"Yet is there not greater hazard here, my lord? We might, after all, sit safe in some shed and listen with our minds."
"No doubt." Rod poked his nose over the windowsill for a quick peek at the inside of Cholly's Tavern. "But I can't resist watching that muscle-bound jester in action. Besides, we're at the back of the building, and in the shadows. Nobody's apt to see us. I mean, they do have indoor plumbing here."
Inside, Yorick was gradually bringing the conversation closer and closer to the politics of the moment.
"Aye, here's to our Wolman brothers!" A corpulent corporal lifted his mug in a toast.
"And our Wolwoman sisters," a PFC agreed.
A trooper shrugged. "You have 'em as sisters, if you want. Me, I'd favor closer relations." He won a general, leering laugh, and a middle-aged private called, "Relations is what they'd be, shavetail. These Wolmen don't hold with casual acquaintance. Seducers go quick to the shotgun."
Yorick juggled with it, and lifted his glass. "Well, here's to the distaffs. May they not be disowned by distiffs."
His answer was a chuckle that died a quick death. Soldiers fell silent, glancing at each other. "Don't know much, do yer?" A sergeant snarled.
Yorick frowned at him, and shrugged. "'Last come, first numbed.' So the Wolmen get mad at us. So what?"
"So what, he says!" growled one of the older privates. "Yer wasn't here when the battles was real, chum! Yer didn't have ter go out 'gainst them bloody spears and see yer buddy's bowels ripped out!"
"Yer didn't have an arm chopped off," growled a maimed veteran, "and see the stump a-pumping!"
"Yuh didn't have their devil's yowling clawing at yuh ears, whiles yuh pulled back tuh the Wall with a dozen, where yuh'd gone out with a hundred," growled a grizzled sergeant, "and them spears and arrows poking at yuh from all sides."
"Don't sell them short," a gnarled corporal grated. "Vicious, they is, when they's fighting."
"And they isn't no cowards," another rumbled. "Arrowheads and spears can kill a man as dead as any blaster-bolt, my lad. And y' can't duck 'em, when they come in clouds!"
"How many did we lose?" The grizzled sergeant glared down into his beer. "A dozen a day? Sixty in a week? A hundred?"
"And for years it went on, years and years!" A fortyish sergeant slammed his tankard down on the bar. "We'll not have those days back—no, not at any cost!"
With a shock, Rod recognized Thaler.
"Well, even I wouldn't go that far," the grizzled sergeant mused. "I can think of some prices I wouldn't pay."
"For all that, so can I," the fortyish one admitted. "But there's plenty of prices well worth it!" He glared around him. "What's two lives, against the thousands that a war would cost? What's two lives, hey?"
The room was silent. Finally, "Aye," grunted the grizzled veteran, "but like as not, they'll squirm out of it at the trial."
"Only if they're innocent," Yorick put in quickly. "Okay, so I haven't known Shacklar as long as you have—but I'd have faith in his justice."
"Innocent or not, who cares?" Thaler turned to glower at Yorick. "If they're freed, the Wolmen will explode and swarm down on us again! And this time, every man jack one of 'em has a blaster!"
A mutter of apprehension ran around the bar. Most men shuddered, and the room was quiet.
For a time. Then a voice said,
"Kill 'em."
Shocked silence.
Then another voice. "Aye."
"Aye, kill 'em!"
"What matter two lives, in place of thousands?"
"Aye! Give the Wolmen their dead bodies in the morning, and they'll go away!"
The grizzled sergeant frowned. "But when Shacklar finds out…"
"He won't make no fuss," Thaler said, with a vicious grin. "What's the dead, compared to the living? Nay, Shacklar may be sheet-pale, but he'll say naught."
"But they're innocent!" Yorick protested.
"So're the men who would die in a war!" Thaler snarled. "What's two innocents against a thousand, laddie? Eh?"
"But the trial!" Yorick bleated. "Would you want to go without a trial?"
"They're not me," Thaler snarled. "They're not any of us."
That drew a low rumble of agreement.
"But…" Yorick stabbed with a finger. "If you sell them for peace, what's gonna happen when one of you is accused?"
"Oh, my bleedin' heart!" the grizzled sergeant growled.
