Of course, he could have had one easily; there were self-inflating mattresses cached inside his spacer—but he was apt enough to be in trouble for witchcraft, as it was. With the haunts running all around the countryside, the mood of the peasants wasn't exactly conciliatory. He heaved a martyred sigh and rolled off his pallet, lifting his cloak with him as he stood up, then shaking it out. "At least it's summer."
"Oh!" Cordelia looked up, eyes wide. "I should not have cared to have slept in the forest if 'twere winter, Papa."
"I wouldn't have, either," Rod agreed. "Get the fire going, would you? I'll be right back."
By the time he returned from a call of nature, Cordelia had assembled twigs and tinder into a little cone, point up, and was glaring at it. A wisp of smoke curled up; then it burst into flames. Cordelia relaxed, looking up at her father happily. "
"Pis lit, Papa. On what shall we dine?"
Well, it would be a good exercise. Rod frowned, his eyes losing focus as he concentrated on the thoughts all about him: worms, raccoons, deer… there! An escaped hen who had just laid two more eggs. He deepened his trance, feeling the flow of his esper powers, and thought of the eggs as being here, instead of there.
Something popped; he felt a sudden weight in his hands. He looked down and saw four smooth white ovoids in his cupped palms.
Somewhere in the forest a no-longer-domestic fowl looked up with a startled, and very indignant, squawk.
An hour later, the tinker and his daughter wandered into a circle of peasant huts glorified by the title of "hamlet." (The melancholy prince certainly would have objected, if he had known.) The two of them had faces bright and cheery, pots and pans clattering, and minds wide open for the slightest thought about flying cooking ware, hauntings, or other espers. But Rod didn't even have a chance to give his trade call; the peasants were already gathered together in the circle of beaten earth that served for a common, gossiping furiously. Cordelia's eyes widened. "Papa… ought not these men be in the fields?"
"By this time of day, they should." Rod frowned. "Something big must be going on. Maybe just the kind of haunting we're looking for?"
"Mayhap." Cordelia's eyes glazed, but she shook her head. "I cannot make out one separate thought. Papa, 'tis such a jumble."
"Well, then, we'll go back to the old-fashioned method." Rod stepped up and tapped a villager on the shoulder. "Ho, countryman! What coil hath bred such a storm of talk?"
"Why, hast thou not heard?" The villager looked up, startled, then saw a tinker, and his nose wrinkled with disdain. "What, a tinker who knoweth not the happenings? Nay, then, I'll tell thee the news! The Archbishop—the Abbot that was, if thou hast heard it not—hath issued a new proclamation."
Rod felt his guard going up as though it were an invisible shield that surrounded him in a globe. "What doth he now declare?"
"Why, that anyone who doth not declare his allegiance to the Church of Gramarye must needs be an heretic!"
Cordelia stared, appalled, but Rod only stood, his face immobile. Then he said, "An heretic."
"Aye." The peasant grinned. "And will thereupon be declared excommunicated."
Rod couldn't make out any separate thought any more easily than Cordelia could, but he could feel the emotions boiling up around him—excited, enthusiastic, and verging on violence. "Thou art all of the Church of Gramarye, then?"
"Aye, for our lord, Count Florenzo, doth adhere to his lord, the Duke di Medici, who doth follow the Archbishop." But the peasant was frowning now, the presence of strangers on such a day finally registering. A few of his neighbors noticed his frown and turned to stare at Rod and Cordelia. In a few minutes the whole common had fallen silent, gazes fixed on the two strangers. Cordelia felt their hostility, and pressed up against her father.
A broad, stocky peasant with grizzled hair pushed his way through to them. "I am declared warden of this village, tinker. Say what manner of man thou art."
Rod answered, "An heretic."
"I had thought they would hang thee, Papa."
"Burned at the stake, dear—that's the punishment for heresy. But I have the distinct opinion that it's very badly overdone."
"Praise Heaven we were not!"
"Yes, I shouldn't have let myself get carried away like that. Good thing that housewife needed a new cooking pot."
"Aye, and that 'twas the castle's pot boy come down to bring the news." Cordelia shook her head. "What great good luck that his cook did need two saucepans and a griddle. Yet who would ha' thought she'd buy them from an heretic?"
"Yes, well, even in this society practical matters have to be taken care of before you can get to such incidentals as preserving the True Faith. But it was a nice excuse to get away from that mob before they decided to get back to religious issues." He glanced at the castle behind him. "Although I will admit, it's the first time I ever heard of a tinker not staying for a bite and a bowl after a sale."
"Well, we are back on the road again." Cordelia breathed a sigh of relief. "I have gained new understanding, Papa."
"What?" Rod looked up, alert for trouble in his daughter's emotions. "About the pack instinct? The urge to turn on the misfit?"
"Nay, about why Mama doth worry when thou dost take to the road alone."
Rod was just deciding to take umbrage at the remark when an elf popped out of a clump of bayberry. "Lord Warlock!"
"Ssh!" Rod gave a quick, frantic look around, but there didn't seem to be any peasants nearby. He relaxed. "Listen, around here I'm Owen the tinker, okay?"
"As thou wilt have it, Lord Warlock. I bring word from His Elfin Majesty."
"What, from Brom?" Rod frowned. "What is it—Catharine and Tuan getting touchy?"
"In a manner of speaking. The new Archbishop hath proclaimed—"
"That anyone who isn't with him is against him. Yes, we heard. Don't tell me Their Majesties are seriously wondering which side of the fence they should jump to!"
"Nay, but they do wish thy counsel."
"Again?" Rod cried, exasperated. "Look, I'm not the only high-powered witch around here—and Cordelia and I are on a top-secret spy mission! Well, it was secret."
"Surely it cannot be more important than—"
"Oh, yeah? Look, if we don't finish this job, and fast, the ghosties and cobblies will take over Gramarye!"
The elf frowned. "Thy point doth have weight—"
"Yeah, a ton or two! Look, tell them they don't really need me—they've got Gwen right there! Just get her a babysitter!"
"I rejoice in thy presence, Lady Gallowglass." Tuan looked distinctly unhappy. " 'Tis good of thee to come at our need."
"Pay him no heed." Catharine clasped Tuan's forearm and patted it. "These men are of the opinion that only they can understand matters of urgency."
"I comprehend." Gwen smiled, amused. "He had as lief mine husband did come." She held up her hand to forestall Tuan's protest. "Nay, deny it not, Majesty, though 'tis good of thee to attempt it; and to ease thine heart, I shall tell the Lord
Warlock straightaway whatsoe'er we discuss here, and tell thee directly his opinion on it."
Tuan relaxed visibly. "I thank thee."
"And she is as wise in statecraft as she is tactful." Catharine stepped over to the gleaming walnut table before the great clerestory windows. "Come sit with us, Lady Gallowglass. There are many matters of which I wish to speak with thee."
"I cry Thy Majesty's mercy." Gwen slid gracefully into an hourglass-shaped chair and looked around her. "Thy solar doth ever gladden my heart."
"Gramercy, Lady Gallowglass." Catharine sat by her. "Yet 'twas not of my making."
"Nay, but the choice of draperies and carpets was thine." Gwen leaned forward. "As are thy concerns. Which matter doth trouble thee most—the children's discovery of a witch-spy?"