The Warlock Wandering (5 page)

"Which, fortunately, you did." Shacklar pulled out a pipe and clasped it high on the stem, hiding his mouth; but the comers of his eyes crinkled.

"So here we are," Rod finished. "Our pod landed out in the Wolmen's territory, and... uh... you... don't... believe me..."

"No, I didn't say that at all." The General leaned forward to prop his elbows on his desk.

"But it's the best entertainment you've had all week?"

"All year, in fact." Shacklar smiled warmly. "They don't have tales like that on the 3DT any more."

"Well, if you doubt my word, you can check the records. The Alfreda did disappear en route from Beta Canis Minor to 61 Cygni..."

"Yes, I remember the incident well; there were so many politicians aboard that it was quite a scandal." Shacklar gave him an amiable smile. "That much, at least, is quite true, I'm certain. As to the rest of it, though... Ah, well, I'm not one to press. Master Gallowglass. We rather make a policy of not being too insistent about a man's past, on Wolmar. However, I do appreciate the finer aspects of narrative creativity. I was especially impressed with the piece about the costume ball."

"Oh, yes! She's supposed to be Nell Gwynn, and I'm, uh—Cyrano de Bergerac!"

"And I'm the King of England," Shacklar murmured, fighting a smile. "But as I say, a man's past is his own affair, on Wolmar. No one is here without a reason, and it's generally one that he'd rather weren't known." He shrugged.

"Of course, in my own instance, I'm not terribly concerned about secrecy. Ultimately, I'm here because, in addition to being a psychiatrist, I'm also a masochist." Rod stared, then caught himself. "Oh, really?"

"Yes." Shacklar smiled. "Quite well-adjusted—but it does

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create certain problems within the chain of command. Here, though, my men don't seem to care terribly." Rod nodded, slowly. "I begin to understand why you don't mind staying."

"There is some feeling of being appreciated." Shacklar smiled brightly. "But the mild exhibitionism involved in telling you that is part of my disorder, you see. I certainly don't ask that of anyone else."

He leaned forward to glance at his desk readout. "However, I'm keeping you overlong; after so great a time in suspended animation, you must be ravenous. You'll find an excellent tavern just down the street."

"Uh... thanks. General." Rod managed a smile. "You've been very helpful."

He turned away to the door, holding it open for Gwen.

"If there's anything we can ever do for you, just give us a yell."

"As a matter of fact, there is one small thing your lady could do for me. Master Gallowglass."

Rod stopped in mid-stride, a sinking feeling in his belly. He turned around again. Gwen turned with him, wideeyed. "And how may I aid you, sir?"

"Slap me," said the General.

Rod set down a small tray, and laid a plate of boiled sausage and buns in front of Gwen, with a tankard of ale to flank it. "Not much, my dear, but I'm afraid that's about the best Cholly's Tavern runs to." He sat down and took a sip of his beer. His eyes widened in surprise. "Not bad, though."

She sipped, carefully. "Indeed, 'tis not! Yet wherefore is't so chill, my lord?"

"Huh?" Rod looked up, surprised. "Oh, ,yh—they just like it that way, honey. That's all." He leaned back and looked about him, at the unfinished boards and the roughand-ready chairs and tables. "Sure not what I was planning on when I took you out for an evening alone." 36 Christopher Stasheff

Gwen smiled. "Nay, assuredly 'tis not! Yet—oh, my lord! Tis all so new, and marvelous!"

"It is?"

"Indeed." She leaned over the table. "Yet tell me—what mean all these strange manners and artifacts? Why do all wear leggings, even though they have no armor to cover them? What were those odd, bulbous engines each man did wear at his hip, upon the Wall? And wherefore do they not wear them in this place? How do the lights within this inn come to glow? And where are the kegs from which they draw their ale?"

Rod held up a hand. "Hold it, dear. One at a time." He hadn't realized how strange and new the technological world would seem to Gwen—but she did come from a medieval culture, after all. Secretly, he blessed the fate that had brought them to a frontier planet, instead of one of the overlycivilized, total-technology worlds nearer Terra. How to explain it all to her? He took a deep breath, wondering where to start. "Let's begin with power."

