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standard-issue, he guessed, to all new Censors.
    “Two horses, boy,” Wantran said, bored.  “Tack, harness, saddle.  And be quick, or I’ll tell your master how you were sleeping when we came in.”
    “How long, milords?” he asked, smiling far more broadly than he felt like.
    “Two, three days,” Wantran said.  “That grey gelding and that brown mare will do, if they’re for hire.”
    “Rosebud and Butterbell?  Yes, Lord!  Seven copper each per day, plus three for saddle . . . plus a deposit of five silver, in case you don’t come back,” he recited.  Master Gonus only requested three silver as a deposit, unless he knew a customer.  A good horse cost over forty silver, but neither Rosebud or Butterbell were particularly good, in his professional opinion.  In fact, Butterbell was starting to limp on her hind left foot.
    “Saddle them,” ordered Wantran.  “And boy . . . have you seen any strangers come through town of late?”
    Tyndal opened his eyes even wider, and did his best to appear perplexed.  Then he snapped, exaggeratedly.  “Why, yes, Milord!  Eight, no nine days back!”
    “That would fit with the signature of the new spells,” murmured Lespin.  “The earliest one wasn’t a half-moon old.”
    “Boy, describe this stranger, please,” said Wantran warmly.  Tyndal could tell the look was highly affected – the warmage was handsome, after a fashion, but his deep baritone voice was seductive, and he knew how to use it.  The kindly tone was purely to elicit information.
    “He was his height, milord,” Tyndal said, nodding frantically.  “Well-dressed, like a lord.  Green mantle, doublet, fine hose . . .”
    “Did he have a beard?”
    Tyndal considered.  “I do think he did, milord,” he said, nodding sagely.  “And a saddlebag stuffed and locked,” he added.
    “Locked?  Unusual for a saddlebag,” murmured Wantran.  “Did the man carry a sword?  Like this one?”
    “A sword?  Aye, he carried one,” he drawled.  “Went off south, he did, milords.  Is he a bandit?  He had that look.  My ma says—”
    “Boy,” Wantran continued, insistently compelling Tyndal’s attention.  “Was there anyone with him?”
    “Nay, milord, but he did look powerful dangerous,” he said, nodding some more.  “ Powerful dangerous,” he repeated.  “He stopped by the bakery, too.”
    Wantran looked at his partner.  “So does he seem sincere enough for you?  Would you like to perform a test?”
    Lespin sighed, but took a small metal object out of his pouch and put it up to his eye.  “Repeat what you said, Boy,” he ordered.  Tyndal did, as best as he could remember.
    “He’s telling the truth,” sighed Lespin again.  “So once more we go chasing shadows.”
    “If he’s telling the truth, likely this shadow is a renegade warmage,” pointed out Wantran.  “Besides, you’ve been complaining about river travel for two weeks, now.  You could stand a few days on land, on horse.”
    “If this boy ever gets them saddled!” Lespin exploded.  Tyndal hurried to get the necessary equipment, relieved at being released from the unexpected interrogation.  His mind raced as he strapped the saddles and blankets on, wondering just what he could do to mitigate this near disaster.  If they had detected recent magical activity, it could only be Tyndal’s work.  It would only be a matter of time before they tracked him down again. 
    It sure would be useful if I could do that to them, first, he though savagely to himself as he searched for Butterbell’s harness.  Then he had an idea about how he could do just that.  Despite the Censors being less than twenty feet away, Tyndal did a very, very small cantrip on the bridle before he put it on the horse.  His heart beat like thunder as he arranged the three small symbols in his mind, gave it the tiniest bit of energy, and transferred the hook of the enchantment to the bridle.  He waited for either of the Censors to