The Warlock's Companion wisoh-9

by Christopher Stasheff

  Silently, Fess sighed and carefully did not point out that the Assembly had no particular reason to grant Ruthven's request, either. If the factory business department had not been automated, d'Armand Limited would have gone bankrupt from sheer neglect.

  Not that the House of d'Armand would have fallen. Quite the opposite, in fact. Ruthven seemed to spend all his time building.

  "Of course the tower will stand."

  "How, milord?"

  Ruthven waved the question away. "A minor detail. See to it, Fess."

  The robot sighed within and focused its lenses on the blueprints. Perhaps a judicious use of gravity generators… On a low-gravity asteroid, there was no concern about the tower falling down… But if there was too little of it, it might fall apart from centripedal force.

  "How dare they!" Ruthven stormed, jamming his helmet at Fess. "How can they have the effrontery to be so insolent!" He yanked at the seals of his pressure suit so hard that the fabric ripped. He saw the gaping rent, and cursed all the more loudly.

  "Ruthven, please!" His wife came running with apprehensive glances. "The children…"

  "They had damned well better be at lessons in their nursery, madame, or I shall bid Fess cane them!" Ruthven yanked his arms out of the pressure suit, relying on Fess to catch the sleeves in time, and pulled his feet out of the legs as he stepped forward. "The degraded peasants!"

  "Ruthven!" his wife gasped. "Your own children?"

  "Not the children, you goose! The Assembly!"

  "What… Oh!" Matilda's eyes widened. "Did they refuse your patent of nobility?"

  "No—much worse! They raised me to the rank of…" Ruthven's voice sank to a hiss. "… Viscount!"

  "Viscount! Oh, how dare they! One cannot be lower, and still be a peer!"

  "Precisely." Ruthven threw himself into a lounger and pushed the "medium massage" button. "I shall be revenged upon them! I shall humiliate them! How, I do not know—but the time will come, will come for each of them!"

  "At least," Fess offered, "you are now legally a lord."

  "But only barely a lord, you officious ingrate!" Ruthven shouted. "How dare you address me as 'you'? Do you not know a more respectful form of address?"

  "But… my program indicates no flaw in etiquette…"

  "Then it shall!" the new Viscount thundered. "You shall learn, sirrah, you shall be educated! I shall buy the module today!"

  Castle Gallowglass rose far above its humble beginnings in a maze of towers joined in vaulting arches, a fairytale concoction of metallic traceries and onion domes and gargoyles.

  It was a mess.

  It was a hodgepodge of periods and styles of architecture, all jumbled together without rationale or critical standard. Somewhere beneath the festoons of rococo plasticrete, the original, classic simplicity of Lona's tranquil palace gathered in upon itself—but the casual passerby would never know it was there. What he would see was the most disgusting example of nouveau riche lack of taste Fess had ever seen—and after a hundred fifty years of contemplating the handiwork of the Maximans, that was saying quite a bit.

  Not that he could say it, of course—not about his owner's masterpiece. His new programming had seen to that.

  "How could they possibly have denied me!"

  "I'm sorry, milord, I'm sorry." Fess's judgment circuits produced massive reluctance at the sound of his own words. "The College of Heralds of Europe says that another family's been using that coat of arms of three lions quartered with fleur-de-lis, for many generations."

  "Then they may forfeit the device! How much do they want for it?"

  Inwardly, Fess shriveled, but his vocoder said, "Oh, no, sorry, milord boss! Coats of arms simply can't be bought!"

  "Don't say 'can't' to me!" Ruthven raged. "They have no right to that device, I tell you—because I want it!"

  "Well, certainly, milord boss, but that doesn't mean there is any way we can get it."

  "There must be a way! Confound it, find a way to gain a coat of arms!" Ruthven stalked away toward the bar.

  Fess sighed and rolled off toward the library to plug himself into the data banks. He knew very well that no family would be willing to give up its coat of arms, and that the College of Heralds would not honor such a transaction even if it could be made. The answer, of course, lay in designing a device that Ruthven would accept, and that was not already in use.