"There's naught so new in that." She shrugged. "Once thou hadst told me there were no nobles, it was truly clear the peasant folk must needs set up orders within their own ranks, even as those Wolmen, who did chase us this mom, have done. Or the wild folk, who do war upon the cities—

even as the Beastmen did to our Isle of Gramarye, ten years agone."

The time-lapse hit Rod like a shockwave. "My lord! Was it really ten years ago?" He took a shuddering breath. "But of course. We only had one child then, and we have four now—and Magnus is twelve." He studied her face intently.

"You don't look any older."

She blushed, lowering her eyes. "'Tis good of thee to say it, my lord—yet I do see the wrinkles, here and there, and the odd strand of gray in mine hair."

"What's odd about it, with our four? But they certainly must be rare; I haven't noticed one yet! And as to wrinkles, I've always had my share of those."

"Yet thou art not a woman," Gwen murmured.

"So sweet of you to notice... But back to the ins and outs of this world we're on. Government wasn't exactly the kind of 'power' I'd had in mind, dear."

"Indeed?" She looked up, surprised. "Yet assuredly thou didst not speak of magicks!"

"No, no. Definitely not. I was talking about force—the kind that makes things move."

Gwen frowned, not understanding.

Rod took a deep breath. "Look. In Gramarye, there are four kinds of power that can do work for us: muscles, our own or our animals'; wind, which pushes ships and turns windmills; water power, which turns mill wheels; and fire, which heats our houses, boils our water, and cooks our food. And that's about all."

Gwen frowned. "But what of the power of a crossbow, that speeds a bolt to slay a man?"

Rod shook his head. "Just muscle power, stored. When a crossbowman pulls a bowstring, see, he's just transferring power from his arm and shoulder into the springy wood of the bow. But the crossbowman takes several minutes to put that power in, by winding the bowstring back. Then, when he pulls the trigger that releases the string, all that energy is released in one quick burst—and that's what throws the arrow so much harder than an ordinary bow can." Gwen nodded slowly, following every word. "And 'tis thus, too, that a common archer's bow can throw an arrow so much farther than a man-at-arms can hurl a spear?"

"Why, yes." Rod sat up straighter, surprised at how quickly she had understood. "Of course, the arrow's lighter than the spear, too. That helps."

Gwen frowned. "And 'tis also that the ends of the bow are longer than the spearman's arms, is't not? For I do note that the longer (he bow, the farther it doth hurl the arrow."

"Why... yes," Rod said, startled. "The longer the lever, the more it multiplies the force—and the two ends of a bow, and a spearman's arm, are all levers." 38

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"And the longer bow can therefore be stiffer, but can still be bent?"

"Uh... yeah." Rod felt a faint chill along his back. She was understanding too quickly. "And the crossbow is more powerful, because it's so much stiffer."

"But the man who doth shoot it, can bend it by winding." Gwen nodded, seeming almost angry in the intensity of her concentration.

"Right." Rod swallowed heavily. "Well. Uh... in this world, there're other sources of power—but the most important one is the kind called 'electricity.' It's like..." He groped, trying to find an explanation. "It's invisible, but it flows like water. Only through metals, though. It's..." Then inspiration struck. "It's like the force you wield when you make things move with your mind." He waved a hand.

"Even though you can't see it, you can feel it, if you touch the wire it's flowing through. Boy, can you feel it!" He frowned. "Though I shouldn't say you can't see it, really. Have you ever looked at a lightning bolt, darling? No, of course you have! What's the matter with me?" He could remember one occasion especially vividly—they had huddled inside a cave, watching the lightning slam the thunder about the skies. And when the storm's fury had thoroughly dazzled them... He cleared his throat. "Lightning's electricity—one kind of electricity, anyway."

"Thou dost not say it," she breathed, wide-eyed. "Have these people chained the lightning, then?"

Rod nodded, thrilled (and chilled) by her quickness.

"They've figured out how to make it do all sorts of tricks, darling."

Her eyes were huge. "This glow, then, is lightning leashed?"

"That's one way to look at it." Rod nodded slowly. "But they use it for other things, too. Those bulbous things on their hips—they call them 'blasters,' and they use electricity to tickle a ruby into making a sword of light." Gwen stared, aghast. Rod nodded again. "And there are other things they can make it do—lots of other things. Think of any job, darling, and the odds are these folk have figured out a way to make electricity do it."

