Behind him, his court were chopping frantically with swords that sprouted wings and chicken's heads and fluttered, squawking indignantly. Knights kept grabbing at armored pants that kept slipping down, and men-at-arms kept skidding on squashed fruit, as overripe pears and plums flew from the jesters and clowns all about them, and the manic laughter made the whole hall shake.
"What ails thee, milord?" a voice called. "Hast thou a bout of gout?"
"Good night, bad knight!" another cried. "When thou canst not prevail, thou must needs take to thy bed!"
"Yet he'll not prevail there, either," a third voice answered.
A fourth called, "In what cause hast thou fallen, Sir Borcas? Art thou down for the Count?"
"Why, he doth flounder!"
" 'Nay, a flounder's a fish!"
"And so is he—he's found his fin!"
"Hast thou downed the Count?" a new voice cried; and another answered,
"The Count is down!"
"Nay, Count up!"
"He doth not count at all!"
"Then he is of no importance?"
Pale with humiliation and rage, the Count was inching back within the ranks of his courtiers. But, "Nay," Gwen said, "how unseemly of thee, to depart ere the festival is done!" And the audience of fools seemed to curve around as the howling, cursing mob of courtiers faded, leaving the Count encircled by jeering grotesques, pointing and laughing.
"Be damned to you all!" he shouted, despairing, but the audience only laughed the louder and cried, "Brother, will he seek to step?"
"Nay, he'll step to stoop!"
"An he doth stoop, he'll never stand up straight again!"
"Why, gossip, he hath not been upstanding since he came to manhood!"
"Aye, nor hath been upright since his birth!"
"What, was he born?"
"Aye, borne in triumph! See his noble stance!"
Which, of course, was the cue for the floor to slip out from under him again.
"Away!" the Count screamed. "Avaunt thee, monsters!"
"Doth he speak to himself, then?"
"What, shall we show him the true shape of his soul?"
"Nay, do not!" the Count cried in panic. "Go leave me! Get thee hence!"
"Why, I have hence, and roosters, too."
"And so have I. Wherefore ought we seek more?"
"To give us eggs."
A pale spheroid flew through the air and struck, breaking open on the Count's head and oozing down over his cheeks. He howled in dismay and turned to run—but he could only run in place.
"There is only one direction in which thou mayest go," Gwen said, her voice hard.
"Any! Any way is good, so that it takes me from these loons!"
"What—a loon, doth he say?"
"A loon he needs, for he doth weave."
"Hath he a woof?"
"Nay, for they did spurn him."
"Then must he have a warp!"
"Aye. Now see him take it."
And the ghost began to diminish, shrinking into the distance as he bumbled away in a limping run; though he stayed in the same place on the dais, he grew smaller and smaller, with his crowd of hecklers hard on his heels, till they all shrank away to nothing, and were gone.
The Gallowglasses were silent, listening.
Faint, ghostly laughter echoed through the castle, but it was hilarity now, not the wicked gloating they had heard before.
"We have won," Magnus whispered, unbelieving.
Rod nodded. "I had a notion we could, if we just kept from being scared. Embedded memories aren't going to hurt you, you see—they can only make you hurt yourself."
"Yet if they're naught but memories, how could we best them?"
"By making new memories to counter them," Gwen explained. "Now, if the Count's wickedness should echo within thy brother's mind, these scenes of humiliation will arise, to make him slink away again. For look you, all that he did truly seek in life were pride and power—pride, gained by shaming those about him; and power, by giving hurt wheresoe'er he could. 'Twas that which was his true pleasure—the sense of power; his fornicating and his cruelty did feed that sense most vividly, for him."
Cordelia's eyes lit. "Yet here, he was himself held up to ridicule, which did shame him unmercifully."
"Aye, and at the hands of a victim, too."
"And he found he had no power, to strike back! Nay, small wonder that he fled, even if 'twas to his just desserts!"
