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All of which meant that if Sir George was very careful, it was possible to speak to his subordinates in places where Computer couldn't overhear them and the crew probably wouldn't realize that he had. But those conversations must be brief. Whatever he might suspect about Computer's failure to independently report suspicious conversations to the demon-jester, he dared not assume that Computer's reticence would continue. Nor could he afford to rely upon the flesh and blood crew's laziness. When the stakes were so high, he couldn't risk the possibility that the crewmen officially responsible for keeping watch upon him and his people might develop a more energetic sense of curiosity if they happened to note that he'd abruptly begun spending a suspicious amount of time in the dead zones Computer's active communication links couldn't cover.

And it was difficult, Sir George soon discovered, to plan a desperate rebellion, even with men who'd known and served with one for decades, when that pla

Matilda came first, of course. He'd feared that she would believe his dream had been just that—only a dream—and he could hardly have blamed her if she had. After all, he had more than half-believed it one when he awoke. But she'd only gazed deeply and intently into his eyes for several moments as they'd stood in a small hollow beside the river, temporarily safe from any eavesdropper. Then she'd nodded.

"I understand, my love," she'd said simply. "Whom shall we tell first?"

Matilda's belief made things much simpler. Despite the frequency with which she and the other women and children were left in stasis while the troops were awakened for combat, every one of Sir George's officers knew that she was his true executive officer and closest advisor and confidante, as well as his wife. They weren't precisely accustomed to receiving orders directly from her, for she'd always been careful to remain in the background where purely military matters were concerned, however active she might have been in administering the many other aspects of their community. But by the same token, they neither felt surprised nor questioned her when she did inform them that she spoke for her husband.

With her assistance, Sir George found it relatively simple to inform those most necessary to working out and executing the plan. Father Timothy was crucial, not least because the demon-jester had accepted his role as a spiritual counselor from the very begi

Rolf Grayhame was the next most important member of the cabal. The burly archer went paper-white when Sir George first broached the subject, for, despite his hatred for the "Commander," Grayhame, more than any other among the English, especially since Ski

But despite his initial shock, Grayhame recovered quickly, and his smile was ferret-fierce and hungry when Sir George explained his part in the plan.

"Said it was the only reward I really wanted, now didn't I, M'lord?" the archer demanded, his voice little more than a harsh, whispered mutter despite Sir George's assurance that no spies were placed to hear or see them at the moment. "Can't say the notion of relying so much on the dragon-men will make me sleep sound of nights, but for the rest—pah!" He spat on the ground. "I'll take my chances, M'lord. Oh, aye, indeed will I take my chances!"

Along with Matilda, Timothy, and Grayhame, Sir Richard Maynton completed the uppermost tier of the conspiracy, and, in some ways, his was the hardest task of all. Since Ski

Grayhame needed to enlist only a dozen or so of his men in order to carry out his primary task; but Maynton's and Howice's task was to prepare all of their men, archers and men-at-arms alike, for the brutal hand-to-hand combat certain to rage within the hull of the ship. And they had to do it in a way which would avoid warning the demon-jester. Which meant Sir Richard also had to do it without actually warning any more than a tiny handful of his own subordinates. Indeed, the only men he'd actually briefed in detail were the members of what everyone, following Matilda's initial example, had come to refer to as Sir George's "Round Table": the dozen knights who served as his and Sir Richard's military aides and unit commanders. They, and only they—aside from Grayhame and his carefully chosen archers—knew what Sir George intended.

In many ways, that was the aspect of the plan which most disturbed the baron. He felt more than a little guilty for involving not simply his men but their wives and children in a mutiny which could end only in victory or death without even warning them, yet he had no choice. He could trust the ability of Sir Richard, Sir Anthony, Sir Bryan, and the other knights he himself had created to conceal their excitement lest they give away what was coming. He could not do the same for his entire company. Every individual admitted to the conspiracy more than doubled the possibility of a careless or ill-considered remark which might inadvertently give away the entire plot, and that was a risk he would not run, for this was a conspiracy which could not be allowed to fail.

Once he and the dragons had established communications, the aliens "spoke" with him every night while he seemed to sleep dreamlessly beside his wife, and each of those conversations served only to reinforce the baron's own earlier conclusions about the demon-jester. Whatever happened to Earth, and however much the demon-jester might praise Sir George and his men, the time was virtually certain to arise when the English would become a potential embarrassment for the demon-jester's guild... and when that happened, they would all die.

And so Sir George and his officers made their plans and prayed for success.

"Good afternoon, Commander," Sir George said courteously as the demon-jester's air car floated to a stop at the meticulously laid out lists and the vehicle's domed top retracted.

"Good afternoon," the demon-jester piped back. He pushed up out of his comfortable, form-fitting seat to stand upright in the air car, and Sir George held his breath. The demon-jester had approved the plan the baron had presented for the required demonstration to this world's natives, but there was always the possibility that he might change his mind at the last moment. Now the demon-jester glanced around for another long moment, studying the tall rows of seats the English had erected for the local chieftains. The "seats" were actually little more than long, bare poles, but they served the three-legged aliens well enough, and the chieftains sat with barbarian impassivity. It was, of course, impossible to read their mood from their expressions, but their total motionlessness suggested a great deal to Sir George.