The Warlock in Spite of Himself - Warlock 01 (17 page)

'Finagle's Law of Reversal.' Rod nodded. 'Go on.'

'The goal of the Royalist faction is to increase the power of the central authority. The goal of the councillors seems to be the elimination of the central authority, which will result in that form of political organization known as warlordism.'

'Which,' said Rod, 'is a kind of anarchy.'

'Precisely; and we must therefore entertain the possibility that the councillors may pursue the pattern of political breakdown from warlordism through parochialism to the possible goal of total anarchy.'

'And that's why they're out to kill Catharine.'

'An accurate observation; any chance to eliminate the central authority will be taken.'

'Which means she's in danger. Let's get back to the castle.'

He pulled on the reins, but Fess refused to turn. 'She is not in danger, Rod, not yet. The mythos of this culture requires that preliminary to a death, an apparition known as a banshee must be seen on the roof of the dwelling. And the banshee cannot appear until nightfall.'

Rod looked up at the sky. It was twilight; there was still some of the sunset's glow around the horizon.

'All right, Fess. You've got fifteen minutes, maybe a half-hour.'

'The evidence of the councillors' origin in a high-technology society,'

the robot droned on, 'indicates that the group derives from off-planet, since the only culture on the planet is that of Catharine's realm, which is characterized by a medieval technology. The other AntiRoyalist faction also bears indications of off-planet origin.'

'I think I've heard that before,' Rod mused. 'Run through it again, will you?'

'Certainly. The second Anti-Royalist faction is known as the House of Clovis, a name deriving from the supposedly elective process of choosing ancient kings. The rank and file of the House of Clovis consists of beggars, thieves, and other criminals and outcasts. The titular leader is a banished nobleman, Tuan Loguire.'

'Hold it a moment,' said Rod. 'Titular leader?'

'Yes,' said Fess. 'The superficial structure of the House of Clovis would seem to verge on the mob; but further analysis discloses a tightly-knit sub-organization, one function of which is the procurement of nourishment and clothing for the members of the House.'

'But that's what Tuan's doing!'

'Is it? Who supplies the necessities of life at the House of - Clovis, Rod?'

'Well, Tuan gives the money to the innkeeper, that twisted little monkey they call the Mocker.'

'Precisely.'

'So you're saying,' Rod said slowly, 'that the Mocker is using Tuan as a fund-raiser and figurehead, while the Mocker is the real boss.'

'That,' said Fess, 'is what the data would seem to indicate. What is the Mocker's physical appearance, Rod?'

'Repulsive.'

'And how did he earn his nickname of "the Mocker"?'

'Well, he's supposed to be a sort of Man of a Thousand'

'But what is his basic physical appearance, Rod?'

'Uh. . .' Rod threw his head back, eyes shut, visualizing the Mocker.

'I'd say about five foot ten, hunched over all the time like he had curvature of the spine, slight build - very slight, looks like he eats maybe two hundred calories a day - not much hair -...' His eyes snapped open. 'Hey! He looks like one of the councillors!'

'And is therefore presumably from a high-technology society,' Fess agreed, 'and therefore also from off-planet. This contention is reinforced by his political philosophy, as indicated in Tuan Loguire's speeches to the rabble....'

'So Tuan is also the mouthpiece,' Rod mused. 'But of course; he never could have thought up proletarian totalitarianism by himself.'

'It is also worth noting that the Mocker is the only member of the House of Clovis of this particular type.'

'Ye-e-e-s!' Rod nodded, rubbing his chin. 'He's playing a lone game. All his staff are locals trained to back him up.'

'His long-range goal,' said Fess, 'may be assumed to be the establishment of a dictatorship. Consequently, he would wish someone on the throne whom he could control.'

'Tuan.'

'Precisely. But he must first eliminate Catharine.'

'So the councillors and House of Clovis are both out for Catharine's blood.'

'True; yet there is no indication that they have joined forces. If anything, they would seem to be mutually opposed.'

'Duplication of effort - very inefficient. But, Fess, what're they doing here?'

'We may assume that they derive from two opposed societies, both of which wish to control some commodity which may be found on Gramarye.'

Rod frowned. 'I haven't heard of any rare minerals around-about'

'I had in mind human resources, Rod.'

Rod's eyes widened. 'The espers! Of course! They're here because of the witches!'

