Quicksilver's Knight

by Christopher Stasheff

  Of course, Fess thought back, though why I should bother when a hundred outlaws are doing so, I cannot think.

  In case they should decide to free their leader, Geoffrey thought drily, by ridding her of me. He tried to ignore the blanket-shrouded, curving form beside him in the dark and, to distract himself, thought, A most fortunate meeting with the mother and daughter, was it not?

  How so? Fess's thoughts were guarded.

  Why, thought Geoffrey, an hour later, and they would have missed us quite.

  Yes, a most fortuitous coincidence, Fess agreed somewhat drily, Geoffrey thought.

  Once again, he could see Nan, side by side with Quicksilver, in his mind's eye. A vision of Quicksilver was not what he needed to put him to sleep, so he concentrated on Nan. The daughter bears a most striking resemblance to Quicksilver.

  She does indeed.

  There was something in the way the robot said it, in the careful noncommittal tone he used, that awoke Geoffrey's suspicions. What was Fess seeing that he was not...? He visualized the two faces again, then the mother's next to Nan's...

  And his eyes flew wide open. Fess! Picture the mother Maud's face for me, and transform it backwards twenty years! Show her to me as she was before she married!

  He closed his eyes again, and Maud's face appeared behind his eyelids, then a younger version of the same face next to it, but without the kerchief, brown hair unbound, floating freely about her face and shoulders...

  She is almost the spit and image of Quicksilver!

  No, Fess thought back at him. It is Quicksilver who is the spit and image of Maud.

  Fess rarely used slang of any sort, and it didn't take Geoffrey more than a moment to realize why the robot had done so this time. Maud is her mother!

  That would be my conjecture, yes. Then Nan must be her sister!

  That would account for the resemblance, Fess agreed. Then I have met all the family—save the father, who is dead. Geoffrey relaxed a little, opening his eyes to fix a brooding gaze on the shapely shadowed form beside him. He found he could not think clearly that way, so he rolled over onto his back to gaze up at the scrap of sky visible between the leaves overhead. Why would they have brought word of Aunriddy's troubles themselves, instead of sending the messenger?

  Fess ignored the rhetorical nature of the question and answered, Presumably, because they wished to meet you. Yes, that would seem clear. Geoffrey frowned up at the sky. Now, why would they have wanted to do that?

  Why, indeed? Fess said, with the burst of static that served him for a sigh. He reflected that his young master was a positive genius at anything military, but could be singularly dense about anything else—and apparently, he did not yet see that a campaign was forming. Too intent on his own, no doubt. Good night, Geoffrey.

  But there was no answer; puzzling over a question whose solution was too obvious to see had given Geoffrey the distraction and relaxation he had needed to lapse into sleep. Fess stood by, content to watch—and it was well that he did, for though Geoffrey may have found sleep, Quicksilver had not.

  On the other hand, she had no mischief in mind—or none that Geoffrey would have objected to, at least.

  CHAPTER 9

  In the stillness of false dawn, a bird called.

  Geoffrey looked up, frowning. "Knows not that owl that he should be abed?"

  "So should you, if you were a proper man," Quicksilver retorted.

  "No, a proper man would be up and about at this hour. It is the unproper man who would still be abed."

  "And not alone?" Quicksilver said scornfully. "I am sure you know whereof you speak."

  "Trust the voice of experience," Geoffrey agreed. The owl hooted again.

  "There is the voice I will trust," Quicksilver retorted. "She, at least, knows what she should be about, and when."

  " 'She'?" Geoffrey raised an eyebrow. "How can you be so sure 'tis a hen?"

  "Why, by its call," she said, with contempt.

  "Indeed! And how is hers different from his?"

  "By its tone, of course! Here, the cock owl sounds like this." Quicksilver cupped her hands and blew through her thumbs, producing a remarkably good imitation of an owl's cry. The bird in the bush instantly answered.

  "Will she not come to seek you now?" Geoffrey asked. "No—belike she sought to scold a male who had been out of his bed all night."

  "Indeed! And should he not chide her for her vigil?"

  "Since it was to await him out of worry, I think not."

  "'Twere best, then, that he not go home. Who could rest in a nest with a quarrelsome hen?"

