“Aye. I doubt me not an we’ll see him presently.”

“No doubt at all; I’m sure he’s still in charge of our case.”

“…So he was giving the orders, huh? To the soldiers, I mean.”

“Aye. There was no doubt of that.”

Rod nodded. “Then he’s probably the one who arranged the ambush.”

Simon gazed at him for a moment, then nodded slowly. “That would be likely.”

“So he’s not exactly the simple half-telepath he claimed to be.”

Simon’s lips curved with the ghost of his smile. “Nay, Master Owen. He is certainly not that.”

“He didn’t happen to let out any hints about his real self, did he?”

Simon shook his head. “The surface of his thoughts stayed ever as it had been. For aught that I could hear from him, his name was ever Flaran; yet his thoughts were all extolling Alfar, and how greatly advantaged the land was, since he’d taken power.”

Rod frowned. “Nothing about the job at hand?”

“Aye; he did think how greatly thy capture would please Alfar.”

“I should think it would.” Rod closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the wall, hoping the cold stone might cool the burning. “No matter what else we might say about our boy Flaran, we’ve got to admit he was effective.”

A key grated in the lock. Rod looked up at a slab of dungeon warder with a face that might have been carved out of granite. He didn’t say a word, just held the door open and stepped aside to admit a lord, gorgeously clad in brocade doublet and trunk-hose, burgundy tights and shoes, fine lace ruff, and cloth-of-gold mantle, with a golden coronet on his head. His chin was high in arrogance; he wore a look of stern command. Rod had to look twice before he recognized Flaran. “Clothes do make the man,” he murmured.

Flaran smiled, his lips curving with contempt. “Clothes, aye—and a knowledge of power.”

The last word echoed in Rod’s head. He held his gaze on Flaran. “So the rumor was true—Alfar was wandering around the country, disguised as a peasant.”

Flaran inclined his head in acknowledgement.

“Well, O Potentate Alfar.” Rod leaned back against the wall. “I have to admit you did a great job of disguising yourself as a peasant. Could it be you had experience to draw on?”

Alfar’s eyes sparked with anger, and Simon seemed to shrink in on himself in horror. The sorcerer snapped. “Indeed, I was numbered ‘mongst the downtrodden till a year agone.”

“But that’s all behind you now, of course.”

His voice was a little too innocent. Alfar’s gaze hardened. “Be not mistaken. Think not that I’m a peasant still—for thou dost lie within my power now, and thou wilt find it absolute.”

Rod shrugged. “So you’re a powerful peasant. Or did you honestly think you could be something more?”

“Greatly more,” Alfar grated, “as thou wilt discover.”

“Oh?” Rod tilted his head to the side. “What, may I ask?”

“A duke—Duke Alfar, of the Northern coast! And thou, slave, shalt address me as such!”

“Oh.” Rod kept his lips pursed from the word. “I’m a slave now, am I?”

“Why?” Alfar’s eyes kindled. “What else wouldst thou call thyself?”

Rod watched him for a second, then smiled. “I’m a peasant, too. Aren’t I?”

“Assuredly,” Alfar said drily. “Yet whatsoever thou art, thou art also a most excellent thought-hearer, an thou hast been able to probe ‘neath my thoughts to discover who I truly am.”

“Oh, that didn’t take mind reading. None at all. I mean, just look at it logically: Who, in all the great North Country, would be the most likely one to go wandering around disguised as a schlemazel peasant, supporting Alfar’s policies with great verve and enthusiasm, and would have authority to command his soldiers?”

“One of my lieutenants, mayhap,” Alfar said, through thinned lips.

Rod shook his head. “You never said one word about having to refer a decision to someone higher up—at least, not from Simon’s reports about what happened while I was out cold. But you did mention ‘our’ domain, which meant that you were either one of the lieutenants, viewing himself as a partner—and from what I’d heard of Alfar, I didn’t think he was the type to share power…”

“Thou didst think aright,” Flaran growled.

“See? And that left the ‘or’ to the ‘either’—and the ‘or’ was that the ‘our’ you’d used was the royal ‘our.’ And that meant that Flaran was really Alfar.” Rod spread his hands. “See? Just common sense.”

“Scarcely ‘common.’ ” Alfar frowned. “In truth, ‘tis a most strange mode of thought.”

“People keep telling me that, here,” Rod sighed. He’d found that chains of reasoning were alien to the medieval mind. “But that was the royal ‘our,’ wasn’t it? And you are planning to try for the throne, aren’t you?”

Alfar’s answer was an acid smile. “Thou hast come to the truth of it at last—though I greatly doubt thou didst find it in such a manner.”

“Don’t worry, I did.” Rod smiled sourly. “Even right now, with you right next to me, I can’t read your mind. Not a whisper.”

“Be done with thy deception!” Alfar blazed. “Only a warlock of great power could cloak his thoughts so completely that he seems not even to exist!”

Rod shrugged. “Have it your way. But would that mighty warlock be able to read minds when his own was closed off?”

Alfar stared.

Then he lifted his head slowly, nodding. “Well, then.” And, “Thou wilt, at least, not deny that thou art Tuan’s spy.”

“King Tuan, to you! But I agree, that much is pretty obvious.”

“Most excellent! Thou canst now tell to Tuan every smallest detail of my dungeon—if ever thou dost set eyes upon him again.”

For all his bravado, a shiver of apprehension shook Rod. He ignored it. “Tuan already knows all he needs.”

“Indeed?” Alfar’s eyes glittered. “And what is that?”

“That you’ve taken over the duchy, by casting a spell over all the people—and that you’ll attack him, if he doesn’t obliterate you first.”

“Will he, now! Fascinating! And how much else doth he know?”

Rod shrugged. “None of your concern—but do let it worry you.”

Alfar stood rigid, the color draining from his face.

Then he whirled, knife whipping out to prick Simon’s throat. “Again I will demand of thee—what information hath Tuan?”

His gaze locked with Rod’s. Simon paled, but his eyes held only calm and understanding, without the slightest trace of fear.

Rod sighed, and capitulated. “He knows your whole career, from the first peasant you intimidated, up to your battle with Duke Bourbon.”

“Ah,” Alfar breathed. “But he knoweth not the outcome. Doth he?”

“No,” Rod admitted, “but it was a pretty clear guess.”

“ ‘Twas the Duchess, was it not? She did escape my hunters. Indeed, my spies in Tudor’s county, and in Runnymede, attacked her, but were repulsed by puissant magics.” His gaze hardened. “Magics wielded by a woman and four children.”

Inwardly, Rod went limp with relief, hearing his family’s safety confirmed. But outwardly, he only permitted himself a small smile.

“Yet thou wouldst know of that, wouldst thou not?” Alfar breathed. “Thou didst dispatch them on that errand, didst thou not?”

Rod looked at the drop of blood rising from the point of the dagger, considered his options, and decided honesty wouldn’t hurt. “It was my idea, yes.”

Alfar’s breath hissed out in triumph. “Then ‘twas thy wife and bairns who did accompany the Duchess and her brats, whilst yet they did live!”

Alarm shrilled through Rod. Did the bastard mean his family was dead? And the anger heaved up, rising.

Oblivious, Alfar was still speaking. “And thou art he who’s called Rod Gallowglass, art thou not?”

“Yes. I’m the High Warlock.” Rod’s eyes narrowed, reddening.

Simon stared, poleaxed.

Alfar’s lips were parted, his eyes glittering. “How didst thou do it? Tell me the manner of it! How didst thou cease to be, to the mind, the whiles thou wert apparent to the eye?”