The Warlock in Spite of Himself wisoh-2

by Неизвестный

  "Sirrah," she gasped, "what means this?"

  "Poison air," Rod snapped. She shoved the goblet at a servant-girl and looked about the room. Something in here was emitting poison gas.

  The fireplace.

  Rod crossed to the hearth and held the horn upside-down over the flames; but the color of the sheath dimmed to lavender.

  "Not there," Rod spun about, coming to his feet. He paced about the room, holding the horn before him like a candle. It stayed lavender.

  He frowned, scratched at the base of his skull. What would be the best place to put a poison-gas cartridge?

  As close to the Queen as possible, of course.

  He turned, moving slowly to the four-poster. As he came to Catharine's side, the horn's color darkened to violet.

  Catharine stared at the horn in fascination and horror.

  Rod knelt, slowly. The horn's color darkened to purple and began to shade toward black.

  Rod threw up the bedskirts and looked under the four-poster. There before him, on the stone floor, steamed a warming-pan.

  Rod grabbed the long handle and yanked the pan out. He inverted the horn over one of the holes in the cover—if his memory was correct, warming-pans didn't usually have holes…

  The hom turned dead black.

  He looked up at Catharine. She had the knuckles of one hand jammed between her teeth, biting them to keep from screaming.

  Rod turned, holding the pan out to the sentry. "Take this," he said, "and fling it into the moat."

  The sentry dropped his pike, took the warming-pan, and rushed out, holding it at arm's length.

  Rod turned slowly back to Catharine. "We have cheated the banshee again, my Queen."

  Catharine's hand trembled as she took it away from her mouth. Then her lips clamped shut, her eyes squeezed tight, little fists clenched so hard the knuckles were white.

  Then her eyes opened, slowly; there was a wild light in them, and a faint smile crept over her lips. "Master Gallowglass, stay by me. All else, remove yourselves!"

  Rod swallowed and felt his joints liquefy. She was, at that moment, the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

  The Guardsmen, ladies, and pages were already in motion, heading for an incipient traffic jam at the door.

  Brom bawled orders, and the jam failed to develop. In thirty seconds, the room was clear, except for Rod, the Queen, and Brom O'Berin.

  "Brom," Catharine snapped, eyes locked on Rod's face. Her teeth were beginning to show through her smile. "Brom O'Berin, do you leave us also."

  Brom stared a moment, outraged; then his shoulders slumped, and he bowed heavily. "I will, my Queen."

  The door closed quietly behind him.

  Slowly, Catharine lay back against the pillows. She stretched with a luxurious, liquid grace. One hand snaked out to clasp Rod's. Her hand was very soft.

  "It is twice now you have given me my life, Master Gallowglass." Her voice was a velvet purr.

  "My—my privilege, my Queen." Rod cursed himself, he was gawking like an adolescent with a copy of Fanny Hill.

  Catharine frowned prettily, tucking her chin in and touching a forefinger to her lips.

  Then she smiled, rolled over onto her side. The velvet gown fell open. Apparently it was the custom to sleep nude.

  Remember, boy, Rod told himself, you're just a traveling salesman. You'll wake up in the morning and be on your way. You're here to peddle democracy, not to court a Queen. Not fair to take advantage of her if y ou're not going to be here to take advantage of it… Did that make sense?

  Catharine was toying with a pendant that hung from her neck. Her teeth were worrying her lower lip. She looked him over like a cat sizing up a canary.

  "Blank-shield soldiers," she murmured, "have a certain repute…"

  Her lips were moist, and very full.

  Rod felt his lips moving, heard his own voice stammering, "As—as my Queen seeks to reform the ills of her land, I… hope to reform the reputation of soldiers. I would do… only good to your Majesty."

  For a moment, it seemed Catherine's very blood must have stopped, so still she lay.

  Then her eyes hardened, and the silence in the room stretched very, very thin.

  She sat up, gathering her dressing gown about her. "Thou art much to be commended, Master Gal-lowglass. I am indeed fortunate to have such loyal servitors about me."

  It was much to her credit, under the circumstances, Rod thought, that there was only a faint tone of mockery to her voice.

  Her eyes met his again. "Accept the Queen's thanks for the saving of her life."

  Rod dropped to one knee.