  "Indeed! Well, if she had a grain of sense about her, she would leave the nest ere he comes!"

  "At last! We have agreed on something!"

  Quicksilver stared at him, nonplussed, then reddened with irritation—but Geoffrey looked up at another birdcall. "That quail, at least, knows his proper hour."

  "And his proper task," Quicksilver answered, "which is to greet the sun and find food for his mate and chicks."

  "Before the nightcrawlers can ooze back to their beds." Geoffrey nodded. "I have seen them many a time."

  "Oh? I thought you had been one."

  "That, too," Geoffrey admitted. "Should we not stop to break our fast soon?"

  "Why? Have you not brought wine enough?"

  "When the dog bites me, I bite back," Geoffrey retorted. She replied that a man is what he eats, and so they rode on in good-natured verbal fencing as the sun rose, and the dawn elbowed its way past the night. After a while, though, both ran out of quips, and they rode side by side in a silence that Geoffrey realized had become companionable, and was surprised to find that he had no desire to break.

  After a while, though, Quicksilver began to feel restless—she could not let this arrogant lordling presume too much, so she spoke. "I am surprised that you were so quick to say you would come to the aid of Aunriddy."

  "Are you truly?" Geoffrey asked, with interest. "Would you turn away from the prospect of a fight in a good cause?"

  Quicksilver stared at him, then slowly smiled. "No, I would not! And I suppose it would be too much to ask of you to forego it, either."

  "Most certainly," Geoffrey agreed cheerfully. "However, that is only the true reason. I have a better."

  "How now?" Quicksilver demanded. "You have already told me the true reason, and it is not so good as the false one?"

  "Oh, the other is not false. It is simply that even without it, I would ride to the aid of a village beset by outlaws."

  "Or a lord who was beset by outlaws," Quicksilver said, with irony.

  "Or a damsel," Geoffrey reminded her. "Would I had known of your danger, when first you were accosted! But since I did not, I shall have to work out my anger on the outlaws who bedevil Aunriddy."

  Quicksilver secretly thrilled to hear him say it, but made sure the thrill stayed secret. "What is this 'better' reason?"

  "Why, 'tis simply that such a rescue is my duty. I am a knight-errant, after all, and am sworn to defend the weak."

  "Very laudable," Quicksilver said drily, "since it gives you an excuse to go wandering and leave your wife and child at home."

  Geoffrey frowned. "I have no wife or child." Quicksilver hid her savage delight behind sarcasm. "Aye, but when you have, you will be glad of such an excuse to go philandering."

  Geoffrey laughed, but quickly sobered, gazing straight into her eyes. "I shall never marry unless I can find a woman who will be so desirable that she will drive thoughts of wandering clear out of my head, making me wish only to stay by her."

  There was that in his look and his tone that made Quicksilver quiver inside, but she spoke all the more hotly for that. "There is no such woman, sir, for any man will grow bored with the favors of even the most beautiful female."

  "Her remedy, then, is to be a woman of infinite variety," Geoffrey retorted, "so that she is many women in one." Quicksilver laughed bitterly. "Do you not ask the impossible of her, sir?"

  "Why not?"
Geoffrey said airily. "She is sure to ask the impossible of me."

  Quicksilver frowned, and was about to ask—when Geoffrey turned from her, his eyes kindling. "Ah! Is that Aunriddy, then?"

  Quicksilver turned to look, then nodded. "Aye."

  Below them, the forest opened into a hillside of scrub growth, sloping down into a bowl between itself and other hills. In the hollow lay a village, plumes of smoke rising from its chimneys. Men were trudging out to the fields with hoes over their shoulders, and women moved about the cottages in their morning chores.

  "I did not know that we were so close," Geoffrey said. "I thought it better to come upon them by morning," Quicksilver replied.

  "Wisely done, for who knows what may lurk in the night? And from what Maud said of these bandits, I think they are not the sort to wake early." But Geoffrey was frowning down at the village. "There is something wrong about it."

  "Oh, naught but starvation and despair," Quicksilver answered.

  "Both can be remedied." Geoffrey shook the reins, and Fess moved on down the trail. "Let us hope it is nothing more lasting," he called back to Quicksilver.