"If 'twas truly his soul." Magnus frowned. "If he was only memories embedded in the stone, brought to seeming fullness by my mind, then what we have seen may have been but illusion."
"And if it was," said Gregory, "his soul's been frying in Hell these two hundred years."
"Gregory!" Gwen gasped, shocked at those words coming from an eight-year-old.
Gregory looked up at her, wide-eyed. "The good fathers do speak such words from the pulpit, Mama. Wherefore may not I?"
Rod decided to save her from an awkward answer. "I think it's time to revive Fess."
"Oh, aye!" Cordelia leaped to the horse's side. "Do, Papa! How can I have not have thought of him!"
"We were a little busy," Rod explained. He stepped up to Fess and felt under the saddlehorn for the reset switch—an enlarged "vertebra." He pushed it over and, slowly, the robot raised its head, blinking away the dullness from its plastic eyes. "I… haddd uh… seizurrre?"
"Yes," Rod said. "Just wait, and it will pass."
"More quickly for me than for a human," the robot said slowly. It looked about at the empty chamber, and the small boy building up the fire again. "The ghosts… are… ?"
"Gone," Rod confirmed. "We embarrassed them so much that they decided to seek out new haunts."
Cordelia winced. "The elfin ghosts have affected thee, Papa."
"Ghosts of… elves?"
Magnus nodded. "I, unwitting, served for thee to bring them forth."
"I? But how could I…"
"The folk hereby do think a seizure's brought by elf-shot," Gregory explained, "so when thou didst seem to be so shot, the elves came forth to seek the slinger."
"But elfin ghosts could be nothing but illusion!"
" 'Tis even as thou sayest," Cordelia agreed, "yet were the Count and his men any more?"
"Yet if the ghosts are but illusion," Geoffrey said, frowning, "how can this battle we have held banish them?"
"By counteracting them," Fess answered. "Believe me, Geoffrey—it is a process with which I am intimately familiar."
Rod looked up, surprised. He had missed the analogy between the computer's program, and the interactive loop between psychometricist and stored emotions—but of course, they were much alike.
"Then Sola's ghost was not truly her soul?"
Gwen spread her hands. "I cannot say. Yet soul or dream, I think she's freed for Heaven."
"Still," Rod mused, "it wouldn't do any harm to have Father Boquilva over for dinner. He understands computers, and he carries holy water."
Faint in the distance, a hoarse, raw masculine scream rang out one last time, diminishing into the fading echo of dying laughter. Then, finally, all was quiet.
"Is it cleansed now?" Gwen asked softly.
Magnus frowned, went to Foxcourt's chair, and grasped the wood firmly with both hands. After a moment, he nodded. "Not even a trace doth linger—naught of him, nor of any old angst or melancholia."
And, suddenly, she was there, radiant in the darkness before him, glowing with faint colors, vibrant, alive, and more beautiful than she had ever been. " 'Tis done—thou hast wrought famously!"
Magnus could only stare, spellbound.
So it was Cordelia who asked, "The wicked lord is fled?"
"Aye." Sola turned to her, glowing in more ways than one. "Foxcourt saw that he would be forever mocked, if he dared to linger here—so he hath fled to try his fate in the afterworld, convinced it cannot be worse."
Rod asked, "Didn't he ever have a hellfire-and-brimstone preacher?"
&nbs
p; "Aye, and therefore called a priest, and confessed his sins, when he foresaw his death—yet that part of him that lingered here did seek to turn again to some pale shadow of its old delights."
"Foul!" Geoffrey glared, indignant. "Is there no justice in Heaven, either? Will he not be dealt with as he did deal?"
"Not so." Gwen's hand was on his shoulder. "For, though he may yet be redeemed, he must first come to know his guilt, and to believe in it, in his heart of hearts; then may he make reparation. He shall be long in Purgatory, son—if he doth win to it at all. He may not have been truly repentant when he was shriven."
