The Warlock in Spite of Himself - Warlock 01 (12 page)

'Oh?' Rod's eyebrows lifted. 'Dagger? Falling tiles? Poison?'

'Poison.'

Rod sat back, rubbing his chin. 'Poison: the aristocrat's weapon; the poor can't afford it. Who among the great lords hates Catharine that much?'

'Why, none!' Tuan stared, appalled. 'Not one among them would stoop to poison, Rod Gallowglass; 'twould be devoid of honor.'

'Honor still counts for something here, eh?' Seeing the scandalized look on Tuan's face, Rod hurried on. 'That lets out the noblemen; but someone on their side's up to tricks. Wouldn't be the councillors, would it?'

Understanding and wary anger rose in Tuan's eyes. He sat back, nodding.

'But what do they gain by her death?' Rod frowned. 'Unless one of them wants to crown his lordling and be the King's Councillor. Tuan nodded. 'Mayhap all wish that, friend Gallowglass.'

Rod had a sudden vision of Gramarye carved up into twelve petty kingdoms, constantly warring against one another, each run by a warlord who was ruled by his councillor. Japanese usurpation, the man behind the throne, and anarchy.

Anarchy.

There was an outside force at work in Gramarye, agents with a higher technology and sophisticated political philosophies at work. The great nobles were slowly being divided, and the people were being set against the nobility, by means of the House of Clovis. The twelve petty kingdoms would be broken down to warring counties, and the counties to parishes, and so on until real anarchy prevailed. The councillors were the outside force, carefully engineering a state of anarchy. But why?

Why could wait for later. What mattered now was that skullduggery was afoot, and it sat next to the Lord Loguire its name was Durer. And his top-priority goal was Catharine's death.

The castle loomed up black against the sky as Rod rode back, but the drawbridge and portcullis were a blaze of torchlight. Fess's hooves thudded hollow on the drawbridge. A blob of shadow detached itself from the larger shadow of the gate, a shadow that reached up to clamp a hand on Rod's shin.

'Hold, Rod Gallowglass!'

Rod looked down and smiled, nodding. 'Well met, Brom O'Berin.'

'Mayhap,' said the dwarf, searching Rod's face. 'Thou must come before the Queen for this night's work, Rod Gallowglass.'

Rod was still wondering how Brom could have known where he'd been as they came to the Queen's audience chamber. Brom had a spy in the House of Clovis, of course; but how could the word have gotten back to Brom so fast?

The door was massive, oak, iron-studded, and draped with velvet, the green and gold of the Queen's house. Brom ran a practiced eye over the two sentries, checking to see that all leather was polished and all metal gleaming. Rod gave them a nod; their faces turned to wood. Was he under suspicion of high treason?

At Brom's nod, one Guardsman struck the door backhanded, three slow heavy knocks, then threw it wide. Rod followed Brom into the room. The door boomed shut behind them.

The room was small but high-ceilinged, paneled in dark wood, lit only by four great candles that stood on a velvet-draped table in the center of the room, and by a small fire on the tiled hearth. A rich carpet covered the stone floor; tapestries hung on the walls. A huge bookcase filled the wall at the far end of the room.

Two heavy carved armchairs stood at either side of the fireplace; two more were drawn up at the table. Catharine' sat in one of these, head bent over a large old leather-bound book. Five or six more lay open on the table about her. Her blonde hair fell unbound about her shoulders, contrasting with the dark russet of her gown.

She lifted her head; her eyes met Rod's. 'Well come.' Her voice was a gentle, slightly husky contralto, so different from the crisp soprano of the council chamber that Rod wondered, for a moment, if it could be the same woman.

But the eyes were wary, arrogant. It was Catharine, all right. But the heavy crown lay on the table beside her, and she seemed smaller, somehow.

'Hast been to the House of Clovis?' she demanded. Her eyes read like a subpoena.

Rod showed his teeth in a mock-grin and inclined his head in a nod.

''Tis even as you said, my Queen.' Brom's voice had a grim overtone.

'Though how you knew-'

'-is not your affair, Brom O'Berin.' She threw the dwarf a glare; Brom smiled gently, bowed his head.

'How?' Rod snorted. 'Why, spies of course. A very excellent spy service, to get the word back to her so fast.'

'Nay.' Brom frowned, puzzled. 'Our spies are few enough, for loyalty is rare in 'this dark age; and we keep no spies at all at the House of Clovis.'