"What's-a-matter, bucko? You want war?" Thaler looked Yorick up and down, as though measuring him for a coffin. "Ayuh, I think that's it. You've never seen a battle, have you, laddie? And you're sick with craving to be blooded."
"The hell I am!" Yorick said quickly. "I saw my share of scrapes before I wound up here—and calling 'em 'police actions' didn't cut the casualty lists!"
"I don't believe a word of it." Thaler slipped off his bar stool and stepped up very close to the Neanderthal, blood in his eye. "You don't have the look of a fighter to me. But you'd be glad enough to see us die in your place."
"Let's go get them," someone growled.
"Aye!"
"Aye, get 'em and blast 'em!"
"Serve 'em on a platter!"
"Aye!"
"You're in it, laddie." Thaler fixed Yorick with a glittering eye. "Come with us now, or we'll know you're against us, and a traitor to the whole of the colony!"
"With you?" Yorick stared.
Then he leaped off his bar stool. "I'll do more than come with you! I saw the two of them scurrying for cover when I was coming in here. You come with me, and I'll show you where to find them!"
Thaler stared, then slowly grinned.
"Let's go!" Yorick shouldered his way through the mob, heading for the door.
Rod and Gwen exchanged one quick, appalled glance, then shot away from the building at top speed.
Where, my lord? Gwen's thoughts sounded inside Rod's head.
Anywhere, Rod answered, looking around frantically. There.' He pointed to two huge barrels, lying on their sides, empty. Crouch down!"
Gwen did, clutching her broom to her, eyes squeezed shut. Rod hefted the barrel up and lowered it gently over her. Then he crouched down beside her, staring at the second barrel, concentrating, blocking out the rest of the world. The barrel lifted slowly, then descended to settle over him. He relaxed and sat back, leaning against its side, but kept his eyes shut, listening with his mind, seeing through the eyes of one of the less-intelligent soldiers back in the middle of the mob.
Yorick exploded out of the tavern with the lynch mob behind him. "Come on! I'll show you the last place I saw them!"
Gwen's thoughts rang in Rod's head: How could he turn against us so thoroughly, so quickly?
I don't know, Rod answered grimly, but I'm considering taking up a new hobby. Say—carving…
The sound of the mob faded, but it still clamored inside their minds. The soldiers ran frantically into the night, then slowed as the first flush of enthusiasm began to wear off. Rod's medium-soldier began to grow resentful—what was he doing, out here in the middle of the night, running nowhere?
Then Yorick's voice crowed, way ahead, "There they go! Quick, after them!"
The soldier's enthusiam leaped up again. Filled with excitement, howling with bloodlust, he ran after his companions. They swerved to the left, dashed down a darkened street, and ran for several minutes. The soldier's breath began to rasp in his lungs, and sullen resentment began again.
Yorick howled, "There! Between those two buildings! I saw 'em run! After 'em, quick!"
Excitement boiled up again, and the soldier leaped after his mates, the thrill of the chase pounding through his veins.
On down the street they ran—and on… and on… and on…
Rod thought at his barrel; it lifted, and he turned to Gwen as her barrel drifted up, then dropped down on its side. They shared a guilty look.
"How could we have doubted him?" Gwen murmured.
"Easy—I never did trust anybody who was always cheerful. But I
was wrong—dead wrong."
"Not 'dead,' praise Heaven!"
"But a fool." Rod's mouth tightened. "What's going to happen to me if I keep doubting my real friends?"
"We shall repay him," Gwen assured, "with our safety."
"True," Rod agreed. "That's what he wants most right now. And, come to think of it…" He turned toward the tavern with a glint in his eye. "He has bought us a little time here, hasn't he?"
Gwen looked startled, then smiled. "He hath indeed, my lord. Art thou mad as a bantam cock, thus to beard thine enemies?"
Rod nodded. "Not a bad simile, my lady. Y'know, I'm feeling a bit thirsty. Shall we?"
"Certes, an thou dost wish it, my lord." She clasped his arm.
"After all, everyone who's out for our blood has already left, right?"
They turned to face the tavern, threw back their shoulders, and stepped off in.unison.
With a jaunty swagger, they sauntered into Cholly's Tavern.
Cholly looked up to see who was coming in, then looked again, wide-eyed.
The half-dozen patrons who were still there looked up, wondering what could startle Cholly—then stared, themselves.
