“Yet I should think that he has these by him already,” said Simon. “He hath chosen his people ere he began this madcap climb. I would not look for him to place any great trust in those new to his banner.”
Flaran frowned; he had definitely not wanted to hear that.
“But the hope of it could make a lot of people like him,” Rod pointed out. “Just the idea that a lowborn peasant’s son has come to rule a duchy, will pull an amazing amount of support to him.”
“Can rumor truly do so much?” Flaran breathed.
“That, and more,” Rod said grimly. “Which is the best reason of all for thinking Alfar’s still in his castle.”
Flaran stared. Then he closed his eyes, shook his head, and opened them again.
“I, too, am puzzled.” Simon frowned. “How can a rumor mean…” His voice trailed off as his face cleared with understanding.
Rod nodded. “All he has to do is stay inside the castle and make sure the rumor gets started. Once it’s running, it’s going to keep building peasant loyalty on the one hand, and make everybody a little more wary about thinking disloyal thoughts, or doing any plotting, on the other—for fear Alfar himself might be listening in.”
Flaran shuddered, and glanced quickly about the room—and, suddenly, Rod had a sinking feeling in his stomach. Alfar could indeed be in that very taproom, could be one of the peasants, could be the landlord, lying in wait for one of Tuan’s agents to come by—such as Rod himself. He could be about to spring the trap on Rod, any second…
Then chagrin hit, and hard on its heels, anger. This was just what Alfar wanted Tuan’s agents to be thinking. It was called “demoralization,” and it had almost worked. Rod’s respect for the sorcerer went up, as his animosity increased. He was amazed that a medieval peasant could be so devious.
On the other hand, maybe he had some help…
Simon leaned over to Rod and murmured, “Do not look, or disguise it if thou must—but yon wench hath kept her eye on us, since we came through the door.”
“That is a little odd,” Rod admitted. “None of us is exactly what you’d call a model of masculine pulchritude.”
“True enough,” Simon answered, with a sardonic smile. “Yet ‘tis not with her eyes alone that she’s kept watch over us.”
“Oh, really?” All of a sudden Rod’s danger sensors were tuned to maximum—not that they’d done much good so far. He pulled out a coin, flipped it—and made sure it “accidentally” flipped her way. As he turned to pick it up, he managed a quick glance at her, and decided it wasn’t much of a surprise that he hadn’t noticed her sooner. She was average size, no heavier than she ought to be, with a pretty enough face and dark blond hair.
Rod picked up the coin and turned back to Simon. “Not exactly your stereotyped witch, is she?”
Simon frowned. “A very ordinary witch, I would say.”
“That’s a contradiction in terms. She’s also not very experienced at hiding her interest.”
“Oh, she doth well enough,” Simon demurred. “Yet I’ve more experience at this sort of hiding than most, Master Owen—and, when one of us doth say that which doth amaze her, her shield doth slip.”
Rod frowned. “Then why didn’t she head for the door as soon as we started talking about her?”
“Because thy mind is hid, let alone thy thoughts—and for myself, I’m thinking one thought and saying another.”
He grinned at Rod’s surprise. “Be not amazed—what women can do, we men may learn to do also. As for Flaran, I speak so softly that he cannot hear.”
Rod glanced quickly at the klutz; he was looking rather nettled. Rod turned back to Simon. “Then there’s no real danger, is there?”
“Oh, there is alarm in her.” Simon glanced at the serving-wench, then back at Rod. “We had best be on our way, Master Owen, and quickly, ere she calls another who doth serve Alfar.”
Rod turned toward the girl, considering risks and coming to a quick decision. “No, I don’t think that’s really necessary.” He beckoned to the wench. Fear leaped in her eyes, but she had no reason for it, and did need to keep her cover while she studied them—so she came. Slowly, as though she were being dragged, but she came. “What may I offer, goodmen? Ale? Or more meat?”
“Neither, just now.” Rod plastered on a friendly smile. “Tell me—does it bother you that I’m not here, when I really am?”
She stared at him in shocked surprise, and Simon muttered, “Well done; she is quite disarmed. Certes, Alfar’s her master. She holds watch for witches.”
Rod’s dagger was out before Simon finished the first sentence, its point touching the wench’s midriff. She stared at the naked steel, horrified.
“Sit.” Rod kept the smile, but it had turned vicious.
“Sir,” she gasped, gaze locked on the blade, “I dare not.”
“Dare not disobey me? No, you don’t. Now sit.”
Trembling, she lowered herself to the empty stool. Rod took her hand, gave her a glowing smile. “Simon, dig around and see what you can find.” He let the smile turn fatuous, clasped both hands around hers, and leaned forward, crooning, “Now, pretty lass, sit still and try to pay no heed to the fingers you’ll feel in your mind—and if their touch disgusts you, be mindful that you would have spoken words with your mind, that would have sent soldiers to slay us.” He lifted her hand to his lips, kissed it, then beamed at her again. “I know—you feel like nothing so much as leaping up and screaming. But if you do, my knife is close at hand—and do not think that you can snatch it with your mind faster than I can stab—for, in this case, the hand is quicker than the mind.” He saw her glance at the knife, and warned, “I assure you, I’ve dealt with witches before.” Which, he reckoned, was his understatement for the year.
Her gaze darted back to his face, terrified. “But… why dost thou kiss mine hand, when thou’rt mine enemy?”
“So that anyone watching… there, young Doln is staring at me—no, don’t look!—and his gaze is anything but friendly. In fact, I think he favors my heart for the main course. No, don’t hope—I assure you, I’m a better fighter than he, far better.” He saw the flicker of fear in her eyes, and decided to press it. “Sit very still, now. You wouldn’t want me to hurt him, would you?”
“Oh, do not!” she cried. Then, realizing she’d given away more than military secrets, she blushed and dropped her eyes.
“Aye, well done,” Simon purred. “Gaze at the tabletop, there’s a good lass, and naught else; think of naught but its grain, and its color… Now!”
The girl stiffened with a gasp, head flung back, eyes shut; then she slumped in her chair.
“Stand away from her!” Doln was on his feet, knife out.
Rod stood slowly, his grin turning wolfish, knifepoint circling. “Why, it shall be as you say—I shall stand away from her. Shall I stand toward you, then?”
Harl scowled and stood up behind Doln, but the youth’s eyes showed doubt. He stood his ground, though—swallowing hard, but he stood.
“Gently, now, gently,” Simon soothed. “She sleeps, lad—she but sleeps.”
Doln glanced at him, then at the unconscious girl, and the white showed all around his eyes.
“Softly, lad.” Rod followed Simon’s lead. “We’re not hurting her.” He darted a quick glance at Simon. “Nay, unless I mistake, my friend seeks to aid her.”
“What manner of aid is this, that steals away her sense?” Doln cried.
“What manner indeed!” Flaran huddled back in his chair, eyes wide with terror.
Kench’s glare would have killed a viper, and Harl gathered himself and stepped up behind Doln.
The girl sighed, and her head rolled back.
“Ask her,” Rod said softly. “She’ll be awake in a minute.”
Doln’s gaze darted to her. Her eyelids fluttered, then opened. She looked around her, uncomprehending, then suddenly realized where she was, and her eyes widened; she gasped.
“Marianne!” Doln dropped to one knee, clasping her hand. “What have these fellows done to thee!”