  "I am indeed fortunate," Catharine went on, "to be so loyally served. You have given me my life; and I think that few soldiers would have given me safe deliverance, as you have done."

  Rod flinched.

  She smiled, her eyes glittering malice and satisfaction for just a moment.

  Then her eyes dropped to her hands. "Leave me now, for I shall have a trying day tomorrow, and must make good use of the night, for sleeping."

  "As the Queen wishes," Rod answered, poker-faced. He rose and turned away, his belly boiling with anger—at himself. It wasn't her fault he was a fool.

  He closed the door behind him, then spun and slammed his fist against the rough stone of the entry-way wall. The nerves in his fist screamed agony.

  He turned back to the hall, forearm laced with pain—and there stood Brom O'Berin, face beet-red, trembling.

  "Well, shall I kneel to thee? Art thou our next king?"

  The anger in Rod's belly shot up, heading for Brom O'Berin. Rod clamped his jaws shut to hold it back. He glared at Brom, eyes narrowing. "I have better use for my time, Brom O'Berin, than to rob the royal cradle."

  Brom stared at him, the blood and fury draining out of his face. " 'Tis true," he murmured, nodding. "By all the saints, I do believe 'tis true! For I can see in thy face that thou art filled with Furies, screaming madness at thy manhood!"

  Rod squeezed his eyes shut. His jaw tightened till it felt as if a molar must break.

  Something had to break. Something had to give, somewhere.

  Somewhere, far away, he heard Brom O'Berin saying, "This one hath a message for thee, from the witches in the tower…"

  Rod forced his eyes open, stared down at Brom.

  Brom was looking down and to his left. Following his gaze Rod saw an elf sitting tailor-fashion by Brom's foot. Puck.

  Rod straightened his shoulders. Smother the anger; vent it later. If the witches had sent word, it was probably vital.

  "Well, spill it," he said. "What word from the witches?"

  But Puck only shook his head and murmured, "Lord, what fools these mortals be!"

  He skipped aside a split second before Rod's fist slammed into the wall where he'd been sitting.

  Rod howled with pain, and spun. He saw Puck and lunged again.

  But "Softly" said Puck, and a huge chartreuse-and-shock-pink filled the hall, a full-size, regulation, fire-breathing dragon, rearing back on its hind feet and bellowing flame at Rod.

  Rod goggled. Then he grinned, baring his teeth in savage joy.

  The dragon belched fire as it struck. Rod ducked under the flames and came up under the monster's head. His fingers closed on the scaly neck, thumbs probing for the carotid arteries.

  The dragon flung its head up and snapped its neck like a whip. Rod held on grimly, held on and held on while the dragon battered him against the granite walls. His head slapped stone and he yelled with pain, stars and darkness before his eyes, but he tightened his grip.

  The great neck bowed, and the huge talons of the hind feet raked at Rod's belly, splitting him from collarbone to thigh. Blood fountained out, and Rod felt himself reeling into blackness; but he held on, determined to take the dragon with him into death.

  Yeah, death, he thought, amazed, and was outraged that he should die over a puny fit of anger, anger over a slip of a bitch of a girl.

  Well, at least
he'd have a mount in the land of the dead. As darkness sucked him down, he felt the great head drooping, bobbing lower and lower, following him down to death…

  His feet felt solid ground and, for a miracle, his legs held him up. Light misted through the dark around him, misted and gathered and grew, and he saw the beast lying dead at his feet.

  The darkness ebbed away from the dragon; light showed Rod granite walls and brocade hangings; and the castle hall swam about him, reeled, and steadied.

  At his feet, the dragon's colors faded. Its outlines blurred and shimmered, and the beast was gone; there was only clean gray stone beneath Rod's feet.

  He looked down at his chest and belly; his doublet was whole, not even wrinkled. Not a trace of blood, not a scratch on him.

  He squeezed an elbow, expecting the pain of bruises; there was none.

  His head was clear, without the ghost of even an ache.

  Slowly, he raised his eyes to Puck.

  The elf looked back, eyes wide and mournful. Amazingly, he wasn't smiling.

  Rod covered his face with his hands, then looked up again. "Enchantment?"

  Puck nodded.

  Rod looked away. "Thanks."