  "A wonderful design." Ruthven beamed at the drawing. "It says so much."

  "Yes, milord boss." Fess knew quite well that the device said only what the viewer read into it. It was nothing but the silhouette of a man with girded loins, a cloak, and a staff in his hand, standing with one foot atop some nameless geological formation, facing toward the left, but with his back mostly toward the viewer. Nonetheless, it was silver on a field of blue, so he knew Ruthven would like it.

  "A masterpiece! Am I not a genius?"

  "Yes sir, boss milord. No, boss mi—uh, yes, milord!"

  "Architecture, fine letters, now design—there are no limits to my talents! Surely the College of Heralds cannot deny me now!"

  "No sir, boss milord." That, Fess could say with conviction—because he had examined the records of the College thoroughly, then sent off the sketch by fax as soon as it was finished. He hadn't shown it to Ruthven until the College had sent back preliminary approval.

  "None must deny me anything." Ruthven patted his stomach, which had grown steadily with the years and was approaching critical mass. "There is none like me!"

  The phrase struck an echo in Fess's memory banks—several of them, in fact.

  "But, boss milord!" Fess protested. "How am I going to do that?"

  "Order one from Terra, of course." Ruthven waved away the problem.

  "Order one, milord sir? A family ghost?"

  "There is a catalog, I presume."

  "But you can't buy a thing that doesn't exist!"

  "Of course ghosts exist. Every noble family on Terra has one." Ruthven gestured carelessly with sausage fingers. "An ancestral ghost for my castle, Fess. At least one. Don't ask me for particulars, though. I know nothing about them."

  That, at least, was true. Sometimes Fess could have sworn that Ruthven had gone to great pains to know nothing—and when he did accidentally pick up some information, he did the best he could to forget it. His way of making sure he had a clean mind, no doubt.

  But the ghost of one of Ruthven's ancestors? Would he want one, really? Fess was tempted, and if he could have brought back Lona's ghost, he would have. He would have loved to see her haul Ruthven over the coals fifty times, for what he had done to her palace—and when she had finished, she would have bullied what was left of him into restoring some vestige of order to his household. Or maybe the ghost of Dar, who would have taken one look around, bellowed in outrage, taken Ruthven apart, then remembered his vocation as a teacher and put the aging playboy back together and tried to explain the basics of good taste to him.

  Or, best of all, the ghost of Tod Tambourin—alias Whitey the Wino.

  Now, wait. The ghost of Whitey… That had possibilities…

  A shriek split the night, and the Countess Freiliport came barreling out of the bedroom. Fess heaved a 16-Farad sigh, stretched alloyed arms (the more conducive to the mood because Ruthven had given him a new, and very skeletal, body) to catch her, and began soothing. "There, now, Milady, it's gone. Nothing to be afraid of, no spooks out here, only your good old faithful Fess the butler, here to make sure the nasty thing can't get at you…"

  "Oh! It is you!" The Countess collapsed against Fess's ribcage, sobbing. The sobs choked off as she saw the ribs and went rigid.

  He had to head off the scream. "That's just my new body, Milady. The Viscount thought it would go better with the decor. It's really still good old Fess inside here. Was he as bad as all that?"

  "Who? The ghost? Oh!" The Countess went limp. "He was horrible! First only those spectral footsteps, coming closer and closer, and no answer when I called out 'Who's there?'�
�no answer at all, mind you, until that horrid moan broke out right by my ear, and that glowing cloud appeared, towering over the foot of my bed!"

  "Only a glowing cloud?"

  "No, no! Only at first. It gathered in on itself slowly, till it had assumed the form of a perfectly horrid old man, skinny as a rail, moaning so dolefully that my heart went out to him—until he saw me!"

  "Saw you? What then?"

  "Why, he… he winked at me! And began to come toward me, reaching out and grinning that lascivious leer… Oh! I was never so frightened in my life!"

  That, Fess could believe. The hologram of Whitey had been assembled from clips of him in the role of a vampire in a 3DT epic he had directed, and in which he had also starred.

