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saw the flash of black-and-white checkered mantles in the street.  The two Censors had finished their lunch and were back to business.  They entered with the calm arrogance of those used to getting their way, and for the next two hours he fretted while he waited, ready to go to the rescue of the bakers at the first sign of trouble.
    Not that he had the faintest idea of how to do that.  But he was willing to die trying.  He owed Master Minalan that much.
    The Censors were in the bakery for two hours, as paying customers were turned away at the door.  Tyndal did his best to keep himself occupied with work, but the pitchfork seemed foreign in his hands for the first time in days.  He wanted a wand.  He wanted to get his mageblade.  He wanted his witchstone.  He felt powerless, a mere stableboy, not an apprentice mage, and a survivor of Boval Vale.
    Finally, as the sun was beginning its descent, the Censors emerged – alone – looking bored and frustrated.  Tyndal felt a huge wave of relief that they hadn’t discovered anything, and his sphincter – finally – unclenched.  He busied himself with stacking the iron he’d fetched until they passed.
    Only they didn’t pass.  To Tyndal’s horror, they were walking right toward him.
    He froze, at first, then dove into the harness room at the rear of the stable.  His heart racing, he looked around for something – anything – he could use as a weapon.  Nothing save the battered old pitchfork suggested itself.  The hiding place did, at least, afford him a concealed view of the stables, so he saw the two men enter . . . and heard what they were saying.
    “. . . and I say I felt something!” the younger of the two was saying, heatedly.  “That place was filled with spellwork—”
    “Most of it years old,” observed the senior of the two – Wantran, he remembered.  “Nicely done, too.  Whomever this spellmonger is, he knows his craft.”
    “But what about the other traces?” demanded Lespin, the shorter, younger man.  Tyndal could see that he had a wide face and very broad shoulders, giving him the appearance of being overweight.  The way he moved, however, told a different story.  “Some of those were fresh!”
    “And far, far less well-cast than the others, Brother,” chided Wantran.  “The work of an apprentice, at best.  A poorly trained apprentice.  This village has two spellmongers, and the baronial court mage lives in the castle.  There could be anywhere from two to nine apprentices wandering around here.  Boy!” Wantran called out.
    Tyndal froze.  He wanted to panic, but he couldn’t think of anything good to panic with.  Lespin continued, unconvinced.
    “I think that he’s been there recently – or one of his minions.  Probably to check on his family.  For all we know, they’re still around.”
    “Were the signs that fresh?” Wantran asked, bored.
    “Within the moon,” nodded Lespin. 
    “Interesting,” admitted Wantran.  “The family seemed . . . sincere enough, although I know at least a few of them are lying.”
    “They know nothing,” dismissed Lespin.  “You can’t trust a peasant to tell you if it’s the moon or sun in the sky.  That mention of a stranger in town?  Utter fabrication.  I’m certain of it.”
    “Yes, well, they’re peasants and they were nervous.  You can’t trust a damn thing a peasant says, anyway.  Still, we need to investigate this ‘well-dressed stranger’ who passed through . . . if we can ever manage to hire horses BOY!” he bellowed.  Tyndal jumped despite himself, and then stumbled over himself as he hurried to greet the customers. 
    Best to play it dumb, he decided.  They won’t expect much from a stableboy, he hoped.
    “Yes, my lords?” he asked, opening his eyes wide at the sight of their armor.  It was good armor, serviceable and sturdy, not gilded or ornate in any way.  The checkered motif ran throughout.  The mageblades they bore were likewise plain,