The Warlock in Spite of Himself - Warlock 01 (32 page)

'Oh, aye! A most excellent villain is that! He will bow him most humbly before you, while his henchman is slitting your purse - and thus hath he served me!'

Rod pursed his lips. 'He's the one who gave you the idea for organizing the beggars?'

'Aye.' Tuan nodded heavily. 'I had first thought only to provide them relief from hunger and chill; but his word in my ear made me think of an army, for defense of the Queen. And I had seen and heard in the South that which led me to think such an army might well be needed.'

The old Duke made a choking sound.

'Pardon, my father,' said Tuan, bowing his head, 'but I knew even thou couldst not check them forever. But I had not thought' - and his voice hardened - ''twould be treason from Anselm.'

Rod twisted, feeling decidedly uncomfortable. 'Well, as I said, you shouldn't blame him too much. After all, he did try to keep Durer from killing your father.'

He stretched his legs and crossed them. 'So when the Mocker learned that the South was up in arms, he decided it was time to assert his rightful authority and overthrow the Queen. Right?'

'Aye.' Tuan's lips tightened as though he had his first taste of straight vermouth. 'When I spoke against, saying that 'twas our time to defend the Queen, he called me traitor, and' - he frowned, words coming very hard - 'one of the beggars would ha' slain me. But the Mocker would not hear of it; no, he threw me here without -food or fire.'

He looked up at Rod frowning. 'Which is most truly strange, Rod Gallowglass. Would not you ha' thought he would ha' killed me himself?'

'No.' Rod closed his eyes, shaking his head. 'He needs somebody to be figurehead king after they've pulled down Catharine.'

'Nay, not a king,' Tuan said, brooding. 'He cries that we shall ne'er have a king more, but only a sort of chieftain, raised by acclaim of the people.'

"'A sort of chieftain."' Rod scowled. 'What name does he call this chieftain by?'

'Dictator.' Tuan chewed at the inside of his cheek. 'A most strange title. There shall be no nobles or king, only the dictator. In all truth, most strange.'

Rod's mouth tightened with sourness. 'Not so strange as all that. But you don't mean to say the beggars think they can take the castle?'

'Nay, but it is known that the South is in arms, and Catharine was never one to be waiting till the battle was brought to her.'

'Oh.' Rod chewed that one over. 'You mean the Mocker's pretty sure she'll march south to meet them?'

'Most assuredly. And the Mocker will march south behind her.'

Rod nodded. 'So when the armies join battle, the beggars will attack the royal forces from the rear.'

'Ever their way,' rumbled Loguire.

Tuan nodded agreement. 'And caught between two forces, her armies will last scarce half an hour.'

'And what does the Mocker propose to do about the councillors and noblemen after the battle's over? Durer means to make your brother king.'

'So it would seem,' Tuan agreed, 'but the Mocker hath an answer to that, and to all the noblemen.'

'Oh?' Rod raised an eyebrow.

'Aye. 'Tis a tube of metal fitted into a crossbow stock, nothing more; but it throws a ball of lead which can pierce the stoutest armor.'

'And he means to put one of these into the hands of every man in the army?'

'Oh, nay.' Tuan frowned. 'He hath but the five of them, one for himself, one for each of his three lieutenants, and one for his fourth lieutenant.' Tuan jerked his head toward Tom's recumbent mountain form.

'But that one hath lately fallen into disfavor. He assures us the five tubes shall answer for the full force of noblemen and councillors.'

But Rod was staring at Tom. 'Big Tom?' He gulped. 'A lieutenant?'

'Aye.' Tuan frowned. 'Did you not know he was of Clovis?'

Tom opened one hound's eye and looked back at Rod. Rod looked away, cleared his throat, and pursed his lips. 'Well, ah, that does explain a few things.'

He switched his eyes back to Tom. 'So you're part of the Inner Circle?'

Big Tom smiled sourly and held up one lumber forearm. The chain clashed and rattled. 'Was,' he said.

'He stood against them,' rumbled Loguire, 'stood against his fellows and this - how do you name him? The Mocker - stood against the Mocker and his three jackals when they commanded I be 'prisoned with my son.

"Nay," quoth your man Tom, "I must needs take him back to my master, where he will be aid to your plans." "The plans are changed," quoth they, and would not hear of enlarging me; and then your man Tom, here, fought cheek by jowl at my side, and accounted for a most goodly number of them.' This last was said in a tone of surprised respect. Tom grinned, and Rod saw with a shock that one tooth was missing from the big man's smile. 'Thou art braw brawler tha'self,' Tom chuckled. 'I ha' not thought gentlemen could fight so well without armor or sword.'

