The Warlock in Spite of Himself wisoh-2

by Неизвестный

  Yes, it was Durer, glaring at Rod with his usual look of hate and suspicion. "What seek you in there?" he croaked.

  Rod brushed the bony hand off his shoulder and leaned back against the wall. "Nothing in particular; just looking around. I don't have much of anything to do at the moment, unless you'd like a song?"

  "Damn your caterwauling!" Durer snapped. "And you may leave off your pretense of minstrelsy; I know you for what you are."

  "Oh?" Rod raised an eyebrow. "How'd you know I'm not really a minstrel?"

  "I heard you sing. Now off to your chamber, if you've no business elsewhere!"

  Rod scratched his nose. "Ah—about that chamber," he said delicately. "My companion seems to have found, uh, a better use for it than sleeping. So I'm, ah, sort of locked out, if you follow me."

  "Corruption!" the councillor hissed.

  "No, I suspect Big Tom goes about it in a very healthy manner. And since I have no place to stay at the moment, I thought none would mind my wandering about."

  Durer glared at him, a look like a laser beam. Then, very reluctantly, he backed off a pace or two.

  "True," he said. "There are no secrets here for you to pry out."

  Rod managed to limit his laughter to a mild convulsion in the depths of his belly.

  "But did you not know," the scarecrow continued, "that this is the haunted quarter?"

  Rod's eyebrows shot up. "You don't say." He tugged at his lower lip, eyeing Durer judiciously. "You seem to know the castle pretty well."

  Durer's eyes snapped like a high-voltage arc. "Any in this castle could tell you that. But I am Durer, councilor to the Duke of Loguire! It is my place to know the castle well—as it is not yours!"

  But Rod had turned away, looking down the dark hallway. "You know," he mused, "I've never seen a ghost before…"

  "None have, and lived to tell of it! To enter there is the act of a fool!"

  Rod turned, smiling cheerfully. "Well, I'm qualified. Besides, a meeting with a ghost would make a good ballad."

  The little man stared; then a contemptuous smile twisted into his face. He began to chuckle, sounding strangely like ball bearings rolling over corrugated iron. "Go then, fool! I should have seen 'twould be no matter whether you went there or not."

  Rod grinned, shrugged, and stepped into the black corridor.

  "A moment!" Durer called.

  Rod sighed and turned. "What do you want now?"

  "Before you go to your death," said Durer, his eyes feverishly bright, "tell me: what are you?"

  A chill ran down Rod's back. The little man had seen through his cover.

  He leaned against the wall, radiating boredom. "A minstrel, of course. What else would I be?

  "Nay, fool! Do you think me so blind? You are a spy!"

  Rod's hand crept to his dagger-hilt. It was balanced for throwing.

  "A spy from the House of Clovis!" Durer howled.

  Rod's hand relaxed; he let out a breath that he hadn't known he'd been holding. "Guess again, little man."

  Durer scowled. "Not from the House? But then… Nay, you are their spy! Even now you will not admit to it!"

  A synapse spat in Rod's brain.

  He leaned back against the wall, folding his arms, grinning. "Why, what interest have you in the House of Clovis, good councillor? And why would Clovis wish to know of your doings here?"

  "Nay!" Durer hissed, his eyes widening. "Fool, do you think I would answer such… Aie! Curse my old mind, not to have thought it! You are a spy from the Queen!"

  Rod stepped away from the wall, loosening the dagger in its sheath. He didn't particularly care if Durer knew Catharine had sent him; but he did want an answer. "I asked you a question," he said mildly.

  Terror welled up in the little man's eyes. He leaped back against the far wall. "Hold! At my call a score of soldiers come!"

  Rod gave him a look that was somewhere between a sneer and a smile. "That won't do you much good if you're dead by the time they get here." He gestured toward the dark corridor. "Also, I'd probably be gone by the time they arrive."

  The little man stared, horrified, and began to tremble.

  But the little bastard had guts, Rod had to give him that. His voice broke like a cicada in autumn, but he kept talking.

  "It might be…it just might be that it is even as you say, that you are not of Clovis! And if you come from the Queen, why, then, you are welcome among us!"

  Rod half-turned his head, giving the little man a measuring, sidewise look.

  "I will tell all that you wish to know!" The councillor's hands came up in pathetic eagerness. A strange light came into his eyes. "Aye, all will I tell you, even to the day that we march on the Queen's capital! Then you may tell her, and she can march south to meet us halfway! Even this will I tell you!"

  He leaped forward, hands clawing. "Only come out from the hallway! If you come from the Queen, I would not have you die!"

  Rod's face turned to stone. "No. You've got something hidden in there, and I've got a strange notion it might be more important than the date set for your rebellion. I think I'll just have a look." He turned back into the dusty hallway.

  Durer ran after him a few steps, almost wailing. "No, no! You must carry word North! Come away, you fool!"

  Rod kept walking.

  Behind him, the little man screeched in anger. "Go, then, to your death! There is no need for you! I will take word to the North myself! Die, like the fool that you are!"