'Or the elves,' Fess reminded.

Rod frowned. 'What would they want with the elves?'

'I have no hypothesis available; yet the logical possibility must be entertained.'

Rod snorted. 'All right, you stick with the logical possibility, and I'll stand by the witches. Anyone who could corner the market on telepaths could control the galaxy. Hey!' He stared, appalled. 'They probably could control the galaxy.'

'The stakes,' Fess murmured. 'are high.'

'I'll have mine . . .,' Rod began; but he was cut off by a ululating, soaring wail that grated like nails on glass.

Fess swung about Rod looked back at the castle.

- A dim shape glowed on the battlements, just below the east tower, like a fox-fire or a will-o'-the wisp. It must have been huge; Rod could make out detail even at this distance. It was dressed in the rags and tatters of a shroud, through which Rod could see the body of a voluptuous woman; but the head was a rabbit's, and the muzzle held pointed teeth.

The banshee began to wail again, a low moan that rose to a keening cry, then stabbed up the scale to a shriek, a shriek that held, and held and held till Rod's ears were ready to break.

'Fess,' he gasped, 'what do you see?'

'A banshee, Rod.'

Rod rode down, ran into, through and over five pairs of sentries en route to the Queen's chambers. But there, at her doors, he met an insurmountable roadblock about two feet high

- Brom O'Berin, standing with feet set wide and arms akimbo.

'Thou hast been long in coming,' the little man growled. His face was beet-red with anger, but fear haunted the back of his eyes.

'I came as fast as I could,' Rod panted. 'Is she in danger?'

Brom grunted. 'Aye, in danger, though there is as yet no sign of it. Thou must stand watch at her bedside this night, warlock.'

Rod stiffened. 'I,' he said, 'am not a warlock. I am a simple soldierof-fortune who happens to know a little science. Brom tossed his head impatiently. 'This is a poor time to reason, thou hast still warlock's powers. But we waste time.'

He rapped back-handed on the door; it swung in, and a sentry stepped out. He saluted and stood aside.

Brom bowed Rod into the room. 'After you, Master Gallowglass.'

Rod smiled grimly and went through the door. 'Still don't trust me behind your back, eh?'

'Nearly,' said Brom.

'That's what I said.'

The sentry entered behind them and closed the door. The room was large, with four shuttered slit windows on one side. The floor was covered with fur rugs; the walls were hung with silk, velvet, and tapestries. A fire crackled on a small hearth. Catharine sat in a huge four-poster bed, covered to the waist with quilts and furs. Her unbound hair flowed down over the shoulders of a velvet, ermine-trimmed dressing gown. She was surrounded by a gaggle of ladies-in-waiting, several serving girls, and two pages. Rod knelt at her bedside. 'Your Majesty's pardon for my tardiness!'

She gave him a frosty glance. 'I had not known you were called.' She turned away.

Rod frowned, looked her over.

She sat back against eight or ten fluffy satin pillows; her eyelids drooped in languid pleasure; there was a half-smile on her lips. She was enjoying the one spot of real luxury in her day. She might be in mortal danger, but she sure didn't know about it. Brom had been keeping secrets again.

She held out a hand to one of her ladies; the woman gave her a steaming goblet of wine. Catharine brought it to her lips with a graceful flourish.

'Whoa." Rod jumped to his feet, intercepted the goblet on its way to her lips, and plucked it away with his left hand while his right brought out his 'unicorn's horn'.

Catharine stared, amazed; then her eyes narrowed, her face reddened.

'Sirrah, what means this?'

But Rod was staring at the 'unicorn's horn' dagger-sheath; Fess's voice spoke behind his ear: 'Substance with the analysis unit is toxic to human metabolism.'

But Rod hadn't poured the wine into the horn yet. There was nothing in it.

Except air.

Rod pressed the stud that turned the horn purple. Catharine stared in horror as the violet flush crept over the surface of the dagger-sheath.

'Sirrah,' she gasped, 'what means this?'

'Poison air,' Rod snapped. He shoved the goblet at a servant girl and looked about the room. Something in here was emitting poison gas. The fireplace.

Rod crossed to the hearth and held the horn upside-down over the flames; but the color of the sheath dimmed to lavender.

'Not there.' Rod spun about, coming to his feet. He paced about the room, holding the horn before him like a candle. It stayed lavender. He frowned, scratched at the base of his skull. What would be the best place to put a poison-gas cartridge?