Geoffrey still didn't look content, but he was silent.
"Justice, I desire," Sola admitted, "yet I'll be content with his wickedness ended. Thanks to thine aid, good folk, none shall ever again suffer from the cruelty of Count Foxcourt. Thou hast proven the worth of my father's death, and my brother's; thou hast given their chivalry meaning, and vindicated my mother's suffering. Thou hast made their fates worthwhile by encompassing the downfall of a villain!"
Rod looked around at his family. "You'll pardon me if I feel a certain sense of satisfaction about that.''
"As well thou shouldst." Sola stepped forward, arms outstretched as though to embrace them. "I thank thee all, most earnestly; thou hast rescued me from ancient suffering." She turned to Magnus. "Yet most greatly I thank thee, good youth, for I do know 'twas thee who did most earnestly press to aid me. 'Tis thou hast ope'd the way for me, that I may leave this mundane sphere, and commence my journey up toward Heaven."
"I… I was honored…"
"As I am honored by thee! Be sure that, if I do gain the Blessed Mede, thou wilt ever have a friend in the hereafter!"
Then she turned, lifting a hand. "Farewell, good friends—and pray for me!"
Then she was gone.
The hall lay dark and still, except for the murmuring of the flames on the hearth.
"Pray I shall," Magnus murmured, gazing at the space where she had been, "and may thy journey be brief and blessed, beauteous lass."
But a friend, Rod noted, was not what he'd wanted.
The hall was quiet, and Cordelia and the younger boys were finishing straightening the furniture that had been tumbled about in the wake of the ghosts. Geoffrey, of course, had complained before, during, and after. "Wherefore hath Magnus not aided, too, Mama?"
"Hush," Gwen said. "Let thy brother alone awhile, to let the pieces of his heart join together again."
Cordelia looked up, startled. "Was he heartbroken, then?"
"Let's just say that his feelings had become too thick on one side, and too thin on the other," Rod hedged. "He needs to get them into balance now."
"It makes no sense," Geoffrey grumbled, and went off to Fess, in search of sanity.
Gwen looked out the nearest of the high, thin windows, and just barely espied the small, antique cemetery outside the castle walls.
"What do you see?" Rod said softly.
"Our lad," she answered, equally hushed. "He doth stand quite still, gazing upon a tombstone."
"Ah." Rod nodded. "Sola's, no doubt. Poor kid—I know how he feels."
Gwen turned to stare at him, startled. "Dost thou so!"
Rod gazed deeply into her eyes before he let the smile lift the corners of his mouth. "Why, of course, dear," he said quietly. "You know you had to heal my heart, when you found it."
She gazed back at him, then slowly smiled, too. She turned to wrap his arms about her, her back to his chest, resting her head against his shoulder as she gazed out at the youth confronting death below them. "Will he, too, find one to heal him?"
"We can only hope," Rod breathed, "hope that he, too, will someday meet a woman who will make all his previous wounds unimportant."
She looked up into his eyes, and hers held stars.
Across the hall, Cordelia watched them, pensive and thoughtful. "Fess?"
"Yes, Cordelia?"
"Was Mama the only lass who ever fell a-love with Papa?"
"I have spoken to you before, about asking personal questions about your father's past." Fess was instantly severe. "Such information is definitely confidential. You must ask your father to tell you."
"But he will never tell me of these things that truly matter, Fess!"
"Then neither shall I, Cordelia."
"But are we never to learn more of Father's wanderings?" Gregory asked.
Fess was still a moment, then said, "I cannot say, children. It will depend on your father's permission, of course…"
"And he will never give it!" Geoffrey said, in disgust.
Fess stood mute.
Cordelia noticed, and said, "Dost thou think he might, good Fess?"
"One can never tell, Cordelia. Even I cannot tell what your father will agree to, when the time and the circumstances are correct."
"There may be more tales, then?" Gregory asked hopefully.