Rod peered into the shadows at Tom's end of the room and saw that the big man's eye was swollen and purple; also, there was a slash with a new scab across one lumpy cheek.

He sat back, smiling on one side of his face. 'How many heads did you bash in, Big Tom?'

'Scarce a round score,' Tom replied with disgust. 'I had but this one stalwart gentleman to guard my back, and there were too many for us.'

Rod grinned, wondering if Loguire knew just how deeply he had been complimented.

He stretched, yawned. 'Well, that pretty well brings us up to date. Anybody got a poker deck?'

The two Loguires frowned, puzzled; but a flicker of recognition passed in Big Tom's eyes.

Rod smiled sourly at the big peasant, and Tom's face turned wooden. He stared back at Rod.

'Oh, come on now, Tom!' Rod snapped. 'Your secret's official knowledge now. No more point to playing games, is there?'

Tom glowered at him; then slowly, his face livened again, to a brooding, meditative look.

He leaned back against the wall, half closing his eyes. 'Aye, tha hast the right of it, as when hast thou not?'

With a sinking feeling, Rod began to realize that Big Tom saw him as more than just an employer, or a piece in the game.

'My lot is cast with thee now,' said Tom, 'whether I would have it or no; so wherefore should I dissemble?'

'Dissemble?' Rod cocked an eyebrow at his serving man. 'Pretty highfalutin' vocabulary for a simple peasant, Big Tom.'

Tom waved a hand impatiently. 'Be done with your games! I am unmasked; do me the courtesy to take off your own.'

Rod froze.

Then, slowly, he smiled. 'You're quicker than the average ursine, Big Tom. How long have you known?'

The Loguires stared, totally lost.

Big Tom gave a short bark of laughter. 'Why, master, since first you used judo on me!'

'Ah.' Rod's eyebrows lifted. 'From the first, then? So that's why you wangled the barman job.'

Tom smiled lazily.

'Under orders?'

Tom nodded.

Rod lowered his eyes, studying the chain on his wrist.

'What are you, master?'

'A warlock.' Rod winced inside; but it was the best answer under the circumstances.

Big Tom spat. 'Games, master, games! 'Twas yourself said to be done with 'em! You are not of the councillors, else you would not ha' stolen the Lord Loguire away from them; and you are not of the House, or I would ha' known you of old. What are you, then?'

'A warlock,' Rod repeated. 'A new player in the game, Big Tom, and one who stands squarely behind the Queen. X, the unknown factor in the councillors' and Clovis' equations, here by pure happenstance and coincidence.'

'Warruh!' Big, Tom spat again. 'I ha' small faith in happenstance, master. I ha' known that you back the Queen; may I ask who stands behind you?'

'Strange manner of talk,' growled Loguire, angering, 'for a footman to his lord.'

Rod smiled bleakly. 'A most strange footman, my lord.'

'Aye, and a most strange lord,' Tom snarled. 'Who backs you, Rod Gallowglass?'

Rod studied the big man, then shrugged. The word would mean nothing to the Loguires, and Tom was on his side now anyway.

'SCENT,' he answered.

Tom stared; then, almost whispering, he said, 'I ha' thought the last of them were dead.' He swallowed, bit his lip. 'Eh, but tha'rt alive. Tha might be a ghost, but nay; tha'rt alive, or the witch would scarce be so fond of thee. I ha' heard ye were dispersed, after ye won; but nay, I ought to ha' known. 'Twas secret, and secret from all, mayhap; but thou lived.'

'Won?' Rod frowned.

And was answered by a frown of even deeper perplexity from Tom. Then the big man's face cleared. He grinned, rocking back against the wall, and roared with laughter.

The Loguires stared from him to Rod, who spread his hands, shaking his head. They looked back at Tom, wiping his eyes and eking the remains of his laugh into chuckles. 'Eh, eh, now I see it, aye, now, and fool that I was not to see it before. What age art thou, master?'

'Age?' Rod scowled. 'Thirty-two. Why?'

'Nay, nay!' Tom shook his head impatiently. 'What age art thou from?'

Rod's mouth formed a round, silent 0 as the light dawned. 'It was a time machine!'

Big Tom's face froze as he realized the implications of Rod's answer.

'And,' Rod pressed, 'there's another one hidden in this building isn't there?'

'Enough!' Big Tom snapped, and his eyes were very cold. 'You know too much already, Rod Gallowglass.'