Cholly recovered right away, turning back to mop the bar. "Well then, now, Master and Missus! What'll be your pleasure?"
"Just a pint." Rod slid onto a bar stool. Gwen slid up beside him, hands folded on the edge of the bar, the very picture of demure innocence. Rod grinned around at the other patrons, and they swallowed heavily, managed feeble grins, and turned back to their drinking.
Cholly set a couple of foaming mugs in front of them, and Rod turned his attention back to the important things in life. He took a long drink, then exhaled with satisfaction. "So! What's the news?"
All of the patrons suddenly became very concerned with their beer and ale.
"Oh," Cholly said affably, "nothing terribly much. The word from the Wall is that the Wolmen're beginning to drift up and pitch camp, just out of blaster range…There're twenty or thirty people out howling fer yer blood… The gin'ral's sent the captains out't' remind people where their battle stations are…"
Rod nodded. "Slow night, huh?"
"Humdrum," Cholly agreed. "I gets rumors all the time."
"Yeah, about those rumors…" Rod cocked a forefinger. "Hear anything about Shacklar?"
Cholly looked up, startled. "The gin'ral? What about 'im?"
Rod shrugged. "He seems to be taking the whole thing very calmly, if you ask me."
"We didn't," a young soldier reminded him.
Rod shrugged again. "Whatever. Is he always so coldblooded about crises?"
"Gin'rally, yes," Cholly said slowly. "I've known him to get excited when he can't find his cat-o'-nine-tails, but nothing else seems to fash him much."
"Cat-o'-nine-tails?" Rod frowned. "I thought you said he outlawed that."
"He did." Cholly fixed him with a level gaze. "But who's to arrest the General-Governor, hey? Quis ipsos custodies custodial, young man."
'"Who will police the police,' huh?" Rod nodded. "A point."
"He never does anything to anybody else, without a good reason," Cholly supplied helpfully.
"'To anybody else,'" Rod repeated. "Well, I can accept that."
"Yer don't have much choice," a fiftyish ranker snarled.
"He's always fair," Cholly reminded.
"More'n fair," the ranker growled.
"And what he does is always for the greatest good of almost everybody, as Jeremy Bentham used to say."
Rod didn't like the sound of that "almost."
"I thought Bentham's line was, 'the greatest good of the greatest number.'"
"Well, that's almost everybody, ain't it?"
"Better than Bentham hoped for, probably," Rod admitted, "but nothing to lose his head over."
As long as there's progress," Cholly sighed.
"That there is," rumbled the grizzled veteran, "with the General. Every year he makes life a little better for everybody."
"Except the Wolmen?"
"The Wolmen, too!" The young soldier looked up in surprise. "I mean, would you believe it? He's actually trying to ease us soldiers into getting along with those savages! Permanently!"
"Why don't I have trouble believing that?" Rod wondered.
"Always a skeptic," Cholly sighed.
Rod turned back to him. "I'll bet this little murder will set his plans back a ways."
Cholly's eyes suddenly clicked into "wariness" mode.
The young soldier said stoutly, "Don't you believe it!" and the grizzled veteran agreed, "He'll find a way to make this work out for the best of all of us."
"Colonists and Wolmen?" Rod said, with a lift of one eyebrow.
"Don't you doubt it!" the older man commanded.
"Oh, I don't," Rod said softly, "not one bit."
"Well." The young soldier looked up in surprise. "You're won, then?"
"Totally convinced," Rod confirmed.
The grizzled veteran still glared at him with suspicion, and Cholly just rolled his eyes up, but the young soldier grinned happily. "Well! That's done, then." He set both palms against the edge of the bar and, with a manful push, slid off his bar stool. "For my part, if I don't hit my bunk within the quarter hour, I won't make my sentry duty in the morning. Of course, I'll have a nice, snug berth in the stockade waiting for me."
"Morning?" Rod pricked up his ears. "How early? I mean, it's only…" He glanced at the clock over the bar. "… twenty-five hundred… .Huh?"
The young soldier grinned wickedly at Cholly, jerking his head toward Rod. "He is new here, isn't he?"
The young always so enjoyed being able to feel superior.
"There're twenty-six hours in a Wolmar day, chum," he advised Rod. "If I get to bed by twenty-five hundred, I'll have plenty of time for my six hours, and still make my five o'clock sentry-go."
