The Warlock in Spite of Himself - Warlock 01 (16 page)

He held up the silver horn and said, 'I conFess, with apologies to your Majesty, that I cannot analyze my actions; it is only that I fear for your Majesty's life.'

But all Catharine's anger had vanished in fascination at Rod's action.

'What,' she said, pointing to the silver horn, 'is that?'

'Unicorn's horn,' Rod answered, and looked up to see Durer's eyes, burning with rage at him.

'Analysis complete,' murmured the voice behind his ear. 'Substance poisonous to human metabolism.'

Rod smiled grimly and pressed the knob at the apex of the horn with his little finger.

The 'unicorn's horn' turned purple.

A gasp of horror went up from the whole court; for they all knew the legend, that a unicorn's horn will turn purple if poison is placed in it.

Catharine turned pale; she clenched her fists to conceal their trembling.

Loguire's hand balled into a huge fist; his eyes narrowed as he glared at Durer. 'Slight man, if any part of this treachery was yours...

'Milord, you saw.' Durer's voice crackled. 'I but held the cup.'

But his burning eyes were fixed on Rod's, seeming to suggest that Rod could save himself a lot of trouble and agony if he would just drink the wine right there and then.

Rod was assigned as one of the four guards who would escort Catharine from her apartments to the Great Hall for the General Court. The four of them waited outside her chambers till the door opened, and Brom O'Berin stepped out, preceding the Queen. Two soldiers fell in before the Queen and behind Brom; Rod and another Guardsman fell in behind her. They moved down the corridor slowly, matching their pace to Catharine's; and the Queen, draped in a heavy fur cloak and weighed down by the great gold crown, moved very slowly. Somehow, she contrived to look stately rather than clumsy.

As they drew near the Great Hall, a slight, emaciated, velvet-clad figure came scurrying up - Durer.

'Your pardon,' he said, bowing three times, 'but I must speak with your Majesty.' His lips were pressed tight, anger in his eyes. Catharine stopped and drew herself up to her haughtiest. Chip on her shoulder as large as a two-by-jour, Rod thought. 'Speak, then,' she said, looking down her nose at the cringing little man before her; 'but speak quickly, sirrah.'

Durer's eyes flared at the word of contempt; 'sirrah' was a term reserved for peasants.

He managed to keep his manner respectful, though. 'Your Majesty, I beg you to brook no delay in hearing the Great Lords' petition, for they are most greatly overwrought.'

Catharine frowned. 'Why should I delay?'

Durer bit his lips, looking away.

Catharine's eyes kindled in anger. 'Speak, sirrah,' she snapped. 'Or do you mean to imply that the Queen fears to hear her noblemen?'

'Your Majesty . . .' Durer spoke with great reluctance; then the words came in a rush. 'I had heard there were two peasants to be heard in Court today...'

'There are.' Catharine's mouth hardened. ''Tis the case you recommended to me, Durer.'

The little man's eye shot a malevolent gleam at her; then he was all fawning humility again. 'I had thought.. . I had heard ...I had feared...'

'What hast thou feared?'

'Your Majesty bath been most concerned for your peasants of late. . . .' Durer hesitated, then stumbled on. 'I had feared. -. that your Majesty might . . . perhaps ..

Catharine's eyes hardened. 'That I might bear these two peasants before I gave ear to the petitions of my noblemen?'

'Your Majesty must not!' Durer dropped to his knees, hands clasped in supplication. 'Thou must not risk offense of the Great Lords today!

Fear for thy very life if thou-'

'Sirrah, do you call me coward?'

Rod closed his eyes; his heart sank.

'Your Majesty,' cried Durer, 'I meant but to-'

'Enough!' Catharine turned away, spurning the meager form of the councillor. Brom O'Berin and the Guardsmen moved with her. The great oaken doors swung open before them.

Rod risked a glance back over his shoulder.

Durer's face was contorted with malevolent glee; his eyes glittered with triumph.

The best way to get a teenager to do something is to tell her not to... Brom led the Queen's entourage into a great vaulted room, lighted by a row of clerestory windows on each side. Fifty feet above, the roof-beam ran through the hall like a spine, with oaken ribs running down to the granite walls. Two great wrought-iron chandeliers hung from the ceiling, with candles burning in the sconces.

They had come in onto a raised dais, ten feet above the floor of the hall. A huge gilded throne rose before them.