As close to the Queen as possible, of course.

He turned, moving slowly to the four-poster. As he came to Catharine's side, the horn's color darkened to violet.

Catharine stared at the horn in fascination and horror. Rod knelt, slowly. The horn's colour darkened to purple and began to shade toward black.

Rod threw up the bedskirts and looked under the four-poster. There before him, on the stone floor, steamed a warming-pan. Rod grabbed the long handle and yanked the pan out. He inverted the horn over one of the holes in the cover - if his memory was correct, warming-pans didn't usually have holes....

The horn turned dead black.

He looked up at Catharine. She had the knuckles of one hand jammed between her teeth, biting them to keep from screaming. Rod turned, holding the pan out to the sentry. 'Take this,' he said,

'and fling it into the moat.'

The sentry dropped his pike, took the warming-pan, and rushed out, holding it at arm's length.

Rod turned slowly back to Catharine. 'We have cheated the banshee again, my Queen.'

Catharine's hand trembled as she took it away from her mouth. Then her lips clamped shut, her eyes squeezed tight, little fists clenched so bard the knuckles were white.

Then her eyes opened, slowly; there was a wild light in them, and a faint smile crept over her lips. 'Master Gallowglass, stay by me. All else, remove yourselves!'

Rod swallowed and felt his joints liquefy. She was, at that moment, the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

The Guardsmen, ladies, and pages were already in motion, heading for an incipient traffic jam at the door.

Brom bawled orders, and the jam failed to develop. In thirty seconds, the room was clear, except for Rod, the Queen, and Brom O'Berin.

'Brom,' Catharine snapped, eyes locked on Rod's face. Her teeth were beginning to show through her smile. 'Brom O'Berin, do you leave us also.'

Brom stared a moment, outraged; then his shoulders slumped, and he bowed heavily. 'I will, my Queen.'

The door closed quietly behind him.

Slowly, Catharine lay back against the pillows. She stretched with a luxurious, liquid grace. One hand snaked out to clasp Rod's. Her hand was very soft.

'It is twice now you have given me my life, Master Gallowglass.' Her voice was a velvet purr.

'My - my privilege, my Queen.' Rod cursed himself, he was gawking like an adolescent with a copy of Fanny Hill.

Catharine frowned prettily, tucking her chin in and touching a forefinger to her lips.

Then she smiled, rolled over onto her side. The velvet gown fell open. Apparently it was the custom to sleep nude.

Remember, boy, Rod told himself, you're just a traveling salesman. You'll wake up in the morning and be on your way. You're here to peddle democracy, not to court a Queen. Not here to take advantage of her if you're not going to be here to take advantage of it... . Did that make sense?

Catharine was toying with a pendant that hung from her neck. Her teeth were worrying her lower lip. She looked him over like a cat sizing up a canary.

'Blank-shield soldiers,' she murmured, 'have a certain repute...'

Her lips were moist, and very full.

Rod felt his lips moving, heard his own voice stammering, 'As - as my Queen seeks to reform the ills of her land, I.. . hope to reform the reputation of soldiers. I would do ... only good to your Majesty.'

For a moment, it seemed Catharine's very blood must have stopped, so still she lay.

Then her eyes hardened, and the silence in the room stretched very, very thin.

She sat up. gathering her dressing gown about her. 'Thou art much to be commended, Master Gallowglass. I am indeed fortunate to have such loyal servitors about me.'

It was much to her credit, under the circumstances, Rod thought, that there was only a faint tone of mockery to her voice. Her eyes met his again. 'Accept the Queen's thanks for the saving of her life.'

Rod dropped to one knee.

'I am indeed fortunate,' Catharine went on, 'to be so loyally served. You have given me my life; and I think that few soldiers would have given me safe deliverance, as you have done.'

Rod flinched.

She smiled, her eyes glittering malice and satisfaction for just a moment.

Then her eyes dropped to her hands. 'Leave me now, for I shall have a trying day tomorrow, and must make good use of the night, for sleeping.'

'As the Queen wishes,' Rod answered, poker-faced. He rose and turned away, his belly boiling with anger - at himself. It wasn't her fault he was a fool.

He closed the door behind him, then spun and slammed his fist against the rough stone of the entryway wall. The nerves in his fist screamed agony.