Rod shuddered appropriately. "Horrible hours. Say, uh… you didn't happen to notice anybody going outside the Wall yesterday morning, did you?"
The young man shook his head, not quite noticing Cholly's frantic signals. "Nobody, except for Sergeant Thaler." He lifted his mug in a toast. "Your health, Cholly."
"Yours, Spar," the bartender sighed.
Spar downed the rest of his beer and turned away to the door, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. He waved, and drifted on out.
Rod turned back to Cholly. "That's strange. Thaler isn't one of your traders, is he?"
Cholly opened his mouth, but the grizzled corporal was a phoneme ahead. "No. Not that it matters—they usually come in around midday, anyway."
"Oh," Rod said, with total innocence, "they do?"
"Thaler's a valuable noncom," Cholly warned. "Shacklar trusts him down to his boot tops."
"Yes," Rod said softly, "that's what worries me."
"Milord." Gwen laid a hand on his arm. "I bethink me thou hast had ale enow, for this night."
"Hm?" Rod looked up in surprise. He caught the meaning in her gaze, and said, "Oh!" He turned his attention to what was going on outside the tavern for a minute, and heard disgruntled, frustrated, thirsty thoughts—the lynch mob, coming back. "Uh, yeah! Probably. We should be going." He chugged the rest of the mug, set it down. "Put it on my tab, will you?" Then he slipped off the stool, offered Gwen his arm, and turned to stroll out the door. "Thanks for everything," he called back.
Cholly raised a hand in farewell. "Keep the faith."
Rod wondered which one, but decided not to ask. As soon as they were out the door, they leaped to the side, ran around to the back. They crouched down by the window with the bulk of the building between them and the returning lynch mob, ears and minds wide open, listening. Rod had one eye above the windowsill. After a moment, Gwen joined him.
The mob streamed in, breaking up into individual soldiers who began to think as people again. "Ar, what a waste of good drinking time!"
"I've had more luck chasing extinct species!"
"Reminds me of the last time I went fishing…"
"Blinkin' witches, that's what they are!" growled a portly private, bellying up to the bar.
"Witches!" Sergeant Thaler sneered. "Nay, ain't nothin' but the natural in this!" He turned to glare at Yorick. "Natural fowl, that is! Led us a merry chase after the wild goose, didn't you?"
"Who, me?" Yorick shook his head violently, all offended innocence."You've got the wrong bird, Sergeant."
"Have I really, now?" Thaler purred, sliding off his bar stool and taking a step toward Yorick.
The Neanderthal laid a hand over his heart. "Never chased a wild goose in my life. Just wait till they fly by, usually. Not bad, with a little orange sauce and a side of peas…"
"No more of yer lip!" Thaler snarled. "Y' won't turn us aside with yer jestin' this time!" He wrapped a hand in Yorick's jacket, and jerked his head close. "You're in cahoots with 'em, ain'cha?"
The nearest soldiers looked up, startled. Then they scowled, and an ugly murmur began.
"I saw him in here with 'em this afternoon," a private called.
"Aye, and right chummy he was!"
Thaler slid a knife out of his boot and rested the point against Yorick's belly. "I shave with this, so mind you tell the truth. You're in it with 'em, ain'cha? Up to yer eyebrows. And all you're angling for, is helping them escape."
"Whup! Whoa! Hold it, here!" Yorick waved a hand. "Fair trial! Let's be fair about this!"
"Nay," an older corporal growled. "Where's yer mind? We've been through that, and through! We wants dead murderers, not live suspects!"
"I'm not talking about them—just me!"
"What should you have a trial for?" Thaler snarled. "You're trying to help them get away, and that'll bring a war on us!" He shouted out to the rest of the soldiers, "He's a traitor! A traitor to the colony, and all of us!"
"Aye!" The soldiers began crowding around. "What do you want, all of us dead?"
"Never seen the color of blood, have yuh?"
"Aye! Let's show him his own!"
"Who's got a rope here?"
"Whup! Hold it! I give!" Yorick waved both hands as though he were erasing a blackboard. "I admit it! I'm guilty!
Just back off, boys!" He heaved a sigh. "You caught me. All right. Anything except the rope and the knife. I'll show you where they really are."
The Warlock Wandering Page 9