"Oh, certainly there will be more stories! You had many ancestors, children, and not all of them lived dull lives. Whenever you wish, you have but to…"
"Now!"
"Another ancestor, Fess!"
"They are ours, after all!"
"Tell!"
"Well, not immediately," the horse temporized. "Even I feel the need of rest and reflection, after the upheaval of our confrontation with Count Foxcourt."
"At bedtime, then?"
"At bedtime," Fess agreed, "or perhaps another day."
"Tomorrow," Cordelia said brightly, "is another day."
Epilogue
Jose rose to go report to his supervisor. It meant his job, but that was better than having a robot go wild and kill somebody because of a programming flaw.
He knocked on the door. "Al?"
The door was open. Al looked up and smiled. "Hi, Jose. What gives?" Then he saw the look on the younger man's face and straightened. "Come on in. Need to sit down?"
" 'Fraid so, Al." Jose sat down carefully, feeling old.
"So what happened?"
"I copied the Declaration of Independence into a robot brain along with the operating program."
Al just sat very still, his eyes growing very, very round. Then he said, "You copied the WHAT?"
"The Declaration of Independence."
Al erupted into guffaws.
Jose stared, then frowned. "It's not funny, Al! We've got to catch it before it's installed!"
"I—I'm sorry," Al managed. Then his face split into a grin, and he was off again. He leaned back in his chair and held his belly, whooping with glee.
Jose sighed and waited for it to pass. Illogically, he began to feel there might be hope.
Finally, Al got himself under control and leaned forward, grinning. "I'm sorry about that, Jose—but you have to admit, this is a new one. How'd you manage that?"
Jose spread his hands, the picture of forlornness. "I called it up to check something that was bothering me, then left it on scroll when I went to help Bob. By the time I came back, it was off the screen, and I'd forgotten about it."
"But it was still in memory." Al shook his head with a grin. "Who else would get so upset about something in the Declaration?"
"It was an argument," Jose muttered.
"On the other hand," Al answered himself, "who else would come report it right away, instead of trying to cover up?" He finally managed to look sympathetic. "You're right, Jose, this could be bad. What kind of program was it?"
"One of those new ones—the FCC series."
Al smiled. "Well, at least, if you had to do it, you used one that's just into production." Then he turned thoughtful. "Wait a minute, though—maybe it's not a total loss."
Jose felt a surge of hope and tried to ignore it. "How?"
"That's the 'Faithful Cybernetic Companion' series. The program's for extreme loyalty, as well as the usual total obedience." Al turned to his screen and called up the program. "It just might be strong enough to counter the Declaration."
Jose frowned. "How could it…" Then his face
lit up. "Of course! If the robot's extremely loyal to you, it can be totally independent, and still be on your side!"
Al nodded. "Independence might counter an inclination toward obedience, but loyalty would make the robot do what his owner said to, anyway—unless there was a damn good reason not to." He shrugged. "But all our programs have overrides for illegal or blatantly unethical commands, anyway."
Jose felt excitement building. "Then the robot might not have to be destroyed?"
"And you might not have to be fired." Al nodded. "I'm routing this whole snafu over to programming to be checked. I don't think there'll be any problem, though—this time." He turned back to Jose, suddenly totally serious. "But don't let it happen again—okay?"
Jose stared straight into Al's eyes and nodded slowly. "Never, Al. My word."
"Who was the argument with, anyway?"
Jose swallowed. "My wife."
Al turned grave. "Not much you can do about that. But next time, if you're upset, don't come in. All right?"
Jose nodded slowly. "I promise, Al. Better not here at all, than not all here."
Al grinned. "You got it. And you still have your job."
But Jose's attention had drifted again. He was thinking that, if a robot could be independent down to its most basic programming and still be intensely loyal, maybe a person could, too. And if that was so, maybe it was possible to be really independent but still be married, after all. He whistled, and went back to his work.
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The Warlock's Companion wisoh-9 Page 26
