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.”