  "I am so sorry you have had such a fright, Milady. If you wish, I shall summon your chauffeur…"

  "Oh, my heavens, no!" The Countess turned to blow into her handkerchief, then tucked it back into her bosom with a sniffle, straightening and turning back toward the room. "It was wonderful. I wouldn't have missed this night for the world." She stepped firmly toward the bedroom, then faltered and looked back over her shoulder. "I don't suppose he might come back—the ghost, I mean?"

  "I'm afraid not, Milady," Fess sympathized. "Only one visitation per guest per night, you know."

  "Ah. Well, I was afraid of such a thing." The Countess sighed and went back toward the bedroom. "I really must discuss the issue with your master, Fess. So paltry of him, to limit his hauntings in that fashion."

  The door closed behind her, and Fess resigned himself to refereeing another bout in the morning. It was a compliment, really, but Ruthven just could not abide anything remotely resembling criticism. He was sure to bristle, and was likely to anger the Countess, jeopardizing a family friendship that went back a century and a half.

  "If thou wert human, Fess, thou wouldst have been tempted to refrain from interfering. Ruthven would have had no more than he deserved!"

  "True, children—but I am a robot, and was capable of pouring unlimited oil on the waters."

  "E'en so, thou shouldst not have." Geoffrey folded his arms and lifted his chin. "He had not commanded thee to intervene, had he?"

  "No, children, but when Lona died, she asked me to look after her descendants for her."

  Geoffrey heaved a sigh, deflating, but Cordelia had a merry glint in her eye.

  "I am sorry that you have received a somewhat unflattering portrait of your ancestors from me," Fess said gently.

  "Unflattering, indeed! In Father's book of the family history, Ruthven appears a noble and generous character, renowned for his building and beautifying. Why is there no mention of his failings in that chapter?"

  "Why, because Ruthven wrote it. And he did increase the glory of his family, in a way."

  "In some way, mayhap." Magnus grinned wickedly. "But by this time, had not the other folk of Maxima gained summat of a sense aesthetic?"

  "They had, Magnus," Fess sighed. "All applied for patents of nobility, and all received them—and most felt obliged to find some civic duty to do, as well as to gain some cultural refinement."

  Magnus was puzzled. "Dost mean all who dwelt on Maxima were noble?"

  "According to themselves, yes—and almost all of them are now worthy of the term."

  "Yet even in Ruthven's time, they did know a monstrosity when they saw one?"

  "I fear they did," Fess sighed, "and yes, they did look with contempt on Ruthven's 'masterpiece.' The ghost of Whitey redeemed him in their eyes, though."

  "For that it brought to their minds the illustrious founder of our House?"

  "No, because it was such great fun. Word of the apparition spread, of course, and within a fortnight, everyone wished to be invited to stay the night at Castle d'Armand."

  "And therefore did need to treat gently with Ruthven and his wife."

  "Quite so, Cordelia, at least to their faces."

  "And each guest wished to stay in the 'haunted' room, I warrant," Magnus said, grinning again.

  "Yes, and there was considerable fussing when they found someone else was already there, fussing which descended upon the head of the majordomo."

  "Thyself, of course."

  "Correct, Gregory. Yet since it assured Ruthven that most of them would come back for another weekend, it worked to the benefit of himself and Matilda."

  "And thou didst need to stand watch o'er the bedroom door o' nights?"

  "I fear so. Everyone who stayed there wished to be frightened, so of course they all were, and it fell to me to calm them."

  "And to intervene 'twixt them and Ruthven in the morning?"

  "Generally, yes."

  "But that could not last." Cordelia protested. "Soon or late, everyone on Maxima must needs have stayed in the haunted chamber."

  "Aye," Geoffrey agreed. "There are not so many people on but one asteroid, after all."

  "True, quite true—and I was never so relieved as when the Viscount tired of the hologram, and I could deactivate it."

  "Did not their children wish it to stay?"

  "No; they quite resented it, for their schoolmates had teased them about it unmercifully…"

  "Jealousy, no doubt," Geoffrey muttered.

  "Thou shouldst know, brother."

