“So do we, Father.” Father Cotterson’s eyes burned into his. “Knowledge ought to be free, that all might learn it. Yet ‘twas only through subterfuge that Father Ricci, the founder of our Chapter, did manage to retain knowledge of science when he did come to Gramarye; and assuredly, he’d have been burned for a witch had he attempted to teach what he knew. Those who originally did colonize this planet were intent on forgetting all knowledge of science. We’d likely suffer burning ourselves, if we did attempt to disclose what we know—and ‘twould throw the land into chaos. The beginnings of science did batten the turmoil of Europe’s Renaissance, on Terra; what would knowledge of modern technology and science do to this medieval culture? Nay, we must keep our knowledge secret yet awhile.”

“Still, the High Warlock may ope’ us a path for the beginnings of teaching it,” Father Ignatius offered.

“Indeed he may.” Father Cotterson’s eyes gleamed with missionary zeal.

“Saint Vidicon,” Father Al murmured, “ was a teacher.”

“As are we all—are we not?” Father Cotterson fairly beamed at him. “Are we not? For how can we gain new knowledge, and not wish immediately to share it with others?”

This, Father Al decided, was the kind of fanaticism he could agree with.

Father Cotterson turned back to his monks. “Apropos of which, Brother Feldspar, how doth thy researches?”

Brother Feldspar chewed his meat thoughtfully. “Dost thou not wish more salt on this fowl, Father?”

“Indeed I do, but…”

The salt-cellar appeared in front of Father Cotterson with a whoosh of displaced air.

He sat back sharply, eyes wide, startled.

The company burst into laughter.

After a second, Father Cotterson relaxed and guffawed with them. “A most excellent jest, Brother Feldspar! Yet I must caution thee against thy proclivity for practical jokes.”

“Yet without it, Father, how would I ever have begun to seek methods of teleporting objects other than myself?”

“Truth,” Father Cotterson admitted. “Yet I think thou didst make intermediate bits of progress in thine experiments that thou didst not inform us of. Beware, Brother; we might credit someone else with thy results! For a moment, I thought Brother Chronopolis had made progress.”

“Sadly, no, Father,” Brother Chronopolis smiled. “The theory is sound, and I do think we could manufacture a quantum black hole—but we fear to do it on a planet’s surface.”

Father Al tried not to stare.

“Indeed,” Father Cotterson commiserated. “I shudder to think of the effects of so steep a gravity-gradient, Brother; and I’ve no wish to find myself atop a sudden new volcano! Nay, I fear the experiment will have to wait till we’ve access to space flight.”

Brother Chronopolis turned to Father Al. “Father, when thou dost depart Gramarye…”

“Well, I could not perform the experiment myself.” Father Al smiled. “I do be an anthropologist, not a physicist. Yet where I can provide aid, I will rejoice to do so.”

“The rest is for the Abbot to consider,” Father Cotterson said firmly.

Manufacture quantum black holes? The DDT’s best scientists still thought they couldn’t exist! Either the Gramarye monks were very mistaken—or very advanced. There was a way to find out… Father Al said casually, “Hast thou made progress in molecular circuitry?”

The whole room was silent in an instant; every eye was fastened to him. “Nay,” breathed Brother Chronopolis, “canst thou make a circuit of a molecule?”

Well. They were very far behind, in some things. “Not I, myself. Yet I do know that ‘tis done; they do fashion single crystalline molecules that can perform all the functions of…” What was that ancient term? Oh, yes… “…an whole integrated-circuit chip.”

“But thou knowest not the fashion of it?”

“I fear I do not.”

“ ‘Tis enough, ‘tis enough.” Brother Feldspar held up a quieting palm. “We know it can be done, now; ‘twill not be long ere we do it.”

Somehow, Father Al didn’t doubt that for a minute.

“A most excellent evening, indeed,” Father Cotterson sighed as he opened the oaken door and ushered Father Al in. “Thy presence did stimulate discussion wonderfully, Father.”

“ ‘Twas fascinating, Father—especially that account of the nun who doth surgery without opening the body.”

“Well, ‘tis only the mending of burst blood vessels, and the massaging of hearts thus far,” Father Cotterson reminded him. “Yet it doth hold great promise. I trust this cell will be to thy satisfaction, Father.”

“Luxurious,” Father Al breathed, looking around at the nine-by-twelve room with bare plaster walls, a straw mattress on an oaken cot-frame, a wash-stand and a writing-desk with a three-legged stool. “True wood is luxury indeed, Father!”

“To us, ‘tis the least expensive material,” Father Cotterson said with a smile. “I’ll leave thee to thy devotions, then, Father.”

“God be with thee this night, Father,” Father Al returned, with a warm smile, as Father Cotterson closed the door.

Then Father Al darted over to it, carefully pressing his ear against the wood. Faintly, he heard a key turn in a lock—and all his earlier forebodings came flooding back. Disappointment stabbed him; he’d found himself liking the monks’ company so well that he’d hoped his suspicions were unfounded, then had become almost certain it was only his own paranoia.

Not that locking him in his cell proved they intended to imprison him, and not let him see the rest of Gramarye. In fact, the Abbot might be delighted to have him visit Rod Gallowglass.

But he also might not.

So Father Al charitably decided to avoid putting him to the test. Accordingly, he waited two hours, after which all the Brothers must certainly have been snoring on their cots. Then he took out his vest-pocket tool-kit, picked the huge old lock, and slipped down darkened hallways, as silently as a prayer. He drifted through the colonnade like a wraith of incense, found a ladder and a rope, and slipped silently over the wall.

They were such wonderful monks. It was so much better to remove temptation from their path.

All sleep, except Elidor,” Magnus said, glowering.

He sat on the edge of a massive four-poster bed opposite a fireplace as tall as Rod. Tapestries covered cold stone walls; Rod paced on a thick carpet.

“He was…” Cordelia burst out; but Gwen clapped a hand over her mouth, and stared at Magnus. He looked up at her, surprised, then nodded quickly, and closed his eyes, sitting very straight. He held it for a few minutes, then relaxed. “I’m sorry, Mama; I was carried away.”

“No great harm is done,” Gwen assured him. “They heard only that one sentence, and they cannot do so much with that.”

“Spies?” Rod frowned. “How many of them were there?”

“Only the two,” Gwen assured him. “One there, behind the knight on the tapestry o’er the hearth—thou seest that his eye is truly a hole? And one behind the panel next the door, where there’s a knot dropped out.”

Rod nodded. “Milord Foidin likes back-up systems—no doubt so he can check them against each other, and make sure no one’s lying. Well, it kinda goes along with the rest of his devious personality; I think he’s in the process of inventing the police state.” He turned to Magnus. “How long are they out for?”

“Till dawn,” Magnus assured him, “or after.”

Rod shook his head in amazement. “How does he do it so fast?”

Gwen shook her head, too. “I know not how he doth it at all.”

“Oh, that’s easy! It’s just projective telepathy. You just think ‘sleep’ at ‘em, right, son?”

“Not really, Papa.” Magnus frowned. “I just want them to sleep.”

Rod shook his head again. “You must ‘want’ awfully loudly… Well! Can you tell what Duke Foidin’s thinking?”