Rod nodded. "Didn't realize you'd recognized me."

"Any would recognize a lord who tyrannizes his peasants! But you shall know oppression in your own turn, lordling! How long have you made excuses for the arrogance and tyranny of your queen?"

"Never," Rod said. "I've fought for her, but her public image is her own worry. You know that, though, don't you? Well, if you're a raven in human form, you'll be attracted to bright and shiny things." He slipped a coin from his belt-pouch and flipped it.

The woman stared, following the silver's flashing with hungry eyes. She made a grab for it but missed.

"You really are a raven," Rod said softly, "feeding on the carrion of decaying marriages and drinking the anguish you have caused. But shape-changers on Gramarye are made of witch-moss and can themselves be melted down like wax in the sun." He stared at her, picturing her form blurring, features smoothing into a shapeless lump that melted into a puddle.

The woman shrieked and clutched her head, crumpling to the ground and rolling in agony.

Rod stared, horrified, and the image disappeared from his mind. The woman went limp, gasping for breath.

"You're real," Rod said softly, "a real woman who for some insane reason has decided to take out her unhappiness on the people around her—but my thoughts wouldn't have hurt you if you weren't a telepath yourself." He leaned over the windowsill to wrap his hand in the back of her tunic and haul her to her feet.

The woman flailed her fists at him, but her reach wasn't long enough; he stepped back, pulling her out of the window. "Let go!" she shrieked. "Blast you for a villain and bully, let go!"

"Oh, I will," Rod said, "when I've seen you safely inside the nearest dungeon."

The woman howled and writhed, trying to break free. 'Tyrant! Ogre! Dire wolf! Have you no shred of mercy left in your heart?"

"Plenty," Rod said, "but not for a projective telepath who uses her gifts to cause other people misery. I think this village is on Count Moscowitz's estate. His dungeon should hold you long enough for one of the Royal Witches to come and collect you."

The woman shrieked, doubling over as he tried to drag her to Fess. Then she uncoiled, and something shiny flashed as she slashed at Rod. Pain burned through his arm, loosening his grip just enough for her to twist free. She shot off down the village street far faster than a woman her age should have been able to, black cloak billowing about her.

"After her!" Rod mounted and caught the reins. "We can't let a germ like that stay loose to spread a plague of lies."

Fess leaped into motion even as he said, "That wound must be attended to, Rod."

"It's only a scratch," Rod said impatiently. "It was the surprise that got me, that's all. Quick, Fess! If she makes it into the woods, we'll have lost her!"

But the billowing cloak steadied and spread wide even as the woman's form dwindled and lifted—and a huge raven soared up into the treetops, cawing in mockery.

Rod reined in, staring. "She must have been made of witch-moss after all!"

"Quickly, Rod! She is almost into the underbrush!"

"Underbrush? She's into the treetops! Didn't you just see her turn into a raven, Fess?"

"I saw nothing, Rod, except an old woman escaping— and she obviously is not as old as she pretended to be."

Rod looked down at the horse's head, frowning in puzzlement—then understood. "Of course! She's a projective telepath! She made me see something that didn't really happen—and I bit on it!"

"Whatever illusion she projected into your mind, Rod, it worked well enough to give her time to make good her escape."

"Yeah, it sure did, didn't it?" Rod said, chagrined. "Well, the least I can do is track the people who left this village to protect them from her—and tell them what she really is, so they won't believe her any more."

"You can still call in Toby and his friends from the Royal Witchforce, Rod."

"I suppose I can. They should be able to track her down—and even if they can't, they can leave a sentry here to nab her if she tries to come back. Come on, Fess—let's see if we can talk the villagers into taking their homes back."

Fess went toward the forest, saying, "There is the possibility that she is not the only one of her kind."

"A concerted campaign, you mean?" Rod frowned. "I do remember thinking that our old enemies had been too quiet lately."

"They may think that you are incapacitated, Rod, and no longer a threat."

"They're right, too," Rod said. "I've got my own work to do now—my very own, trying to find Gwen again. We'll leave the totalitarians to Magnus."

Fess was quiet for several paces, then said, "So you don't intend to mount a campaign to ferret out these agents?"

Rod shrugged. "As I said, I'll leave that to Magnus—the boy's more than capable of dealing with something like this. Of course, I won't ignore anybody I stumble across."

"Yes, it does fend off boredom, doesn't it?"

"Are you telling me I need a retirement project?" Rod looked at his old friend and robot with a jaundiced eye. "Why should I, when such interesting things keep presenting themselves? There, Fess—that's their trail, where the grass is just beginning to recover. Shouldn't take us too long to find them."

GEORDIE CAME INTO the village with his bow and quiver on his back and a basket in his hand. The peasants looked up and smiled their greeting. Old Liz leaned forward from her seat by the door of her daughter's cottage. "Good day, my lord."

"Squire," Geordie said automatically. "Where's your son-in-law, Goody Elizabeth?"

Old Liz leaned back chuckling. "Elizabeth, is it? 'Old Liz' was good enough for you when you were no higher than my waist."

Geordie grinned down at her. "I'm somewhat taller than you now. Where's Corin?"

"Out to the fields with the rest of the young ones, Squire, digging to see if any of last year's turnips were missed— don't know why they bother; anything there would be rotted by now."

"Or have sent up shoots." Geordie set the basket down by her feet. "Well, see if you can divide this up among the families, then. It will go well with the turnips."

Old Liz stared down at the basket, then back up at Geordie. "Why, thank 'ee, your worship! Thank 'ee very much!"

Other seniors came up, surprised and interested, all adding their thanks to Old Liz's.

"You're my people," Geordie told them. "I'll not see you starve. Dine well."

They bade him good day as he strode away, no doubt to take another basket to the North Village. Then they turned to examine his gift. Old Sal laid back the corners of the cloth that covered it and gasped. " 'Tis venison!"

They all exclaimed as they gathered around, for each knew the meat well—and had already used up that week's salt pork. Then the delight ebbed into concern, and they looked at one another with apprehension. Old Will it was who asked, "Where did he find it?"

"On the hoof, of course, and you know it well!" Old Liz told him. "Thank heaven the keepers did not find him!"

"Pray heaven he does not go hunting again! For they will catch him sooner or later!"

"Someone must tell him not to," Old Sal said. The others chorused agreement, all turning to look at Old Will.

"Aye," he said, as though the word had a bad taste. " 'Twas I who taught him to hunt, so it's for me to teach him not to. Well, I'll have a go."

RAVEN CAME SPIRALING down to the safe house in the nearest town aboard the sorriest excuse for a broom anyone had ever seen. The sentry came to his feet, staring. "Where did you find that piece of rubbish, Raven?"

"Had to improvise it from a tree branch and a few handfuls of grass," the woman snapped, "after the High Warlock chased me off."