"Insecure, eh?" Father Al gazed off into s.p.a.ce, drumming his fingers on the

table. "But effective?"

"Sure is. So far, he's thwarted two major attempts by SPITE and VETO together.

What's more, he's used those victories to put the current monarchy on the road to developing a democratic const.i.tution." Father Al's eyebrows shot up. "Extremely able. And he's about to discover some psionic talent of his own?"

"He's about to disappear," Yorick corrected, "and when he reappears in a few

weeks, he's going to be a genuine, full-fledged, twenty-four-carat wizard, able to conjure up armies out of thin air. And that's just the beginning of his powers."Father Al frowned. "And he won't do it by psi talents?"Yorick shook his head."Then what is the source of his power?""That'syour field, Father." Yorick jabbed a finger at the priest. "You tell us-if you can catch up with him before he disappears, and go with him."

"You may be sure that I'll try. But why isn't he a psi? Because he comes from off-planet?"

"Only the genuine, Gramarye-born article occasionally turns out to be a telepath -and usually a telekinetic or tele-port, too, depending on s.e.x. The women are telekinetic; that means they can make broomsticks fly, and ride on them, among other things."

"The witches of legend," Father Al musgd.

"That's what they call 'em. They call the esper men 'warlocks.' They can levitate, and make things, including themselves, appear and disappear, sometimes moving 'em miles between."

"But Rod Gallowgla.s.s can do none of these things?"

"No, but he wound up marrying the most powerful witch in Gramarye-and they've got four kids who're showing a very interesting a.s.sortment of talents. In fact, they're all more powerful than their mother. When they start realizing that, she'll really have trouble."

"Not necessarily, if they' ve raised them properly," Father Al said automatically (he'd been a.s.signed to a parish for several years). "Odd that they should be more powerful than their mother, when they don't have psionic genes from both parents."

"Yeah, isn't it?" Yorick grinned. "I just love these little puzzles-especially when someone else gets to solve 'em. But it might not be all that strange- there're still new talents that keep cropping up on that planet. I mean, they've only been inbreeding for a few hundred years; they've got a lot of untapped potential."

"Inbreeding... yes..." Father Al had a faraway look. "The answers would lie with their ancestors, wouldn't they?"

"Buncha crackpots." Yorick waved them away. "Ever hear of the Society for Creative Anachronism, Father?"

"No. Who were they?"

"A hodgepodge collection of escapists, who tried to forget they were living because of an advanced technology, by holding gatherings where everybody dressed up in medieval outfits and performing mock battles with fake swords."

"Ah, I see." Father Al smiled fondly. "They tried to restore some beauty to life."

"Yeah, that was their problem. That kind of beauty requires individuality, and reinforces it-so they weren't too popular with the totalitarian government of the Proletarian Eclectic State of Terra. When PEST came in, it broke up the SCA and executed the leaders. They all requested beheading, by the way... Well. The rest of the organization went underground; they turned into the backbone of the DDT revolution on Terra. Most of 'em, anyway; there's a rumor that about a quarter of 'em spent the next few centuries playing a game called 'Dungeons and Dragons.' They were used to being underground."

"Fascinating, I'm sure," Father Al said drily, "but what does it have to do with Gramarye?"

"Well, a dozen of the richest SC A members saw the PEST coup coming, and bought an outmoded FTL s.p.a.ce liner. They crammed aboard with all the rank-and-file who wanted to come along, renamed themselves the 'Romantic Emigres,' and took off for parts unknown-the more unknown, the better. When they got there, they named it 'Gramarye,' and set up their version of the ideal medieval society-you know, architecture out of the Fourteenth Century, castles out of the Thirteenth, armor out of the Fifteenth, costumes out of any time between the fall of Rome and the Renaissance, and government out of luck. Well, they did have a King, but they paid him a fine medieval disregard. You get the idea."

Father Al nodded. "A thorough collection of romantics and misfits-and a high concentration of psi genes."