'No spies,' Catharine agreed, 'and yet I know that thou hast had words with Twin of the beggars this day.'

Her voice softened; her eyes were almost gentle as she looked at the dwarf. 'Brom'

The dwarf smiled, bowed his head, and turned to the door. He struck the wood with the heel of his hand. The door swung open; Brom turned with one foot on the threshold, and a malevolent glare stabbed at Rod from under the bushy eyebrows; then the door slammed behind him. Catharine rose, glided to the fireplace. She stood stating at the flames, hands clasped at her waist. Her shoulders sagged; and for a moment, she looked so small and forlorn - and so beautiful, with the firelight streaming up like a mist about her face and shoulders - that Rod's throat tightened in an old, familiar way.

Then her shoulders straightened, and her head snapped around toward him. 'You are not what you seem, Rod Gallowglass.'

Rod stared.

Catharine's hand strayed to her neck, playing with a locket at her throat.

Rod cleared his throat, a trifle nervously. 'Here I am, just a simple blank-shield soldier, just carrying out my orders and taking my pay, and 'three times in thirty hours I get accused of being something mysterious.'

'Then I must needs think that it is true.' Catharine's mouth twisted in a mocking smile.

She sat in one of the great oaken chairs, grasping the arms tightly, and studied Rod for a few moments.

'What are you, Rod Gallowglass?'

Rod spread his arms in a shrug, trying to look the picture of offended innocence. 'A blank shield, my Queen! A soldier of fortune, no more!'

'"No more," ' Catharine mimicked, malice in her eyes. 'What is your profession, Rod Gallowglass?'

Rod scowled, beginning to feel like the rodent half of a game of catand-mouse. 'A soldier, my Queen.'

'That is your avocation,' she said, 'your pleasure and your game. Tell me now your profession.'

The woman was A) uncanny; and B) a bitch, Rod decided. Trouble was, she was a beautiful bitch, and Rod had a weakness.

His brain raced; he discarded several lies and chose the most obvious and least plausible.

'My profession is the preserving of your Majesty's life.'

'Indeed!' Catharine mocked him with her eyes. 'And who hath trained you to that profession? Who is so loyal to me that he would send you?'

Suddenly, Rod saw through the mocking and the belligerence. It was all a mask, a shield; behind it lay a very frightened, very lonely little girl, one who wanted someone to trust, craved someone to trust. But there had been too many betrayals; she couldn't let herself trust any more.

He looked into her eyes, giving her his gentlest, most sincere gaze, and said in-his best couch-side manner, 'I call no man master, my Queen. It is myself who has sent me, out of love for Catharine the Queen and loyalty to the nation of Gramarye.'

Something desperate flickered in her eyes; her hands clutched at the chair arms. 'Love,' she murmured.

Then the mockery was back in her eyes. 'Yes, love - for Catharine the Queen.'

She looked away, into the fire. 'Be that as it may. But I think you are in most comely truth a friend - though why I believe that, I cannot say.'

'Oh, you may be sure that I am!' Rod smiled. 'You knew that I was at the House of Clovis, though you couldn't say how, and you were right about that.'

'Be still!' she snapped. Then slowly her eyes lifted to his. 'And what affairs took you to the House Of Clovis this night?'

Was she a mind reader, maybe?

Rod scratched along his jaw; the bone-conduction microphone would pick up the sound.

'There's some confusion Fesstering in my mind,' he said. 'How did you know I was at the House of Clovis?'

'Here, Rod,' a voice murmured behind his ear.

Catharine gave him a look that fairly dripped with contempt. 'Why, I knew you spoke with Tuan Loguire. Then where could you be but the House of Clovis?'

Very neat - only how had she known he was with Tuan... Loguire?

Loguire!

Rod stared. 'Excuse me, but-uh-did you say Tuan Loguire?'

Catharine frowned.

'I thought his name was, uh - McReady.'

Catharine almost laughed. 'Oh, nay! He is the second son of Milord Loguire! Did you not know?'

Second son! Then Tuan was himself the man he had been condemning for a fool!

And his big brother was the man who had 'an ancient grievance 'gainst the Queen,' and was a major threat to the throne.

'No,' said Rod, 'I did not know.'

Fess's voice murmured, 'Data indicate existence of excellent intelligence system.'

Rod groaned mentally. Robots were a great help!

He pursed his tips, staring at Catharine. 'You say you have no spies in the House of Clovis,' he said, 'and if I assume that you speak the truth, then that means...'

