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Sartorial issues aside, there were still a number of nagging issues behind my back, which were mainly centered on the Gazers of Fuma's Musk.

Not that the Abbot and the monks were hostile -- far from it. I was always met with unfailing (and silent) politeness, and the learned Abbot was always willing to have a conversation with me. It's just that the conversation never quite got around to the question of using the roof of the monastery for observation purposes. As the Mephitists were the state religion, I did feel that the Army had at least some kind of call on the Church in this regard, but evidently the Abbot was not of a mind to test the waters on the subject.

About a week after the incident with Silverbrush and my trousers, I was leaving his office and trudging out through the refectory, where the monks were eating their noon meal. (The story from the Apocrypha that was being read was the one on "Beware the Untamed Wiles.") As I glanced over at the monks, I had that uncanny feeling again, and then something finally clicked.

The particular way one of the monks was seated at the table was quite different from the others. Rather than bowed over and humbly partaking of the soup, that monk had his shoulders thrown back. There was also something about the way the knot was tied around his habit. And, for that matter, the fact that his was the only habit that was unwrinkled.

Instead of leaving the refectory, I took a slight turn to the left, and walked to a point just behind the backs of a number of monks, including the one that had aroused my interest. I waited until there was a pause in the reading, and one that was a particularly good one, before I clicked my hooves sharply, and thrust out my chest.

"PLATOON, 'SHUN! EYES FRONT!"

There was mass confusion from nearly all of the monks, who whirled their cowled heads about in complete confusion, first at each other, then at the reader, then at me...

...and finally at the one monk that was standing stiffly at attention, paws down the side of his crisp habit at exactly the angle you would have expected, had there been a stripe down the side. Routine can be a powerful thing, sometimes, especially when you've been in the Army for years. It was a few seconds before the good brother's shoulders sagged, and you could hear him sigh.

The Abbot had come bustling out of his office, just in time to see me circle around and smile at the still-standing brother.

"Good afternoon, Sergeant Crater."

The figure bowed its head and said nothing for a while, and then slowly nodded.

I came to attention, gave him a salute, nodded at the Abbot, and strolled briskly out of the room and, ultimately, out of the monastery.

Back at the barracks, I broke out my copy of the King's Regulations, and checked up on the provisions regarding desertion. As I had remembered, they were not very pleasant. Luckily for Sergeant Crater, this wasn't in time of war; desertion under those circumstances involved some particularly nasty punishments, and that was even before the degradation and expulsion from the Army. Put it this way: no one wants to test the strength of a team of work-ants under those conditions. Even under current circumstances, Sergeant/Brother Carter was looking at a lengthy spell in a rather uncomfortable place at His Majesty's Pleasure, bread, water and straw pelisse all found.

This was, of course, assuming that either the Regiment or GHQ found out about this. Which they might. If circumstances warranted. The next move, of course, belonged to My Lord Abbot.

While I was killing time in that regard, I ran a few tests on myself, setting up some simple wards at spots in a nearby field, and running a few simple exercises in Gramerye to see how easily they could be set off.

A word, by the way, to those of you reading this who are experts in the subject, and are probably throwing your pipes across the room in rage at the way I've been discussing magic all throughout these memoirs. Yes, I have been guilty of a grave solecism, in that I have been equating practically everything with Gramerye. "Stuff and nonsense!" comes the cry. "That's merely the entry-level stuff! What about all of the advanced branches, eh? What about Transmogrification, and Teleportation, and Geas Imposition, and any number of other things we could mention?"

Guilty as charged, dear expert, guilty as charged. The problem, of course, is in these relatively unimaginative times, the number of elves who would actually understand the details of what's going on with sophisticated spells is dwindling as badly as the number of subscriptions to the learned journals they still publish. (If you've ever tried wading your way through the Journal of Transmogrification Studies, you'd probably find out why so few elves bother with it, these days. I mean, Great Fuma's eyelashes, when you have footnotes running seven pages, what's a poor reader to do?) As Gramerye is one of the few things that the average lay-fur can understand, and might even have seen at one point or another, I've lumped nearly everything I've done (and will be doing) in this account under the general rubric of Gramerye. Keeps the narrative flowing, in a certain sense. But once again, my apologies.

Now, I think I was at the point where I was testing something that Silverbrush had mentioned to me, and that Lt. Rutter back in Albric Tor had mentioned: that is, the danger of not being fully aware of your surroundings when you use Gramerye (or more sophisticated magicks). After running through a number of simple tests, I found that they were right. Even a simple spell could set off a ward at distances of a few yards, and aggressive detection of glamers, I found, could be detected even a few hundred yards away. And that, of course, was assuming that you were subtle about the whole thing. Doing my daily practice in freezing and unfreezing the Mill River is not exactly a subtle thing, if you have someone who is actively watching you. As I'm sure Silverbrush was, at some level.

The problem was, of course, how to shield my mind. Which in a sense, is a type of magick on its own to hide another magick. Unless you did it right, there was no point in attempting to cover the magic in the first place, if the blanket (as it were) was even more brightly coloured than what you were trying to conceal.

I knew of a few substances that Lt. Rutter had told me about that could disrupt the casting of spells (likely, there were many such), but I had to look at it from the point of view of an opposing user of magick. If you spotted, in a place where you wouldn't expect it, a substance that was disrupting the use of magick, that would be a certain sign that within that radius, someone was present who didn't want to be seen.

It was only when I was amusing myself by making my hooves match a pile of fallen leaves that the concept hit me. If my fur and clothing could be camouflaged, why couldn't evidences of magick be camouflaged, too? This was different from substances disrupting magick; this was disguising "artificial" magick as something natural.

