Creighton was already in conversation with an elderly woman sitting by the fire. She was so muffled up in bright-colored clothes that she resembled nothing more than a heap of rainbows. She said something, nodding, then looked up to stare across at Edward. Even at that distance he sensed the piercing dark eyes of the true Gypsy. He tried not to squirm.
Waving to him to follow, Creighton headed for one of the gaudiest of the wagons. When Edward arrived, he was regarding it with distaste.
"I don't suppose the police can put the bite on you in here, old man,” he said, “but I can't answer for fleas.” With that, he trotted up the ladder. Edward followed. By the time he was inside, Creighton had stripped off his hat and jacket.
There was barely room for the two of them to stand between the chairs and table and stove and shelves and various bundles and boxes. The air was heavy with an unfamiliar scent, and everywhere there was color—reds and greens and blues rioting on walls, furniture, garments, and bedding. The ceiling had not been designed for a six-footer. At the far end were two bunks, one above the other. From the assortment of clothes littered everywhere, this was home to a large family, and the lower bunk had pillows at both ends. In the middle of it lay a notably new and clean pigskin suitcase. Edward assumed it had been stolen, but when Creighton had stripped to his undervest, he began stowing his shirt and waistcoat in it.
"Close the door, man! They said we could help ourselves to anything we find. I don't suppose there's much here that will fit you. Have to do the best you can."
Edward began to undress. “Sir, you said the guv'nor was killing time in Africa. My uncle Roland accused him of engaging in devil worship because—"
"Terminology depends on whose side you're on. One man's god is another man's devil. I'll explain about your father later.” Creighton was rummaging through heaps of garments.
"And where does Christianity fit into this?"
"Anywhere you want. Good King George and his cousin the Kaiser worship the same god, don't they?” Creighton held up a pair of pleated black trousers and frowned at them. “Britain and Germany pray to the same god. So do the French and the Russians and the Austrians. They all trust him to grant victory to the righteous, meaning themselves. Here—these look like the longest.” He handed them over. Then he selected a pink-and-blue shirt and wrinkled his nose.
"Something wrong, sir?” Edward inquired, discovering that the pants did not reach his ankles.
Hrrnph! “Just wondering about, you know, cleanliness."
"I don't think you need worry. They will. You must be paying them handsomely? Or Head Office must be?"
Creighton shot him a glare that would have softened horseshoes. “Just what're you implying?"
"Well, anything that's been worn by a gorgio will be mokadi, and will be burned as soon as we leave."
"What?"
"Mokadi—ritually unclean. In fact I suspect they'll burn the whole wagon."
"Burn the?...” The hazel eyes scowled out from under hedges of eyebrow in the sort of glare Edward had not faced since he was one of the crazy imps of the Fourth Form. “What the devil do you know about Gypsies?"
"They quite often camp at Tinkers’ Wood, sir, near the school,” Edward said blandly. “A family named Fletcher.” He reached for a rainbow-embroidered shirt.
"Out of bounds, I hope?"
"Er, yes, sir."
"They're swindlers and horse thieves!"
"Oh, of course!” Fascinating people—even as a prefect, Edward had sneaked out at night to visit them. “They'll steal and lie and cheat any gorgio who comes within miles. That's just their way. But isn't it also true, sir, that they've been known for centuries as the finest spies in Europe?"
A reluctant smile twitched the corner of Creighton's mouth. “I daresay."
"The true Rom are about the most fastidious people in the world.” Edward was enjoying this. “They make high-caste Brahmins look like slobs."
Hrrnph! “I suppose their fleas are frightfully pukka, too?"
"I doubt if they're as fussy, sir."
Creighton laughed approvingly, and proceeded to dress. Edward wondered if he'd just been tested in some way....
"You feel spooky at all?"
"No, sir. Should I?"
"This is a node, I think."
"It is?"
"Well, of course here I'm no more certain than you are. I can always detect virtuality on Nextdoor, but here's trickier. The Rom prefer nodes for campsites, for obvious reasons. The headman's name is Boswell, by the way, but the real power is his mother. You look awfully sweet in that shirt. Old Mrs. Boswell's a chovihani—a witch, and a good one. Be respectful."
"Oh gosh, sir! I grant you I saw a miracle this morning. I met Puck himself, an Old One. I know I would not have believed this yesterday and it was the experience of a lifetime—but please! Do I have to believe in Gypsy witches now?"
Creighton flashed him another menacing, hazel glance. “Caesar, Alexander, Napoleon, Bismarck, Jenghis Khan.... You ever study any of those men in your fancy school, Exeter?"
"Some of them."
"They all had a lot of what's called charisma. Know what I mean by that?"
"Er, leadership?"
"More than that, much more. It's a faculty to absorb their followers’ admiration and focus it. A charismatic leader can persuade men to believe what he tells them to believe, to die for his smile, to follow him anywhere he goes; the more he demands of them, the more they are willing to give. He grows by their loyalty and induces more loyalty because of it. Generals, politicians, prophets—sometimes actors have charisma."
Creighton paused in his dressing, and sighed. “I once saw Irving play Hamlet! Incredible! Half the audience was weeping, and I don't just mean the ladies. You must believe in faith healing? Well, in extreme cases, a charismatic leader can literally inspire miracles. And a chovihani has charisma. You'll see."
Hunger and lack of sleep had made Edward short-tempered. Argument burst out of him before he could stop it. “Come, sir! Charisma is one thing. Magic's something else!"
"Is it? Sometimes it's hard to tell where one ends and the other begins. So you plan to enlist, do you?"
Thrown off-balance, Edward said, “Of course!” His country was at war—what else could he do? Let the beastly Prussians take over Europe? If they won, they'd attack the British Empire right afterwards anyway. They had to be stopped now.
Creighton sighed, and bent to scrabble through a pile of socks. “Well, I suppose I might have felt the same at your age. Do you know Germany has invaded Belgium? The British and French are going to try and stop them, and sheer hell is going to stalk the plains of Flanders. The oracular reports are terrifying. The last few days have darkened the entire century. But I suppose at your age you feel immortal."
"It is my duty!"
The colonel straightened up and scowled. “I think you have a greater duty, although you don't know it yet. I think I have a duty to your father to save his only son from being hanged for a crime he did not commit. But I'll make a bargain with you. My friends and I saved you from an assassin. We've rescued you from a murder charge that would undoubtedly have sent you to the gallows. We've cured your leg. I think you owe us a little something, don't you?"
Put like that, the question had only one answer.
"I owe you a lot, sir, a devil of a lot."
"Too bloody Irish you do! I'm calling in my debt, Exeter. Pay now."
"Pay what?” Edward asked grumpily.