  "… AND about the mansion," Fess concluded, overriding Geoffrey's response. "When they grew, they made sure to gain a thorough grasp of all the arts, including the study of aesthetics, and were much less concerned with social pretensions."

  "Dost thou mean they became noble?"

  "Well, they had certainly furthered the process. In fact, they eventually gained enough taste to see the amusing side of the holographic display, and would now and again ask to have the 'ghost' once more turned on for a while, then turned off again."

  "Would we could so deal with the spectre within this castle," Gregory sighed.

  "It would be pleasant, yes—though I suspect that these ghosts may be considerably harder to eradicate. And you must remember that there may be an element of actual danger involved."

  "Dost thou truly think so?" Geoffrey perked up noticeably.

  "I do. When your father first came to Gramarye, he was nearly frightened to death by the ghosts in Castle Loguire, until I pointed out to him that the cause was a subsonic harmonic of their moans, not their actual presence."

  Magnus turned somber. "I misdoubt me an these ghosts will be a part with them."

  "Aye, for those were nice ghosts," said Gregory, "as Father hath told it."

  "Fair or foul, we shall vanquish them," Geoffrey said proudly. "The villain's not made that can stand against us, an we stand together.''

  "Remember that, please, Geoffrey—it may become an important principle in your lives."

  "And now?" Gregory asked.

  "Most especially now. Please be very careful, children, to be sure you are never alone, in Castle Foxcourt. Now back to work! I feel my storytelling has slowed your cleaning."

  Chapter 7

  Rod kept a weather eye cocked on his children the whole time, but all he could see was that the four of them were working industriously. "Gwen, there's something wrong."

  "How so, my husband?"

  "They're all working in the same room, without bickering. What's more, they're keeping their noses to the grindstone, without having to be nagged."

  "Oh." Gwen dimpled. " 'Tis not so amazing as that. Hast thou not heard what Fess doth tell them?"

  "Yeah, but that just makes it worse! When I was a kid, I went crazy when he tried to give me a lecture on top of my having to do chores!"

  "Thy children are not thyself," Gwen said, but her tone was gentle, sympathetic. "And, too, these tales of thine homeland are like visions of a magical kingdom to them."

  Rod frowned. "I suppose that makes sense. If people in a high-tech environment used to read fairy tales for escape, then…"

  "Even so," Gwen agreed. "In any event, husband, I pray thee, do not question our good fortune."

  "Or our good h
orse. Well, so long as there's nothing to worry about." And there wasn't, so Rod was obviously going to have to find something else to serve the purpose. He turned away, going back to sweeping the trash out from the corners, and gradually working his way further and further into the available shadows, closer and closer to the archway to the stairs. He carefully hadn't mentioned the downstairs armory. If it wasn't on the ground floor, it was in the cellar—and Rod didn't want the kids going anywhere near a real, authentic dungeon. Especially Magnus.

  So he waited until Gwen had gathered them in the courtyard again, and was setting out leftovers—then quietly slipped away to explore.

  He was only halfway to the cellar door when he heard hooves on the floor behind him. His heart jumped into his throat, and he spun about, then relaxed with a gusty sigh. "You nearly gave me heart failure!"

  "I would just as soon you did not explore the dungeon alone, Rod," Fess told him.

  "I was trying to sneak off unnoticed."

  "It is my duty to notice you, Rod. I promised your father."

  "Yeah, but he also told you to take orders from me, from then on." Rod turned away, heading back toward the huge oaken doors that closed the spiral stair from the Great Hall.

  "I have obeyed all your orders, Rod."

  "Yes, but not always their intent. Though I have to admit I'm glad of your company—as long as the kids don't tumble to it, and follow us."

  "Gwen had them well occupied."

  "Yes; that's the advantage of the appetites of youth." Rod heaved at a door, and it fell off its hinges. In several pieces. He stared down at its remains, then said, "Remind me to have that replaced."

  "Yes, Rod."

  "Immediately."

  "To be sure."

  They started down the curving stairway, and ran out of daylight pretty quickly. "It is not safe to proceed further, Rod."

  "Yeah, I noticed." Rod held up a dead branch. "I salvaged something out of the detritus the wind blew in."