"Caring for others," said the mother, immediately. Rod sat still for a moment, just staring at her. Then he smiled, and reached out to take her hand. "Of course. I should have known you'd think of the one thing they can't do. Oh, don't get me wrong—they do have machines that can take care of people's bodies-^ all their physical needs; Electricity runs machines that can wash clothes, cook food, clean houses. But to give the feeling that somebody cares about you, that another human being is taking care of you?" He shook his head. "No. They might be able to come up with a convincing illusion—but deep inside, everyone knows it's not real. Only people can really care for people. They haven't invented a substitute yet."

She gazed into his eyes for a long moment—and hers were filled with excitement, but warmed with her prime preoccupation — him.

Maybe that was why her eyes were so mesmerizing. They seemed to fill Rod's whole field of view, inviting, craving ... "I remember the story about the monkey and the python," he said softly.

"In truth?" she murmured.

"Yeah. I just can't figure out which one I am..." A shaggy figure moved into his range of vision, far away. Rod stared, stiffening. "Who's that, who just came in the door?"

Gwen heaved a martyred sigh and turned to look. "The soldier with the thatch of brown hair?" Her eyes widened.

"My lord! It cannot be!"

"Why not? We know he's a time traveller.—and don't tell me there ain't no such thing, when I am one!"

"I would not have dreamed of it. But how doth he come to be here?"

Rod shrugged. "As good a place as any, I expect. After 40 Christopher Stasheff

all, he resigned as Viceroy of Beastland two years ago."

"Aye, though Tuan cried he still had need of him."

"Yeah, that was really fun news for the Viceroy-elect. Too bad it didn't reach his ears."

"How could it?" Gwen asked. "He had quite simply disappeared."

The goblin face was scanning the room slowly, a massive frown of its beetling brows. It saw Rod and broke into a grin. Then its owner was hurrying across the room, hand outstretched. "Milord!"

Half the room turned to look, and Rod thought fast to cover. He plastered on a grin of his own and rose to the occasion to grasp the proffered hand. "My lord, Yorick!" he echoed. "It's good to see you!" •

The rest of the patrons turned back to their beers with disgruntled mutters—no nobility, just profanity. Rod slapped Yorick's shoulder and nodded toward a chair.

"Sit down! Have a beer! Tell us what you're doing here!"

"Why, thank you! Don't mind if I do." The caveman pulled up a chair. "I'll bet you're surprised to see me here." Rod sat down slowly to give himself a chance to recover. Then he smiled. "Well, yes, now that you mention it. I mean, this is a good five hundred years before you disappeared." He frowned at a sudden thought. "On the other hand, it's about forty thousand years since your whole species died off." Yorick nodded. "So why not here, as well as there?"

"Aye, wherefore?" Gwen cocked her head to the side.

"How does it come that thou'rt in this place?"

"With difficulty," Yorick answered, "quite a bit of it. I mean, when you didn't come back that night, your kids got worried—but Puck managed to get 'em all to bed and to sleep, anyway. When you hadn't shown up by mid-moming, though, even he got worried—so he told his boss." Inwardly, Rod quailed. Brom O'Berin, in addition to being King of the Elves, was also Gwen's father—though

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nobody knew about it except himself and Rod. If Brom had found out his daughter was missing, it was amazing that he didn't have the whole elfin army in this tavern, instead of one addlepated Neanderthal.

Gwen smiled. "And Brom did order the hue and cry?" Yorick nodded. "Sent out a scout party of elves. With a hundred or so of the little blighters going at it, they picked up your trail in no time. They tracked you to a little pond, where they found some pretty clear signs of a fight that seemed to end with a couple of bodies being dragged someplace, and just disappearing." Rod smiled, with sour satisfaction. "Nice to know the Futurian boys hadn't had sense enough to erase their tracks. Overconfidence works wonders."

"No, they did erase 'em." Yorick turned toward Rod.

"Straightened up the grass, and everything. Can you blame

'em if they didn't stop to think how good elves are at tracking?"

"Quite unfair," Gwen agreed.

Yorick nodded. "I swear a fly couldn't land on a blade of grass without them being able to tell it." Rod remembered how insistent Puck was about sipping only from the flowers where the wild bee sucked—after the bee had left, of course. "That's fantastic. But how'd they figure out where we'd disappeared to?"