  "Thou hadst need of it," Puck answered.

  Rod squared his shoulders and breathed deeply. "You had a message for me?"

  Puck nodded again. "Thou art summoned to a meeting of the Coven."

  Rod frowned, shaking his head. "But I'm not a member."

  Brom O'Berin chuckled like a diesel turning over. "Nay, thou art of them, for thou art a warlock."

  Rod opened his mouth to answer, thought better of it, and closed his jaws with a snap. He threw up his hands in resignation. "Okay, have it your own way. I'm a warlock. Just don't expect me to believe it."

  "Well, thou wilt, at least, no longer deny it." Toby filled Rod's mug with the hot, mulled wine. "We ha' known thou wert a warlock even before we had set eyes on thee."

  Rod sipped at the wine and looked about him. If he'd thought it was a party last night, his naivete had been showing. That had just been a kaffeeklatsch. This time the kids were really whooping it up.

  He turned back to Toby, bellowing to hear his own voice. "Don't get me wrong; I don't mean to be a cold blanket, but what's the occasion? How come all the celebrating?"

  "Why, our Queen lives!" yelled Toby. "And thou art hero of the night! Thou hast banished the banshee!"

  "Hero…" Rod echoed, a wry smile twisting his face. He lifted his mug and took, a long, long draft.

  Suddenly he swung the mug down, spluttering and coughing.

  "What ails thee?" Toby asked, concerned. He pounded Rod on the back till the older man wheezed, gasping.

  "Leave off," he said, holding up a hand, "I'm okay. I just thought of something, that's all?"

  "What is thy thought?"

  "That banshee ain't real."

  Toby stared. "What dost thou say?"

  Rod clamped a hand on the back of Toby's neck and pulled the boy's ear down to his own level.

  "Look," he yelled, "the banshee only appears before someone dies, right?"

  "Aye," said Toby, puzzled.

  "Before someone dies," Rod repeated, "not every time someone's just in danger of death. And the Queen's still alive!"

  Toby pulled back, staring at Rod.

  Rod smiled, eyes dancing. "It's only supposed to show up when death's inevitable."

  He turned, looked out over the great tower room.

  The witches were dancing on the walls, the ceiling, occasionally the floor, and in mid-air, with a fine disregard for gravity. They were twisting through gyrations that would have given a snake triple lumbago.

  Rod looked back at Toby, lifted an eyebrow. "Doesn't look much like a funeral."

  Toby frowned; then his face split into a grin. "I think thou hast not seen a Gramarye wake," he yelled. "Still, thou art aright; we dance this night for Life, not Death."

  Rod grinned savagely, took another pull from his mug, and wiped his lips with the back of his hand. "Now, if it's a fake, and it is, the next question is, who put it there?"

  Toby's jaw dropped open. He stared.

  "Get me Aldis," Rod shouted.

  Toby closed his mouth, gulped, and nodded. He closed his eyes; a moment later, Aldis swooped down and brought her broomstick in for a two-point landing.

  "What dost thou wish?" she panted. She was blushing, face lit with excitement and joy. The sight of her gave Rod a sudden pang of mourning for his own lost youth.

  He leaned forward. "See if you can tune in on Durer, Loguire's chief councillor."

  She nodded, closed her eyes. After a few moments she opened them again, staring at Rod in fear.

  "They are much wroth," she reported, "that the Queen did not die. But they are more wroth in that they know not who put the banshee on the roof of the castle this night."

  Rod nodded, lips pressed into a tight, thin line. He took a last draft from his mug and rose, turning away toward the stairwell.

  Toby reached up, catching his sleeve. "Where dost thou go?"

  "To the battlements," Rod called back, else would you look for a banshee?"

  "Where?"

  The night breeze cut chill through his clothes as he stepped out onto the battlements. The moon, over his shoulder, sent his shadow pacing before him.

  The battlements stretched out before him like a great gap-toothed row of incisors.

  "Fess," Rod called softly.

  "Here, Rod," murmured the voice back of his ear.

  "Does this banshee seem to be fonder of one stretch of battlements than another?"

  "Yes, Rod. During the period in which we have been in Gramarye, the banshee has appeared under the east tower."

  "Always?"

  "To judge by an inadequate sample, yes."