  They rode into the village side by side, looking about them with sharp eyes. A goodwife saw them and dropped her bucket, hurrying away and shooing her children before her, stopping their complaints with whacks across the bottoms.

  "Strangers are not a sign of hope," Geoffrey said.

  "I doubt not that too many strangers have shown themselves to be causes of despair." Quicksilver looked up keenly. "Do you know now what seemed wrong to you, from above?"

  "Aye." Geoffrey nodded at a tyke who sat playing listlessly in the dust. "It is the children. They do not run and shout at their play, as little ones should."

  Quicksilver turned to look, her face darkening. "Aye. They are too weak for such eager sport. They have eaten too little."

  The child's mother came running to scoop him up and hurry away with an awkward, limping gait. The tot squalled a feeble protest, then was silent.

  "All lack spirit here," Geoffrey said, eyeing the slump shouldered form of the mother. "Even from the hillside above, we should have been able to hear the men sing as they went out to the fields."

  "What had they to sing about?" Quicksilver was looking more and more stormy as they went along.

  "Ho! What is this?" Geoffrey reined in and looked up, frowning.

  They had come to the village green, if you could call it that—a larger-than-average space between houses, more or less circular, with a few patch-legged stools sitting in the dust. On one of them sat a pretty young woman, tears streaming down her cheeks as older women fluttered around her, making soothing sounds and dressing her hair with flowers and ribbons.

  "They deck her like a bride," Geoffrey said, "but why would a bride be weeping?"

  "Because she is being constrained to marry a man she does not love," Quicksilver told him, "but I do not think this one goes to a wedding." She clucked to her horse, and it moved up close to the weeping girl.

  The women looked up with alarm.

  "Why do you weep, maiden?" Quicksilver demanded. The girl looked up, startled, then gasped in alarm. A woman seated astride a horse with bare legs and bare arms was shocking, even if the scabbard across her back was empty.

  "She has cause enough." One of the older women wrapped her arms protectively around the girl. "Let the poor child be."

  "Why, so I shall, if others do. Who seeks to torment her?"

  "She must go to warm the bed of Maul, the chief of the bandits who beset us, if you must know! He is a crude man, and rough, and takes pleasure in cruelty."

  The girl burst into tears, wailing hopelessly.

  "You must be a stranger, or you would know of this," a granny said. "Ride warily, mistress, or Maul shall come for you, too."

  "I hope that he does!" Quicksilver hissed.

  "Do not think your man shall save you from him." Another beldame scowled from Geoffrey to Quicksilver and back. "He is twice your size, young man, and has fifty like him at his back."

  Geoffrey nodded judiciously. "The odds are not too uneven, then."

  "Aye," Quicksilver snapped, "if you give me back my sword!"

  "Here it is, and gladly." Geoffrey took her sword from its lashings and handed it back to her, hilt first. "Now the odds are uneven again."

  "Beware, cocksure youth." The granny frowned. "Pride goeth before the fall."

  "That it does, and Maul shall surely fall." Geoffrey turned to Quicksilver. "Shall we hunt him, or bait him?"

  "Bait him?" Quicksilver looked up in delight. "Why, what an excellent idea!" She dismounted and tossed him the reins. "Let us go inside your hut, Grandmother! Maul shall come for his tidbit today, shall he not?"

  "Aye." The granny stared at her, taken aback. "Well, he shall find her, but not this poor lass!"

  Hope sprang in the girl's eyes, but the beldame wailed, "He shall see 'tis not Phoebe at a glance! He shall wreak his vengeance on our whole village!"

  "When he has seen my face, do you truly think he' will cavil?" Quicksilver shooed them toward the doorway, completely unaware of how conceited she had sounded. "Come, let us prepare him a nuptial surprise!" She turned back in the doorway and told Geoffrey, "You might see to feeding those poor starving babes whiles I dress."

  Geoffrey started a scathing retort, but she disappeared into the hut. He shrugged and looked about him. She was right, after all—the children should be fed. A few more hours would make no great difference, but he could not abide to see suffering when he could prevent it.

  As he rode around the village green, though, the mothers snatched their babes indoors, leaving only the old and the infirm to sit out in the sun. And infirm they were—a dozen of all ages sat listlessly, spooning thin gruel with hands covered with sores. A nasty suspicion began, and Geoffrey drew up beside one rail-thin middle-aged man whose skin hung on him like a garment suddenly become too large. "Have you no food other than grain, goodman?"