Brom led them in a swing around the lip of the dais to the throne. There the Guardsmen lined up on either side, and Catharine mounted the last half-step to stand slender and proud before the throne, gazing out over the multitude gathered below.

The multitude looked like a sampling of the population. They filled the great hall, from the steps of the dais to the triple doors at the far end of the hall.

In the first rank were the twelve great nobles, seated in wooden hourglass-shaped chairs in a semicircle twelve feet out from the steps of the throne.

Behind them stood forty or fifty aging men in brown, gray, or dark green robes with velvet collars and small, square, felt hats. Chains of silver or gold hung down over their ample bellies. Burghers, Rod guessed - local officials, merchants, guildmasters - the bourgeoisie. Beyond them were the black, cowled robes of the clergy and beyond them were the dun-colored, patched clothing of the peasantry, most of whom, Rod felt moderately certain, had been sent up from the castle kitchen so that the Great Court would have representatives of all classes. But in the center of the peasants stood four soldiers in green and gold

- the Queen's colors - and between them stood two peasants, one young and one old, both looking awed and scared almost to the point of panic, caps twisting in their horny hands. The oldster had a long, grizzled beard; the youngster was clean-shaven. Both wore dun-colored smocks of coarse cloth; more of the same material was bound to their legs, to serve as trousers. A priest stood by them, looking almost as much out of place as they did.

All eyes were on the Queen. Catharine was very much aware of it; she stood a little taller, and held her pose until the hall was completely quiet. Then she sat, slowly, and Brom sank cross-legged at her feet. Pike-butts thudded on stone as Rod and the other three Guardsmen stood to rest, pikes slanting outward at twenty degrees. Brom's voice boomed out over the hall. 'Who comes before the Queen this day?'

A herald stepped forward with a roll of parchment and read off a list of twenty petitions. The first was that of the twelve noblemen; the last was Durer's two peasants.

Catharine's hands tightened on the arms of the throne. She spoke in a high, clear voice. 'Our Lord hath said that the humble shall be exalted, the last shall be first; therefore let us first hear the testimony of these two peasants.'

There was a moment's shocked silence; old Lord Loguire was on his feet bellowing.

'Testimony! Have you such great need of their testimony that you must set these clods of earth before the highest of your nobles?'

'My lord,' Catharine snapped, 'you forget your place in my court.'

'Nay, it is you who forget! You who forget respect and tradition, and all the law that you learned at your father's knee!'

The old lord drew himself up, glaring. 'Never,' he rumbled, 'would the old king have disgraced his liegemen so!'

'Open thine eyes, old man!' Catharine's voice was chill and arrogant.

'I would my father still lived; but he is dead, and I reign now.'

'Reign!' Loguire's lips twisted in a sour grimace. ''Tis not a reign, but a tyranny!'

The hail fell silent, shocked. Then a whisper began and grew:

'Treason! Treasontreasontreason Treason!'

Brom O'Berin rose, trembling. 'Now, Milord Loguire, must thou kneel and ask pardon of milady the Queen, or be adjudged forever a traitor to the throne.'

Loguire's face turned to stone, he drew himself up, back straightening, chin lifting; but before he could answer, Catharine spoke in a tight, quavering voice.

'There shall be no forgiveness asked, nor none given. Thou, Milord Loguire, in consideration of insults offered our Royal Person, art henceforth banished from our Court and Presence, to come near us nevermore.'

Slowly, the old Duke's eyes met the Queen's. 'How then, child,' he murmured, and Rod saw with a shock that there were tears in the corners of the old man's eyes. 'Child, wilt thou serve the father as thou hast served the son?'

Catharine's face went dead white; she half rose from her throne.

'Hie thee from this place, Milord Loguire!' Brom's voice shook with rage. 'Hie thee from this place, or I shall hound thee hence!'

The Duke's gaze slowly lowered to Brom. 'Hound me? Aye, for thou art most surely our gentle Queen's watchdog!' He raised his eyes to Catharine again. 'Lady, lady! I had hoped to grace thee with a greyhound ere I died.'

Catharine sat down again, drawing herself up proudly. 'I have a mastiff, milord; and let my enemies beware!'

The old man nodded slowly, his grieving eyes never leaving her face.

'Thou wilt, then, call me enemy ...'