  Rod turned to his left, strolling east. "Well, you go on collecting an adequate sample while I do something about it."

  "Yes, Rod," said the robot, somehow managing a tone of martyred patience.

  Rod looked out over the battlements at the town, nestled below them at the foot of the great hill that served as the foundation for the castle. A long, white road wound up from the town to the drawbridge, with here and there the outpost of a low, rambling inn.

  And down there below, in the rotting heart of the town, like some great basalt gravestone, stood the House of Clovis.

  A stumbling, a scrabbling behind him. Rod snapped about into a wrestler's crouch, dagger a bite of moonlight in his hand.

  Big Tom stumbled out of the winding stairway, with something draped across his arm. He stood, looking about him with wide-white-rimmed eyes, heaving hoarse gusts of air into his lungs.

  He turned, saw Rod, and came running, his face flooded with relief. "Eh, master, thou'rt still whole!"

  Rod relaxed and straightened up, sliding the dagger back into its sheath. "Of course I'm whole! What're you doing here, Big Tom?"

  The big man stopped, the grin wavering on his face. He looked down at the cold stones, shuffling his feet. " 'Ell, master, I had heard…1…well…"He looked up; the words came in a rush:"Tha must not go again' the banshee; but if thou'lt go, thou'lt not go alone."

  Rod studied the big man's face for a long moment, wondering where this deep devotion had come from.

  Then he smiled gently. "Your knees have turned to jelly at the mere thought of the monster, but you still won't let me go alone."

  He clapped Tom on the shoulder, grinning. "Well, then, come along, Big Tom; and I'm downright glad of your company, I don't mind telling you."

  Tom grinned and looked down at the stones again. It was hard to be sure in the moonlight, but Rod thought there was a faint blush creeping up from the big man's collar.

  He turned and set out toward the tower. Tom plodded along by his side. " 'Ere now, master, thou'lt grow a-cold," and Tom flung the cloak he had been carrying over his arm around Rod's shoulder.

  A warm, friendly gesture, Rod thought as he thanked Big Tom. He was touched
that the clumsy ape should be worried about him—but he was also aware that the cloak hampered his knife hand, and was pretty sure Big Tom was aware of it, too.

  "Art not afraid, master?"

  Rod frowned, considering the question. "Well, no, not really. After all, the banshee's never been known to hurt anybody. It's just, well, a forecast, you know? Herald of Death and all that."

  "Still, 'tis a marvel thou'rt not afeard. Wilt thou not even walk in the shadows by the wall, master?"

  Rod frowned and looked at the shadows along the battlements. "No, I'll take the center of the way when I can. I'd always rather walk tall in the sunlight than skulk in the shadows at the side of the road."

  Big Tom was silent a moment, his eyes on the shadows.

  "Yet," he said, "of necessity, a man must go through the shadows at one time or other, master."

  With a shock, Rod realized Tom had picked up the allegory. Illiterate peasant, sure!

  He nodded, looking so serious it was almost comic. "Yes, Big Tom. There's times when he has to choose one side of the road or the other. But for myself, I only stay on the sidelines as long as I have to. I prefer the light." He grinned. "Good protection against spirits."

  "Spirits!" Tom snorted. He quickly threw Rod a half-hearted grin.

  He turned away, frowning. "Still, master, I do much marvel that you will take the middle road; for there may a man be attacked from both sides. And, more to the point, he cannot say that he has chosen either the right or the left."

  "No," Rod agreed, "but he can say that he has chosen the middle. And as to attack, well, if the road is well-built, the center is highest; the pavement slopes away to right and left, and the shoulder is soft and may give way beneath you. A man in the middle can see where his enemies are coming from; and it's firm footing. The sides of the road are treacherous. Sure it's an exposed position. That's why not too many have the courage to walk it."

  They walked a moment in silence; then Rod said, "Did you ever hear of a dialectical materialism, Tom?"

  "How… ?" The big man's head jerked up in surprise, almost shock. He recovered, scowling and shaking his head fervently, and muttering, "No, no, master, no, never, never!"

  Sure, Big Tom, Rod thought. Aloud, he said, "It's a Terran philsophy, Big Tom. Its origins are lost in the Dark Ages, but some men still hold by it."