"Right. Then they proceeded to marry each other for a few centuries, and eventually produced telepaths, telekinetics, teleports, levitators, projective telepaths..."

"Projectives?" Father Al frowned. "You didn't mention those."

"Didn't I? Well, they've got this stuff they call 'witch moss.' It's a telepathically-sensitive fungus. If the right kind of 'witch' thinks hard at it, it turns into whatever she's thinking about. And, of course, the whole population turned latent-esper fairly early on, and they loved to tell their children fairy tales..."

"No." Father Al blanched. "They didn't."

"Oh, but they did-and now you'll find an elf under every elm. With the odd werewolf thrown in-and a few ghosts. Hey, it could've been worse! If they hadn't had this thing against anything later than Elizabethan, they might've been retelling Frankenstein."

"Praise Heaven for small blessings!"

Yorick nodded. "You'll have trouble enough with what they've got there already. Be careful, though-new talents keep showing up, from time to time."

"Indeed? Well, I thank you for the warning. But I'm curious... Why did you come tell me all this? Why didn't Dr. McAran just put it all into his letter?"

"Because if he had, the Pope would've thought he was a raving maniac," Yorick said promptly. "But since he put down just the bare-bones-vital information, and made an accurate 'prediction'about who would be Pope..."

"With a little help from your agent in the Vatican," Father Al amplified.

"Don't say anything against him, Father, he's from your Order. Anyway, with that much and no more in the letter, the Pope believed it, and sent you."

"Ingenious. Also devious. But why bother with the letter at all, since you were coming to meet me anyway?"

"Because you wouldn't have believed me if you hadn't read the letter."

Father Al threw up his hands in mock despair. "I give up! I never could make headway against a circular argument- especially when it might be valid. But tell me-why did you bother? Why does Mr. McAran care?"

"Because SPITE and VETO keep trying to sabotage us, anywhen they can. It's us versus them, Father-and you and Rod Gallowgla.s.s are part of the 'us.' If he loses, we lose- and a few trillion people, all down the ages, lose a lot of individual rights."

"Especially patentholders," Father Al amplified.

"Of course. And by the way, Doc Angus did finally patent it-in 5029 AD."

"After the secret was finally out?"

Yorick nodded.

"How did he manage to get a patent when its existence was already public knowledge?"

"Did you ever stop to think how difficult it would be to prove when a time machine was invented?" Yorick grinned. "It's a fun puzzle. Think it over when you've got some time-say, on your way to Gramarye." He glanced at his watch-ring. "Speaking of which, you'd better hurry- SPITE and VETO are already ma.s.sing for their next big attack on Gramarye. Ma.s.sing behind a poor dupe of a front man, of course."

"Oh?" Father Al inquired mildly. "Who's the poor dupe?"

"The Church, of course." Yorick grinned. "Good luck, Father."

CHAPTER THREE.

"How dare this tatter-robed priest so flout our power!" Queen Catharine stormed.

They were pacing down a hallway in the royal castle, heading for the state audience chamber. Rich oak panelling flashed past; thick carpet soaked up Catharine's angry stamping-$ "His robe is scarcely tattered, my dear," Tuan answered. "And he governs all priests in our land."

"Anabbot?" Rod frowned. "I think I've been overlooking something this past decade. Doesn't he take orders from a bishop?"

Tuan turned to him, perplexed. "What is a 'bishop?' "

"Uh-never mind." Rod swallowed. "How come an abbot of a monastery governs parish priests?"

"Why, because all priests in this land are of the Order of St. Vidicon!" Catharine snapped impatiently. "How is it that the High Warlock does not know this?"

"Uh-just haven't been taking religion very seriously, I guess." Rod hadn't even been going to Ma.s.s on Sundays, but he didn't think this was the time to mention it. "So the Abbot's the head of the church, here-and I understand he's not too happy about your appointing all the parish priests in the country. Now it makes sense." * "Some, but not overmuch," Tuan said grimly.

