“You won’t have to. All they’ll have to do is read your mind. You may be able to keep from saying it aloud, but you can’t keep from thinking about it.”
The sergeant looked doubtful.
Rod nodded. “So the whole idea is to not know anything more than is absolutely necessary. But—just in case we should be able to get something moving, mind you…”
“Aye!”
“If someone should come to you, and say that Kern says to attack a given place at a given time, you’ll know what to do.”
The soldier lifted his head, with a slow grin. “Aye. I shall indeed now. And I swear to thee, I will execute what thou dost command.”
“Good man.” Rod slapped him on the shoulder. “Now—let’s get to waking up your men.” He turned to Simon. “If you would, Master Simon? The sooner we can split up and hit the road, the better.”
Simon nodded, with a smile, and turned away to the fallen troopers.
“Well done,” Fess’s voice murmured behind Rod’s ear. “You excel as a catalyst, Rod.”
“Oh, I’m great at knocking over the first domino,” Rod muttered back. “Only trouble is, this time I have to set them up, too.”
10
The osprey circled above them, its wings dipping as it balanced in the updraft. Rod scowled up at it, wondering if its eyes were green, like Gwen’s. “Simon, how far are we from the coast?”
“Mayhap a day’s ride.” Simon followed Rod’s gaze. “Ah, I see. Tis a fish-hawk, is’t not?”
“Far as I know. But if the ocean’s only twenty miles off, it’s probably genuine.” Rod turned to his companion. “Thought you were a dirt farmer. How would you know what a fish-hawk looks like?”
Simon shrugged. “As I’ve said, the ocean’s not so far.”
Which was true enough, Rod reflected. He didn’t really have anything to be suspicious about—but in enemy territory, he couldn’t help it. He wasn’t that far from suspecting the nearest boulder might be a witch in disguise.
“Then, too,” Simon said, amused, “I’ve never claimed to be a farmer.”
Rod looked up, surprised. “True enough,” he said slowly. “I did just assume. After all, what other occupations would there be, in a small village?”
“Tis hard by the King’s High Way,” Simon explained. “I keep an inn.”
Rod lifted his head, mouth opening before the words came. “Oh.” He nodded slowly. “I see. And quality folk stop in frequently, eh?”
“Mayhap twice in a month. There was ever a constant coming and going with the castle of Milord Duke. I did hearken to their speech, and did mimic it as best I could, the better to please them.”
He’d hearkened to a lot more than their speech, Rod reflected. The aristocrats would no doubt have been aghast, if they’d known a mind reader served them. And, of course, Simon couldn’t have had too many illusions left, about the lords.
So why was he still loyal?
Probably because the alternative was so much worse. “I don’t suppose they taught you how to read?”
“Nay; my father sent me to the vicar, for lessons. He kept an inn before me, and knew ‘twould be useful for an innkeeper to read and write, and cast up sums.”
So. Unwittingly, Rod had stumbled into one of the local community leaders. “An enlightened man.”
“Indeed he was. And what art thou?”
Every alarm bell in Rod’s head broke into clamor. Admittedly, he’d made a pretty big slip; but did Simon have to be so quick on the uptake? “Why… I’m a farmer. Do I look so much like a knight, as to confuse you? Or a Duke, perhaps?” Then his face cleared with a sudden, delighted smile, and he turned to jab a finger at Simon. “I know! You thought I was a goldsmith!”
Simon managed to choke the laugh down into a chuckle, and shook his head. “Nay, goodman. I speak not of thine occupation, but of what thou art—that thou art there, but thou’rt not.”
Rod stared, totally taken aback. “What do you mean, I’m not here?”
“In thy thoughts.” Simon laid a finger against his forehead. “I have told thee I can hear men’s thoughts—yet I cannot hear thine.”
“Oh.” Rod turned back to the road, gazing ahead, musing—while, inside, he virtually collapsed into a shuddering heap of relief. “Yes… I’ve been told that before…” Glad it’s working…
Simon smiled, but with his brows knit. “ ‘Tis more than simply not hearing thy thoughts. When my mind doth ‘listen’ for thee, there is not even a sense of thy presence. How comes this?”
Rod shrugged. “I can guess, but that’s all.”
“And what is thy guess?”
“That I’m more worried about mind readers than your average peasant.”
Simon shook his head. “That would not explain it. I have known some filled with morbid fear their thoughts would be heard—and I think they had reason, though I sought to avoid them. Still, I could have heard their thoughts, an I had wished to. Certes, I could sense that they were there. Yet with thee, I can do neither. I think, companion, that thou must needs have some trace of witch power of thine own, that thy will doth wrap into a shield.”
“You trying to tell me I’m a witch?” Rod did a fairly good imitation of bristling.
Simon only smiled sadly. “Even less than I am. Nay, I’d not fear that. Thou canst not hear thoughts, canst thou?”
“No,” Rod said truthfully—at least, for the time being.
Simon smiled. “Then thou’rt not a witch. Now tell me—why dost thou come North? Thou must needs know that thou dost drive toward danger.”
“I sure must, after you and the auncient finished with me.” Rod hunched his shoulders, pulling into himself. “As to the danger, I’ll chance it. I can get better prices for my produce in Korasteshev, than I can in all of Tudor’s county! And my family’s always hungry.”
“They will hunger more, an thou dost not return.” Simon’s voice dropped, full of sincerity. “I bid thee, friend, turn back.”
“What’s the matter? Don’t like my company?”
Simon’s earnestness collapsed into a smile. “Nay—thou art a pleasant enough companion…”
Personally, Rod thought he was being rather churlish.
But Simon was very tolerant. “Yet for thine own sake, I bid thee turn toward the South again. The sorcerer’s warlocks will not take kindly to one whose mind they cannot sense.”
“Oh, the warlocks won’t pay any attention to a mere peasant coming to market.” At least, Rod hoped they wouldn’t.
“The prices in Romanov cannot be so much better than they are in Tudor.” Simon held Rod’s eyes with a steady gaze. It seemed to burn through his retinas and into his brain. “What more is there to thine answer?”
Reluctantly, Rod admitted, “There is more—but that’s all you’re going to get.”
Simon held his gaze for a minute.
Then he sighed, and turned away. “Well, it is thy fate, and thou must needs answer for it thyself. Yet be mindful, friend, that thy wife and bairns do depend upon thee.”
Rod was mindful of it, all right. For a sick instant, he had a vision of Gwen and the children waiting weeks, without word of him. Then he thrust the thought sternly aside, and tried to envision the look on his boys’ faces if he abandoned his mission and came back to be safe. “You have obligations to the people of your village, Master Simon. So have I.”
“What—to the folk of thy town?”
“Well, to my people, anyway.” Rod had the whole of Gramarye in mind, not to mention the Decentralized Democratic Tribunal. “And once you’ve accepted an obligation of that sort, you can’t put it aside just because it becomes dangerous.”
“Aye, that’s so,” Simon said, frowning. “ ‘Tis this that I’ve but now come to see.”
Rod turned to him, frowning too. “But you’ve already done your part, taken your risks. No one would call you a coward for going South now!”