We did,” the robot’s voice answered, “but it is at the bottom, under the hardtack.”

“Well, of course! I wasn’t expecting a booming correspondence on this jaunt.” Rod dug deep, came up with writing materials, and wrote out a rather informal note, asking that the bearer be allowed to speak with Their Majesties. He folded it, tucked the stylus away, and turned to Cordelia. “Seal, please.”

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.”

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.”