Fear gathered in Rod's belly and crawled up his spine as he saw chill, amoral murder come into the man's eyes.

'Big Tom.' He cleared his throat, spoke in a swift, driving monotone.

'Big Tom, your own kind have turned against you now. You owe them no allegiance; and the wrongs they said they'd fix, I can fix, too. Go back to them, and they'll kill you. I won't, you know that.'

The annihilation ebbed from Tom's eyes, the huge body relaxed.

'Nay,' Tom growled, 'thou hast right again, though not in the way tha knowest. They ha' but bottled me up for now, till the great deeds are done; but they will hale me forth again, for I am too costly a man to discard so lightly. But tha'rt right they will slay me - in a year, two years, or five, when my office is done. And I do wish to live.'

Rod raised an eyebrow skeptically. 'They don't doubt your loyalty?'

Big Tom chuckled deeply. 'They ha' no need to, master. I disagree only on means, not on goals. But I disagree, and for that, soon or late, they will slay me.'

'Rod,' said a quiet voice that only he could hear. Rod held up a hand. 'Hold it! Late news on the Rialto!'

'Rod, the Prince of the Elves has arrived. He is leading a squad of elves toward your cell.' There was a touch of laughter to the robot's voice.

'All right, what's so funny?' Rod muttered.

'You have a surprise in store. Rod.'

Two gnarled, bent, white-bearded figures scurried up to the window. Rod frowned.

'Fess, those are gnomes, not elves.'

'Gnomes? Oh, yes, metal-working elves. Purely semantics, Rod. They are still incapable of dealing with iron.'

The gnomes pulled out a hammer and cold chisel with a faint bronze sheen, then stepped back and handed them to a larger, darker figure that blocked out the sunlight.

The Loguires, chained under the window, craned their necks backwards to try to see as the first blow sounded.

Big Tom frowned. 'There be something that pricks at my memory about that form at the window. Ah, for light, to see his face!'

Rod frowned. 'What's so great about his face? Probably pretty ugly.'

Tom gave a toothy grin. ''Twould be excellent fine to tell my children, good master, if I should live long enough to sire them. No mortal has yet looked upon the faces of the royalty of the Elves, though they are said to be aged past believing. They are. . .uh. .. ah.. .mammon!'

Tom's head lolled forward; he began to snore.

Two other snores answered him. Turning, Rod saw the Loguires, chins on their chests, sleeping blissfully.

Rod stared.

A metal bar dropped from the window and bounced on the floor. The ends were sheered through.

Rod whistled. This Prince of the Elves might be old, but he certainly wasn't languishing - not if he could still cut through inch-thick iron with nothing but a cold chisel and a mallet.

The third bar fell down. There was a scrabbling sound, and the squat broad form shot through the window and leaped to the floor. Rod stared, squeezed his eyes shut, and shook his head. Then he looked again, and understood why Tom and the Loguires had suddenly dozed off. He swallowed, fought for composure, and smiled. 'Well met, Brom O'Berin.'

'At your service.' The little man bowed, smiling maliciously. 'I owe you a rap on the head, Master Gallowglass, for the way that you spoke to the Queen: a rap on the head, or great thanks, I know not which.'

He turned to the window and called softly in a strange, fluid tongue. The cold chisel arced through the air and fell to his feet. He reached up and caught the hammer as it dropped.

'Now, them' He dropped to his knees and pressed Rod's forearm flat against the floor. 'Stir not, or thou'lt have a gouge out of thy wristbone.' He set the chisel against the first link of chain and tapped lightly with the hammer. The link fell off, sheared through. Brom grunted and moved to Rod's other side.

'Thou'lt wear bracelets when I've done,' he grumbled, 'but no chains. The manacles must wait till we're at the castle smithy.'

'Uh... that's pretty hard bronze you've got there,' Rod ventured, watching the chisel slide through the iron.

'Most hard,' Brom agreed, attacking the ankle chains. 'An old recipe, known long in my family.'

'Uh... in your family?'

'Aye.' Brom looked up. 'There were elves in lost Greece, too, Rod Gallowglass. Didst thou not know?'

Rod didst not; but he didn't figure this was the time to mention it. He stood up, free of the chains at least, and watched Brom cutting the others loose. The Prince of the Elves bit explained a lot about Brom: his size and bulk, for one thing.

'Never knew you were royalty, Brom.'

'Hm?' Brom looked back over his shoulder. 'I would have thought thou'd have guessed it. Why else am I named as I am?'