  His shrill, hysterical laughter echoed and slapped from the walls, beating into Rod's ears as he strode into the moldering, lightless depths of the Castle Loguire.

  He turned a corner, and the laugh died away. The faint torchlight from the main hall died with it; here the darkness was complete.

  Rod walked through it, chewing at the inside of his cheek. Obviously, the little man really expected him to die… which was strange, since he had tried to keep Rod from going in. Which meant he'd really wanted Rod to carry word of the rebellion back to Catharine. But why did he want to doublecross the rebels?

  Unless it was a triple-cross, somehow…

  Then, too, he obviously had something hidden back in these corridors, and might be afraid Rod would find it and somehow manage to come out alive.

  However, he expected Rod to die, which meant automated defenses surrounding Durer's Big Secret…

  Unless, of course…

  Rod stopped, suddenly realizing he didn't know the way out. He had a hazy recollection of having turned several corners while he'd been pondering; but he couldn't remember which corners, or how many, or which way he'd turned.

  He noticed that his voice shook just a trifle when he murmured "Fess."

  "Yes, Rod," the calm voice behind his ear answered instantly. It was vastly reassuring.

  "Fess, I'm in the haunted part of the castle."

  "Haunted?"

  "It has that reputation, yes."

  There was a pause; then the robot said, "Rod, an analysis of your voice patterns indicates mild fear. Surely you do not believe in ghosts."

  "No, I don't. But I just remembered, Fess—I didn't believe in elves, either. Or banshees. Or—"

  "Elves," Fess replied evenly, "are a myth."

  "Uh,Fess…"

  "Yes, Rod?"

  "I've seen quite a few elves since we landed."

  "A fait accompli," the robot admitted reluctantly, "which I am constrained to acknowledge. I have not as yet sufficient data to explain the seeming conflict with known principles."

  "You're as bad as a Catholic," Rod growled. "But at least it doesn't give you fits any more?"

  "No-o-o." The robot was thoughtful. "The initial datum caused an overload; but that datum has since been assimilated."

  "As long as you're sure there's a rational explanation."

  "Precisely."

  "So you're capable of handling the practical matters?"

  "Quite capable."

  "Because you're sure you'll be able to fit it into the Laws
of Science eventually."

  "Very perceptive, Rod."

  "Sounds like a Jesuit," Rod growled. "But the practical matter at hand is that I am scared. And for a very good reason. Fess…"

  "Yes, Rod?"

  "If elves can exist on this crazy planet, why not ghosts?"

  There was another pause; then Fess admitted, "There is no evidence that would directly contradict the hypothesis."

  A moan, so deep that Rod could hardly hear it, and so loud that he winced in pain, shook the walls of the hallway.

  Rod gasped. "What was that?"

  "A complex wave-pattern of low frequency and high amplitude," Fess answered obligingly.

  "Thank you, Dr. Slipcam. What caused it?"

  "There is as yet insufficient data for—"

  The moan came again, and a wraith of mist with hollow black eyes and a black circle of mouth swooped straight at Rod's head, starting as a pinpoint far down the hall and towering over him a second later.

  Rod screamed and plastered himself against the wall. Fear knotted his belly, fear slackened his limbs, fear jellied his brain and squeezed at his heart.

  Another moan sounded, a half-step above the first; Rod jerked his head to his right. Another ghost loomed over him.

  A third moan, and Rod's eyes slapped up; a third specter towered before him.

  Three ghosts, towering high about him, ringing him in against the stone wall. Their mouths formed great, lightless O's, cold bony fingers reaching out for him.

  Through the moiling panic of his brain fought a single thought: Fess didn't believe in ghosts.

  "Ghosts!" Rod screamed. "Ghosts, Fess, ghosts!"

  "Ghosts," droned the robot, "are immaterial, even if they did exist. They are manifestations of neither energy nor matter, incapable of causing damage to a material being."

  "Tell them! Tell them!" Rod shrieked.

  The hand around his heart tightened. He gasped and coughed. Something was mashing his lungs, a steel band around his chest, tightening, tightening… Fear was a physical thing, a looming presence, armed and hating. Fear could paralyze, fear could kill…

  "Rod, cover your ears."

  Rod tried to obey the robot's order, and couldn't. "Fess!" he screamed. "Fess, I can't move!"

  A loud, raucous buzz shook his skull, blotting out the moans. It modulated into monotone words: "C-O-V-E-R YOUR EARS."

  And the fear was gone, vanished—or almost gone, at least; reduced to the cold, familiar lump in the pit of the belly. Rod could move again, as easily as he ever had. He put his fingers in his ears. The buzz stopped, and he could hear the ghosts again, their moans dulled and distant through his fingers. The fear rose into his throat again, but it was no longer paralyzing.

  "Can you hear them, Rod?"

  "Yeah, but it's not so bad now. What'd you do, Fess?"

  "Nothing, Rod. Their moans have a harmonic frequency in the subsonic range, capable of inducing fear in members of your species."

  "Oh."