It took some hours of research in my text- and reference-books, and another few days' of intensive practice, before I could at least cobble together something crude. It did require a great deal of knowledge of the terrain and what was naturally present, but I found that with some adjustments that some of the "quieter" spells could be cast without setting off wards, and even the vigorous use of dispelling magicks required one to be closer in before it was detectable.

Some ideas I had on testing this, though, had to wait. When I returned to the barracks for dinner, I found waiting for me one of the Gazers, who had an invitation to dine with the Abbot that evening. There was nothing for it but the "A" uniform and shined hooves.

Dinner was actually for three. There, by dispensation of My Lord, and released from the normal rules, was the good Sergeant Crater. The feline still had his whiskers waxed, I noticed. Yet another habit that didn't die. I saluted him, and he glumly returned the salute.

It was well into the second course before anyone spoke, and it was the Sergeant who broke the silence.

"Ever look at the stars, Corporal?"

I indicated that I had, many times, but not in the same way the Gazers had. He nodded.

"The skies are really wonderfully clear up here. You'll get some nights where every one of them is sharp and bright. You can even see that a few of them are red, and not white. And the more you look at the stars, the more you wonder: what's out there? Why is it there? Who made things the way they are?"

Having unburdened himself with these thoughts, which may not have been original, but were certainly heartfelt, he pushed aside his plate and rested his chin on his paws.

"I know what I did was wrong. I thought, you know, that no one would care. Certainly not that ass, O'Bloom. Has he gotten out of bed, yet?"

"Not that I've seen. What's wrong with him, anyway?"

"Physically?"

"Well, if there's anything between his ears..."

"Corporal, it's exactly his type that made me rethink things. I mean, the Army isn't the kind of place that wants you to think for yourself, is it? It's all about keeping to the King's Regulations."

He was telling the truth, at that. Certainly, this was one of the rare times I'd ever seen a sergeant engaged in anything resembling deep thought or introspection. Most of the sergeants I've seen (Sergeant Wing aside) were the kind of furs you wanted to avoid, and I'm not just talking about not getting on the K.P. roster.

Sergeant Crater sighed. "Well, speaking of the King's Regulations, I suppose you have your duty, right?"

"Well, it depends. There's more than one way to interpret duty, I think."

The sergeant looked up sharply, somewhat surprised. I don't blame him. Most corporals would take the opportunity to do a sergeant down with both paws and a tail. The Abbot, being a little more wise in these things, narrowed his eyes and swiveled his ears.

"You're not going to report me to Captain O'Bloom?"

"Nor Lieutenant Kedgeay."

The sergeant's surprise deepened. "You've seen him?"

"What, haven't you?"

"No. Well, I mean, you know how those lizards are. Dashed hard to spot anywhere."

I let that slide. "Well, I think there's a way we can fix things so that you can still do your duty to your King, and make it look good." Turning to the Abbot, I fixed him with a smile. "Is there not, My Lord?"

That worthy frowned. "We are not supposed to engage in combat, my son."

"I never suggested anything of the sort, My Lord. I merely require the Sergeant here to keep a constant lookout, utilizing the monastery's fine vista, and a few other brothers to help relay messages down to where Mossford can see it. Mere observation, is all, and you are experts at that, are you not?"

There was an assertion raised by the prelate, which involved the penalties in the present and in the hereafter for the crime of blackmail and, for that matter, skiving on my duty to the King to report infractions of discipline.

At this point, I removed from my pocket my small leather holder, and placed it on the table.

"Am I correct, My Lord, in that you do not think I am obeying the edicts of my King?"

Warily, he nodded at me. It was then that I flipped open my holder. There was a sharp flash of violet light, in which could be seen the image of a crown. A particular three-tone chime sounded.

"I hereby affirm that I am operating under the authority granted to me by His Majesty the King and His Royal Highness Roland, Marshal of Faerie."

The Abbot flushed pale, and flinched back into his chair. For his part, Sergeant Crater merely sagged his jaw and looked startled.

The prelate regained his composure, with the assistance of a full glass of ardent spirits. "The Blood Seal, Corporal. I see. I shall question you no more, and I shall do as you bid. Is there anything else you require?"

I kept the list strictly to a few cords of firewood to be delivered to the barracks, as well as the watch on the roof. I think he was relieved that it wasn't worse, and he hurriedly ended the dinner before I could think of anything else.

Flushed with a sense of a small victory gained, I decided to see how far Fuma was going to let me run my luck. Instead of turning back to home, I turned a little to the north, and to the little path through the swamps.

It was quite probable that Silverbrush had some sort of scrying device in the area, and it was a moral certainty that he expected me, sooner or later, to try something against him. And who was I to disappoint him? It did require a little bit of preparation with a sweet persimmon I'd managed to pocket from the Abbot's table.

I camouflaged my clothes and fur, and kept to a gentle zig-zagging along the path, keeping to a back-aching crouch. After about two hours, I managed to get within visual range of the old tod's house. Another hour was spent inching forward, and then a further fifteen minutes lying still. When I judged the time was ripe, so to speak, I tossed the persimmon to the other side of the path and in back of me, a handful of yards.

I knew that as soon as it hit the ground, it would trigger a simple bit of magick, nothing more, and certainly one that wouldn't give away my position.

Sure enough, not more than a few seconds after the fruit had come to rest on a patch of ice, there was a flash of blue light, which not only lit up the apple, but lit up a slightly puzzled fox not far away.

The fox's puzzlement increased a few seconds later when he attempted to discern where a certain burning smell was coming from. Which, in point of fact, was the leaves under his footpads.

I got about 100 yards away at a dead run before I got levitated through a thin skin of ice and into a pool of swamp water. I must say, though, he was a sport about it, and gave me some tea while he dried and restored my uniform. I declined, though, the cake with the stranglewort garnish.