Catharine tilted her chin a little higher.

Loguire's eyes hardened; the grief was swept from his face by cold pride.

He spun on his heel, stalking down the length of the great hall. A lane through the crowd opened before him. The Guardsmen at either side of the great central door snapped to attention and threw the portals open. The Duke stopped short under the lintel and pivoted to look back over the throng at Catharine. His heavy old voice filled the hall one last time.

And his voice was somehow gentle, almost kindly.

'Yet take this of me, Catharine, whom once I called my niece - you shalt not fear the armies of Loguire while I live.'

He stood motionless a moment, holding Catharine's eyes. Then he swung about, cape swirling, and was gone. The court was silent for the space of three breaths; then, as a man, the eleven remaining Great Lords rose and filed down the lane to the great central door, and followed Loguire into exile.

'So how did she decide the case of the two peasants?' Fess asked. Rod was riding the robot horse on the slope outside the castle, 'for exercise,' or so he had told the stableboy. Actually, he needed Fess's advice as to What It All Meant.

'Oh,' he answered, 'she upheld the parish priest's decision: the fitting punishment for the kid was marriage. The old man didn't like that too well, but Catharine had an ace up her sleeve - the kid would have to support his father-in-law in his old age. The old man grinned at that, and the kid walked out looking like he wasn't quite so sure he'd come out on top after all.'

'An excellent decision,' Fess murmured. 'Perhaps the young lady should seek a career in jurisprudence.'

'Anything, so long as it keeps her out of politics... . Glorious sunsets on this planet.'

They were riding into the setting sun; the dying globe painted the sky russet and gold halfway around the horizon and nearly to the zenith.

'Yes,' the robot supplied, 'the excellence of the sunsets is due to the density of the atmosphere, which is nearly one point five Terranormal. At this latitude, however, due to the inclination of the planet's axis, which is-'

'Yes, yes, I wrote it all down in the logbook when we landed. Have the grace to let it rest in peace. . . . I notice the sun's rays turn almost blood-red . .

'Appropriate,' Fess murmured.

'Hmm, yes. That brings us back to the point, doesn't it? What's this about another assassination coming up?'

'Not an assassination, Rod - an attempt.'

'All right, an attempt. Pardon my denotations, and get on with it.'

Fess paused a moment to set up the readout for a prefabricated report.

'The political situation an the island of Gramarye is comprised of three definite factions, one Royalist and two Anti-Royalist. The Royalist faction consists of the Queen, her chief councillor - one Brom O'Berin - the clergy, the Royal Army, the Queen's Bodyguard, and a group of espers known by the local term "witches".'

'How about the judges?'

'As I was about to say, the civil servants may also be included in the Royalist faction, with the exception of those officials whose corruption leaves them opposed to the Queen's reforms.'

'Hmm, yes. I'd forgotten that hitch. Anybody else on the Plantagenet side?'

'Yes, a subspecies of Homo sapiens characterized by extreme dwarfism and referred to by the local term "elves".'

'Well, they sure don't seem to be against her, anyway,' Rod murmured.

'The Anti-Royalist factions are significantly not united by their common opposition to the Throne. The first of these factions is the aristocracy, led by twelve dukes and earls, who are in turn led by the Duke Loguire. It is worth noting that the aristocrats are unanimous in their opposition to the Queen. Such unanimity among the aristocrats of a feudal culture is totally without precedent, and must therefore be regarded as an anomaly.'

'And just where did this strange united front come from?'

'The unanimity may be attributed to the presence of a group termed the councillors, each member of which serves in an advisory capacity to one of the twelve great lords. The physical coherence of this group indicates-'

Rod jerked his head around, staring at the robot horse's ears. 'How's that again?'

'Each of the councillors is physically characterized by a stooped posture, extreme leanness, sparse cranial hair, pale skin, and a general appearance of advanced age.'

Rod pursed his lips. 'Ve-ry interesting! I hadn't caught any significance in that.'

'Such a physical appearance is characteristic of an extremely advanced technological society, in which the problems of longevity, metabolic adjustment, and exposure to ultraviolet have been controlled.'

'Modern medicine and a barroom pallor.' Rod nodded. 'But how do you account for the hunched-over posture?'

'We may assume that is a part of the obsequious manner employed by this group. The extremeness of this behavior would seem to indicate that it is not natural to the men in question.'