A wave of loneliness hit him, and he glanced up at the skies. In spite of the longing, he was relieved to see the air clear, with a singular dearth of winged wildlife. At least his family was safe from getting mixed up in the mess.
Odd, though. He wasn’t used to having Gwen listen to him.
12
He did notice the squirrel peering at him from the branches, and the doves stopping their preening to watch him from the roof of the inn, as they pulled the cart into an innyard. Rod climbed down and stood, surprised how much his joints ached from the four-hour ride. He tied the reins to a hitching post, and turned back to see Flaran climbing down from the cart also, and Simon stretching his legs carefully.
“Don’t worry,” Rod assured him, “they still work.”
Simon looked up, and smiled. “The question is, do I wish they wouldn’t?”
“Just at a guess, I’d say you’re still having fun.” Rod turned into the inn. “Shall we see what the kitchens hold?”
The question was as much good business as hunger; Rod was able to trade a bushel of produce for three lunches. Flaran insisted on paying Rod the penny he’d been planning to spend on beer, and Simon matched him. Rod protested, but wound up accepting.
Dinner came with a liberal supply of gossip. “Ye come off the road?” the landlord asked, as he set their plates in front of them. “Then say—is’t true, what they say of Alfar?”
“Uh—depends on what you’ve heard,” Rod said, feeling wary. “Myself, I’ve heard a lot about the man.”
“Why, that he has dropped from sight!” A peasant leaned over from another table. “That none have seen him since he took Castle Romanov.”
“Oh, really?” Rod perked up noticeably. “Now, that’s one I hadn’t heard!”
“ ‘Tis most strange, if ‘tis true,” the peasant said. “Here’s a man who hath appeared from nowhere, conquered most of the duchy—and vanished!”
“Ah, but there’s reason, Doln,” an older peasant grinned. “Some say he was stole away by a demon!”
“Eh, Harl—there’s some as says he is a demon,” chirped a grandfather.
“Well, that would certainly explain why he appeared out of nowhere,” Rod said, judiciously.
The third peasant caught the note of skepticism, and looked up with a frown. “Dost’a not believe in demons?”
“Dunno,” Rod said, “I’ve never seen one.”
“Such talk of demons is nonsense, Kench,” Doln scoffed. “Why would demons take him away, when he’s doing good demons’ work?”
“Some say he’s roaming the land, clad as a peasant,” Harl grunted.
“Wherefore should he not?” Kench grinned. “He is a peasant, is he not?”
“Aye, but he’s also a warlock,” Harl reminded, “and they say he seeks through the land for folk who would aid him well in his governing.”
Doln looked up, with a gleam in his eye. “That, I could credit more easily.”
“Thou wilt credit aught,” Kench scoffed.
“Belike he doth prowl unseen,” Harl mused. “Would he not seek out traitors?”
Flaran and Simon stiffened, and Rod could feel little cold prickles running up his spine.
The peasants didn’t like the idea, either. They glanced quickly over their shoulders, twisting their fingers into charms against evil. “How fell it is,” Harl gasped, “to think that one could spy on thee, and thou wouldst never know it!”
Rod thought of mentioning that spies usually tried very hard to make sure nobody noticed them, but decided not to.
“Take heed of those rumors, and thou dost wish it,” the landlord chuckled. “For myself, I note only that the land is well-run.”
The others turned to look at him, lifting their heads slowly.
“That’s so,” Doln nodded. “Dost’a say, then, that Alfar’s still in his castle?”
“Belike,” the landlord shrugged. “ ‘Tis that, or his captains govern well in their own rights.”
“That, I doubt.” Rod shook his head. “I never yet heard of a committee doing any really effective governing. There has to be one man who always has the final say.”
“Well, then.” The landlord turned to Rod with a grin. “I must needs think Alfar’s in his castle.” And he turned away to the kitchen, chuckling and shaking his head. “Rumor! Only fools listen to it!”
“In which case, most people are fools,” Rod said softly to Simon and Flaran. “So, if there’s a rumor going around that you don’t want people to believe, the thing to do is to set up a counter-rumor.”
“Which thou dost think Alfar hath done?” Simon had his small smile on again.
“No doubt of it. Just look at the results—anybody who might ‘been thinking of a counter-coup while Alfar was gone, would be thoroughly scared off. On the other hand, he might really be roaming the countryside in disguise.”
“Would that not make witch folk loyal to him?” Flaran grinned. “For would he not be most likely to choose his own kind, to aid him in his governing?”
With his usual unerring social grace, he had spoken a bit too loudly. Harl looked up, and called out, “All witch folk would be loyal to Alfar. Wherefore ought they not to be?”
Flaran and Simon were instantly on their guard.
Rod tried to pull the sting out of it. He turned to Harl, deliberately casual. “For that matter, wouldn’t every peasant be loyal to him? The rumor’s that he’s looking for talented people for his, uh, reign.”
“Why… ‘tis so.” Harl frowned, suddenly doubtful.
Doln looked up, eyes alight. “Aye! He could not find witches enough to do all the tasks that are needed in governing, could he?”
“No.” Rod repressed a smile. “He certainly couldn’t.”
Doln grinned, and turned to discuss the possibility with Harl and Kench. Rod reflected, with some surprise, that even a Gramarye peasant could have ambition. Which, of course, was perfectly natural; he should have foreseen it. He’d have to discuss the issue with Tuan when he went back to Runnymede; if it wasn’t planned for, it could become dangerous.
He turned back to Flaran. “We can’t be the only ones who’ve figured this out. Now, watch—the common people will all of a sudden start being really loyal, to Alfar—because they’re going to think they have a chance to rise in the world.”
“Indeed they may.” Flaran grinned. “Would not the lowborn have opportunity under the rule of an upstart?”
Rod frowned; the comment was a little too Marxist for his liking. “Yeah, if they happen to be the lucky ones out of thousands, the ones he wanted.”
“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…