He left the sentence hanging; Fess would fill in the blank. There was a moment of silence; then a loud hum behind Rod's ear, ended in a sharp click.

Rod cursed mentally. If Catharine had ho spies, she logically couldn't have known what she did know. He'd given Fess another paradox, and the robot's circuits had overloaded. Epileptic robots could be very inconvenient.

Catharine glared at him. 'Of a certainty, I speak truth!'

'Oh, I never doubted!' Rod held up a hand. 'But you are a ruler, and you were reared to it; one -of the first lessons you must have learned was lying with a straight face.'

Catharine's face froze; then, slowly, she bent her head, looking down at her hands. When she looked up, her face was drawn; the mask had been stripped away, and her eyes were haunted. 'Once again, my knowledge was true,' she murmured. 'You know more than soldiering, Rod Gallowglass.'

Rod nodded heavily. He'd made another slip; blank-shield soldiers don't know politics.

'Then tell me,' she murmured, 'how you came to the House of Clovis, this night.'

'My Queen,' Rod said gravely, 'one man was set upon by three, in an alley. I helped him out; he took me to the House of Clovis to tell me his thanks with a glass of wine. That is how I came to meet Tuan Loguire.'

Her brows drew together in an anxious little frown. 'If I might but credit your words with truth,' she murmured.

She rose and went to the fireplace. All at once, her shoulders slumped, her head bowed forward. 'I shall need all my friends in this hour that comes upon us,' she murmured, voice husky, 'and I think thou art the truest of my friends, though I cannot say why.'

She raised her head to look at him, and he saw with a shock that her eyes swam with tears. 'There are still some to guard me,' she said, her voice so low he could scarcely hear; but her eyes shone through the tears, and an invisible hand tightened around Rod's chest. His throat tightened, too; his eyes were burning.

She turned away, biting her clenched fist. After a moment, she spoke again, her voice trembling. 'The time shall come soon when each of the Great Lords shall declare himself for or against me; and I think they will be few who ride to my standard.'

She turned, came toward him again, eyes alight and a shy, trembling smile on her lips. Rod rose to meet her, staring, fascinated, heart pounding in his ears.

She stopped just before him, one hand touching the locket at her throat again, and whispered, 'Will you stand by my side in that day, Rod Gallowglass?'

Rod nodded awkwardly and garbled out something affirmative. At that particular moment, his answer would probably have been the same if she'd requested his soul.

Then, suddenly, she was in his arms, lithe and squirming, and her lips were moist and full on his own.

Some timeless while later, she lowered her head and moved reluctantly away, holding to his arms as if to steady herself. 'Nay, but I am a weak woman," she murmured, exultant. 'Go now, Rod Gallowglass, with the thanks of a queen.'

She said something else, but Rod didn't quite follow it; and, somehow, he was on the other side of the door, walking down a wide, cold, torchlit corridor.

He stopped, shook himself, made a brave try at collecting his wits, and went on down the hall with a step that was none too firm. Whatever else you might think of her political abilities, the gal sure knew how to bind a man to her service....

He stumbled and caught himself; his stumbling block shoved a hand against his hip to steady him.

'Nay, mind thy great feet,' grumbled Brom O'Berin, 'ere thou trip headlong and foul the paving.'

The dwarf studied Rod's eyes anxiously; he found whatever he was looking for someplace between iris and cornea, and nodded, satisfied. He reached up to grab Rod's sleeve and turned away, guiding him down the hall.

'What had you from Catharine, Rod Gallowglass?'

'Had from her?' Rod frowned, eyes unfocused. 'Well, she took my pledge of loyalty...'

Ah!' Brom nodded, as though in commiseration. 'What more could you ask, Rod Gallowglass?'

Rod gave his head a quick shake, eyes opening wide. What the hell more could he ask, anyway? What in heaven's name had he expected? And what, in the seventh smile of Cerebus, was he getting moon-eyed for?

His jaw tightened, sullen anger rising in him. This bitch was nothing to him - just a pawn in the Great Game, a tool that might be used to establish a democracy. And what the hell was he getting angry about? He had no right to that, either.

Hell! He needed a little objective analysis! 'Fess!' He meant it as a mutter, but it came out as a shout. Brom O'Berin scowled up at him.

'What is a fess?'

'An unreliable gear train with a slipped cam,' Rod improvised. Where the hell was that damn robot, anyway?