"Where was he when the barons still named their own priests?" Catharine stormed. "Oh, he would not go up against them! But now that 'tis accepted that we appoint them... Uh!"

A cannonball of a body hit her in the midriff, crowing, "Mama, Mama! Chess time! Chess time!"

Catharine's face softened remarkably as she held the small one away from her, kneeling to look into his eyes. "Aye, sweetling, 'tis the hour we usually play. Yet your mother cannot, this morn; we must speak with the Lord Abbot, thy father and I."

"Not fair, though!" the little prince protested. "You couldn't play yesterday, neither!"

"Either," Tuan corrected, tousling the boy's hair. "Aye, Alain, thy mother had need to speak with the d.u.c.h.ess d 'Bourbon yestere 'en."

"Not that I wished to." Catharine's tone hardened a little. "Yet not even kings and queens can do only what they please, my boy."

She, Rod reflected, had definitely matured.

Alain pouted. "Not fair!"

" Tis not," Tuan agreed, with an achingly sad smile. "Yet..."

"My apologies, Majesties!" A middle-aged lady in a grey coif and gown, with a gleaming white ap.r.o.n, hurried up and dropped a curtsy. "I but turned my gaze away for the half of a minute, and..."

" 'Tis no matter, good nurse." Tuan waved away the apology. "If we have not an occasional moment to spare for our son, what worth is our kingdom? Yet thou must not keep us long from matters of state, child, or there will be no kingdom for thee to inherit! Come, now, go with thy nurse-and take this with thee." He felt in his purse and produced a sugarplum.

Alain glared at it accusingly, but accepted it. "Soon?"

"As soon as we are done with the Lord Abbot," Catharine promised. "There, now, go with thy nurse, and we'll be with thee presently." She gave him a kiss on

the forehead, turned him around, and gave him a pat on his bottom to speed him.

He plodded off after Nurse, looking back over his shoulder.

His parents stood, gazing fondly after him.

"Fine boy," Rod said into the silence.

"He is that," Catharine agreed. She turned to Tuan. "But thou dost spoil him

atrociously!"

Tuan shrugged. "True; yet what are nurses for? Still, Madame, remember-he has not yet come under my tute-lage."

"That, I want to see," Rod said, nodding. "Papa as swordmaster."

Tuan shrugged. "My father managed it. Stern he was- yet I never doubted his

love."

"Your father's a grand man." Rod knew old Duke Loguire quite well. "What does he think of your appointing priests for his parishes?"Tuan's face darkened as he was wrenched back to the topic. He started toward the audience chamber again. "He is not overly joyous about it, but sees the need. Why will not the Lord Abbot?"

"Because it encroaches on his authority," Rod said promptly. "But isn't the appointment just a matter of form? I mean, who do the priests take their orders from after they're appointed?"

Tuan stopped dead, and Catharine whirled about, both staring at Rod. "Why, that is so," Tuan said slowly. "Bar-ohs ruled priests, when barons appointed them- yet since Catharine began that function, our judges have watched to be sure the lords give no orders to clergy." He turned to Catharine, frowning. "Hast thou given commands to priests?"

"I had not thought of it," Catharine admitted. "It seemed it were best to leave G.o.d to the G.o.dly."

"Sounds like a good policy," Rod agreed. "See any reason to change it?"

Tuan beamed. "I would not want to, save when a priest breaks the law-and I must own the Lord Abbot deals more harshly with a soiled ca.s.sock than I ever would, save in matters of death."

"Point of conflict?"

"Never," Catharine stated, and Tuan shook his head. "For any offense great enough to be capital, the Abbot's punishment is to strip the cleric of office, and cast him out of the Order-whereupon, of course, our officers seize him.

Nay, I catch thy drift-we've let the Abbot rule all the parish priests, have we not?"

" 'Twas a grievous omission," Catharine grated.

"Not really," Rod grinned. "It put the clergy solidly on your side, against the barons-and their flocks with them. But now..."