“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.”
Magnus scowled. “Tis as bad as witch-hunts.”
“Worse, for my purposes—because it’d stifle any chance of democracy on this planet. And I want Gramarye’s telepaths to be the communications system for an interstellar democracy, some day.” Rod straightened, eyes widening. “So that’s it!”
Magnus looked up, startled. “What, Papa?”
“Where the futurians come in—you know, the villains who kidnapped us all to Tir Chlis?”
Magnus’s face darkened. “I mind me of them—and of the peril they placed us in. But what sign of them is there in this coil, Papa? I see naught but an aged wizard, who hath at long last struck out in bitterness and sense of being wronged.”
“That’s what they want you to see. Okay, son, up onto the stack—heave!” They swung the sawhorse up onto the top of the stack, and turned away to go get the other one. “But if there’s the likelihood of a repressive government showing up, there’s a high probability of totalitarians from the future, being behind it.”
Behind his ear, a methodical voice intoned, “Generalizing from inadequate data…”
“But surely that is not enough sign of their presence,” Magnus protested, “only the harshness of Alfar’s rule!”
“You’ve been talking to Fess again,” Rod accused. “But keep your eyes open, and you’ll see more signs of their hand behind Alfar. Myself, I’ve been wondering about what your mother said—that there’s no trace of a mind, behind that ‘instant’ hypnosis spell Alfar used on these soldiers.”
Magnus stared in consternation. “But… Papa… how could that…”
“Up with the trestle,” Rod reminded, and they bent to pick it up, and started toward the wall again. “Think, son—what doesn’t? Think, that is. What can do things, but doesn’t think?”
Magnus was silent as they hoisted the trestle to the top of the stack. As they turned away, he guessed, “A machine:”
“You have been talking to Fess, haven’t you?” There was a brief, nasty buzz behind his ear. “I’d call that a good guess.”
“But only a guess,” Magnus reminded him.
“Of course.” They strolled up to Gwen where she knelt, just finishing spreading their blankets out over the rushes. “Managed to banish the vermin, dear?”
“Indeed.” She glanced at him. “Cordelia and I did think to gather fresh rushes the whiles we were on our way here, so we’ll sleep sweetly enow.”
Something about the phrase caught Rod’s attention. He stared down at the blanket, then lifted his gaze slowly to look deeply into Gwen’s eyes.
She tilted her chin up and turned to her sons. “And bear thy manners in mind, for we sleep in company, here.”
The children stared at her, then frowned at one another in puzzlement, then turned back to her. “Why wouldst thou think we might not?” Magnus asked. Geoffrey piped in, “We’re good boys, Mama!”
“Aye,” Gwen answered, turning to Rod, “and so must thou all be.”
In the middle of the night a low groan began, swelling in volume and bouncing back and forth between the stone walls, until it filled the whole hall.
Rod shot bolt upright, panic clamoring up inside him jarring his brain. Rage answered, and struggled against it.
A bluish white light filled the hall, showing all the servants shocked upright, staring in fear and horror. Cordelia screamed, burying her face in Rod’s midsection, and Gregory burrowed into Gwen’s skirts.
Magnus and Geoffrey glared truculently upward, even as they backed away against the wail.
Above them all, the great hall was filled with a throng of pale, glowing spectres in antique gowns and ancient armor, all blue-white, and translucent.
And facing the Gallowglass family.
The male closest to them lifted an arm with the weight of centuries, and his voice rolled out, thundering, “Thou! ‘Tis thou who dost disturb our rest, thou and thy get! Name thyself, and step forth from thy craven guise!”
Gwen laid a restraining hand on Rod’s arm, but the rage was building, and he shrugged her off, incensed that she should dare to remonstrate with him. He glared up at the ghost, throwing his shoulders back and issuing his words one by one. “I am Rodney Lord Gallowglass, High Warlock of Gramarye! And who are you, who dares so address me?”
“I am Arendel, first Count of Drulane!” the ghost bellowed. “Tis in my hall thou dost stand! Wherefore hast thou come, and why hast thou disturbed my rest—mine, and all of my line’s! Speak, sirrah! Now!”
The rage surged higher. “Speak with respect to thy betters, feeble ghost! Or from this place I shall banish thee, to leave thy wraith wailing in the void between worlds!”