  The man looked up, too weary for surprise. "Nay, sir, and no great store of that."

  That explained the sores, then, and the lethargy. "Surely you could make your porridge strong enough to eat, not drink!"

  "Mayhap," the man said, "though we must make it last till the harvest. Still, I would I dared chew."

  "'Dared'? Why do you not?"

  "For fear my teeth might fall out, sir. They seem loose in my head."

  "Belike they are," Geoffrey said, and turned away brusquely, hiding his distress at what he saw. It was clearly vitamin deficiency, and apparently the outlaws had taken all food but a small stock of grain for six months or more—long enough for the symptoms to show. Aunriddy was not yet starving, but it was nonetheless dying of malnutrition.

  Still, what could he do? Teleport in some tomatoes and dried meat and vegetables and fruit, yes, but how could he tend the illnesses they had now, while he waited for them to heal? He seemed to remember Fess saying something about that in the biology class he had so steadfastly ignored—he had only paid attention to the business about beriberi and scurvy when Fess had pointed out that they were apt to weaken an army besieging a castle. Of healing he knew nothing, except for the rough meatball surgery that might prove necessary on the battlefield—and this did not look like a case of need for cauterizing wounds.

  Well, if he knew nothing about healing, he knew one who did. He called up a mental image of his sister and concentrated on her while he thought, long and hard in the family encoded mode, Cordelia! Your aid, I pray!

  Cordelia's answer was instant. What ails you, brother? Not I myself, Geoffrey answered, but a whole village that is suffering from vitamin deficiencies. Babes and aged alike have running sores and live in lethargy.

  There was a pause; this was not what Cordelia expected when one of her brothers called for help. I shall finish this potion that I brew, then, and bring what medicines I may. What is the cause? Know they no better than to eat naught but grain?

  They do, Geoffrey assured her, b
ut they are beset by bandits, who take all other food they grow.

  Why, the lice and poltroons! Cordelia answered, seething. Know you no cure for a plague of wolves, brother? I do, he assured her, and we set a wolf-trap even now. 'We'? Cordelia demanded. Who is 'we'?

  Geoffrey almost answered her, then remembered that any picture of Quicksilver he thought of was bound to have his feelings attached—and he wasn't quite ready for his sister to know about those, just yet. The bandit chieftain whom I was sent to hobble, he told Cordelia. I shall speak of her when you come.

  'Her'? Cordelia thought. A bandit chieftain, and a woman? This I must see! Where are you, brother?

  In a village called Aunriddy, Geoffrey answered, and visualized a map of Gramarye that zoomed in on the Duchy of Loguire, with Aunriddy marked by a large red "X."

  I shall fly to you, Cordelia assured him. Expect me within the hour. Her thought-stream ended.

  Geoffrey frowned. Within the hour? From Runnymede to Loguire, in no more time than that? It was two days' hard riding! Even flying, it should have taken her the better part of a day. How could she manage an hour?

  Time enough to ask when she came. In the meantime, there were hungry children to feed. Geoffrey rode to the center of the common, frowning. He murmured softly, sure no one would overhear. "'Tis a pretty problem, Fess. I must conjure up food enough to heal them, but not so much that the bandits will see it and seize it—and thrash each man and woman till they are sure hidden stocks have been yielded up."

  "Then bring only as much as they can hide," Fess answered.

  Geoffrey nodded. "Sound advice. Let us turn to it, then."

  He dismounted and reached inside his tunic to the inner pocket that served him as a purse. He tossed a heap of pennies onto the ground, then stared at them and thought about oranges. It took quite a bit of concentration, of course—he wasn't really turning the pennies into oranges. Rather, he was teleporting the fruit from places where it was, to a place where it wasn't—here—then teleporting a penny back to the source of the oranges, one penny for five, which had been a little more than the going rate the last time he had noticed. He did not want any merchant or farmer to go bankrupt due to his errand of mercy. More to the point, he was a knight, and determined not to rob the commoners. The rich were another matter, but only if they had obtained their wealth by stealing from the poor.