"She definitely is a telepath, at least," the man said.

The Mocker sat back, thumbs in his belt. "Then perhaps we need to remove her from the equation."

Nobody looked particularly happy at the idea. The Mocker frowned, wondering why, then shoved the idea aside. "We'll table that. We can always send an assassin later. For the moment, we'll have to split up the siblings, set them against one another."

Everyone nodded at that. After all, it was obvious; the second generation of Gallowglasses were virtually unbeatable, as long as they all worked together.

"The Mist Monsters …" another man said.

The Mocker frowned. "I read the reports. Difficult to believe, I admit, but on this benighted planet, anything could happen."

"It did," the agent assured him. "It seems they need to be invited in, and the advance guard of illusions they sent were doing a fine job of wangling that invitation until the Gallowglass brats interfered."

The Mocker nodded slowly. "Send an agent to persuade the peasants to work themselves up to inviting monsters in, eh?"

"It worked once," the man said, "though we weren't behind it."

"You should have been! All of that will take time, though. Meanwhile, I think I had better contact our enemies."

"The High Warlock?" a third woman gasped. "But he'll recognize you!"

"Not him—SPITE!"

They all sat back, appalled. "That is consorting with the enemy," a second man said.

"We can use them to help us get rid of the Gallowglasses, then chop them down." The Mocker's gesture made it seem a simple matter. "We'll have them spring their coup at the same time that we engineer our peasant uprising."

The agents looked at one another in surprise; then one nodded in reluctant approval. "It could work—but what do we do with SPITE afterwards?"

"There won't be any SPITE afterwards," the Mocker said, "at least, not on this planet. We'll have agents among the palace guards assigned to shoot down their agents right after they've done in the Gallowglasses."

"It would be nice to have revenge on them at last." The third young woman gazed off into space.

Even the Mocker decided he didn't want to know what scene she was imagining.

SIR REGINALD WAS only a knight, not a lord, so the dwelling Elise led Rod to was a manor house, not a castle, though it was clearly fortified, and they rode on a drawbridge over a moat to come to its front door. Servants and men-at-arms came pouring out as soon as the cart rolled into the yard.

"Take your master to his bed," Rod told them, "and bear him gently; I'd rather his wound didn't open again."

"We shall indeed." But the steward cast a doubtful look at Rod, unsure of his right to give orders.

The lady saw. "How are you called, Sir Knight?" she asked Rod.

"Rodney," he answered.

"Sir Rodney came upon us in the forest," the lady informed her steward—and the rest of the servants who were listening.

They paused in the act of pulling the knight onto an improvised stretcher, staring at Rod. Then the steward nodded in respect. "As you bid us, Sir Rodney. Quickly, lads! Bear him to his bed!"

The soldiers took the stretcher and paced quickly up the stairs and into the house.

"Had it not been for him, your master would have bled to death on the road," the lady informed the rest of the soldiers and servants, "if I could have pulled him into the cart myself."

"Lady, you should not have gone alone!" an older woman chided.

"You were right to tell me so, Nurse, for I… Ahhh!" The lady doubled over with pain.

"It is the child! All this parading and worry has brought it before its time!" The older woman bustled up to the cart, arms up to catch. "Some of you stout oafs help your lady down!"

Three footmen jumped forward and lifted as much as helped the lady down into the nurse's arms. Scolding the servants and soothing the lady, she helped her into the house, one painful step at a time. The next spasm took her on the threshold, but the lady throttled her reaction to a groan.

"Upstairs and into your bed," the nurse said severely. "The child must be born in its rightful place and time!"

They went on into the house, the footmen following anxiously in case they were needed to carry their mistress up the stairs.

The steward turned back to Rod. "Will you take some refreshment, Sir Rodney?"

"Not a bad idea." Rod dismounted. "After I'm done sewing up his wound, that is."

The steward goggled. "Sewing?"

"I DO VERY FINE STITCHERY" ROD TOOK HIS first-aid kit out of the saddlebag again and turned to follow the steward. "Show me his room."

Rod came into a room, which, by its barrenness and the narrowness of the bed, was clearly not used much; the footmen had had the good sense to take their master to a spare chamber. A single tapestry softened one wall, and the windows onto the courtyard did let in sunlight to brighten the cold stone walls. A chest stood against another wall, a table and two chairs against a third. The footmen had finished undressing the knight and put him in his bed. He lay with a sheet pulled over him, still unconscious—and, in medieval sleeping style, naked.

Rod pulled up a chair beside him, laid the kit on the bed, and took out a needle pre-threaded with sterilized gut. He unfolded the cloth that attempted to keep germs out and told one of the soldiers, "Hold the wound closed when I take off the dressing."

"Aye, Sir Knight." The soldier stepped close, still a little alarmed for his lord—and very interested.

Rod unwound the bandage and inspected the wound. The bleeding seemed to have stopped under the clotting, but slight pressure set it oozing again while, with telekinetic touches, he made sure there were no bits of metal hidden in the flesh. Rod nodded, satisfied, and took another sterile cloth to wipe the wound again—with alcohol. "Push," he directed the soldier, and began sewing, as, with telekinesis, he began to knit the muscles together.

When the wound was stitched and bandaged. Rod sat for a minute or so, studying his patient—and not really probing his thoughts, but certainly paying attention to any images that floated to the surface of his mind. Probably unnecessary—there was no reason to think the man wouldn't regain consciousness—but just in case …

At last he stood up, stretching, then folded up his first-aid kit.

The steward, who had hovered nearby, said, "There is rest and refreshment near, Sir Knight."

"Good idea." Rod nodded. "I could do with a stoup of ale, and there's certainly no shortage of people to watch over him." To the nearest soldier, he said, "Call me as soon as your master is awake."

"I shall, Sir Knight," the man assured him with a little bow.

Rod returned it with a nod and followed the steward out of the room. As they came to the top of the stair, a quavering cry, half-gasp and half-moan, echoed down the hall. Rod paused, frowning at the double door at the end of the corridor, then started downstairs after the steward, telling the man, "Send word to the women—that your mistress should go ahead and scream. This is no time for self-control."

The man stared at Rod as though he had come from Elfland but said, "I will, Sir Rodney." It didn't take telepathy to see that the man was wondering how this knight knew anything of women's matters.

He took Rod into a small chamber near the kitchen—a pantry, at a guess, but Rod wasn't about to protest; the solar was on the second floor, and the lady should at least have some privacy this day. A bowl of fruit stood ready by a mug of ale. Rod sank into an hourglass-shaped chair with a sigh, took a sip, then looked up at the steward again. 'Tell the women to call me at once if there is any difficulty in the birth."