  "The fear-inducing tone is a beat frequency produced by the simultaneous emission of subsonic harmonics incorporated in the three moans."

  "So it takes three of them to scare me?"

  "Correct, Rod."

  "And they're not really scaring me, just making me feel scared?"

  "Again, correct."

  "Well, that's a relief. For a minute there I was afraid I'd all of a sudden turned into a full-blown coward."

  "All men fear, Rod."

  "Yeah, but only a coward lets it stop him."

  "That is a redundant statement, Rod."

  "Oh, the hell with theory! Pardon me while I put it into practice."

  Rod stepped away from the wall, forcing himself to move. He kept walking, right through the ghost in front of him. The moans suddenly ceased; then, with a howl of despair, the ghosts disappeared.

  "They're gone," Rod croaked.

  "Of course, Rod. Once you have demonstrated their inability to control you, they begin to fear you."

  " Ye-e-es," Rod breathed. He set his feet wide apart, jammed his fists on his hips, flung his head back, and grinned. "Okay, spooks! Any doubts about who's boss?"

  He stood, listening to the echoes of his voice die away among the empty corridors. A loud voice could be pretty impressive in here.

  A mournful, sepulchral voice answered him out of thin air, moaning. "Leave us, mortal. Leave us to the peace of our graves. We harm no one here, in our cold, old halls."

  "No one except the people who come in here," Rod snapped. "Them you kill, as you would have killed me, through weight of fear alone."

  "Few," mourned the ghost. "Very, very few, mortal man. Only madmen, and fools."

  "If you have killed one man here in your halls, you have killed one too many!' Rod rapped back.

  "Would you not slay, Man, in defense of your home?"

  Rod snorted. "What right have you to these halls?"

  Suddenly the ghost was there, towering over him. "I once was Horatio, first Duke Loguire!" it thundered in anger. "I it was built this keep! Have I no right to a poor, cold quarter of its halls?"

  Fear lanced Rod's belly; he took a step back, then set his teeth and stepped forward again. "You got a point there," he admitted. "And possession is nine-tenths of the law. But how many did you have to kill to gain possession?"

  "None." The ghost sounded very unhappy about it. "All fled in fear."

  Rod nodded, revising his estimate of the ghost. Apparently Horatio didn't kill if he could help it. Probably delighted when it became necessary, though…

  "I mean you no harm, Horatio." He grinned suddenly, sardonically. "What harm could I do you, even if I wanted to?"

  The ghost's head snapped up, empty eyes staring into Rod's. "You know not, mortal?"

  "A ghost," Fess's voice said hurriedly behind Rod's ear, "like all supernatural creatures, can be hurt by cold iron or silver, or any medium of good conductivity, though gold is usually regarded as too expensive for such uses."

  The ghost loomed larger over Rod, advancing on him.

  Rod stepped back, his dagger at the ready. "Hold it right there," he snapped. "Cold iron, remember?"

  "Then, too," Fess murmured, "you do know the secret of their power. You could bring in an army with earplugs."

  "Then, too," said Rod, "I do know the secret of your power. I could bring in an army with earplugs."

  The ghost halted, the corners of its mouth turning down. "I had thought thou hadst said thou knew not."

  "I do now. One step backward, if you please."

  The ghost reluctantly retreated, groaning, "What phantom stands at your side to advise you?"

  Rod's teeth bared in a grin. "A black horse, made of cold iron. It's in the castle stables, but it can talk to me from there."

  "A pouka," Horatio growled, "a spirit horse, and one who is a traitor to the world of ghosts."

  "No." Rod shook his head grimly. "It's not a spirit at all. I said it was made of cold iron, didn't I?"

  The ghost shook its head decisively. "No such thing could exist."

  Rod sighed. "There are more things in Heaven and Earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy. But that's beside the point. All that matters to you is that I don't mean any harm here. I'm just looking for something. I'll find it and go. Okay?"

  "You are master. Why dost thou ask?" the ghost said bitterly.

  "Courtesy," Rod explained. Then a vagrant and vague possibility crossed his mind. "Oh, by the way, I'm a minstrel…"

  The ghost's mouth dropped open; then it surged forward, hands grasping hungrily. "Music! Oh, sweet strains of melody! But play for us, Man, and we are thine to command!"

  "Hold on a second." Rod held up a hand. "You built these halls, Horatio Loguire, and therefore do I ask of you the boon that I may walk these halls in peace. Grant me this, and I will play for you."

  "You may walk, you may walk where you will!" the ghost quavered. "Only play for us, Man!"

  Very neat, Rod thought. As good a jo
b of face-saving as he'd ever done. After all, no sense making enemies if you can help it.

  He looked up, started, and stared in shock. He was ringed by a solid wall of ghosts, three deep at least, all staring like a starving man in a spaghetti factory.

  He swallowed hard and swung his harp around with a silent prayer of thanks that he hadn't been able to leave it in the sleeping-loft.

  He touched the strings, and a groan of ecstasy swept through the ghosts like the murmur of distant funeral bells on the midnight wind.

  It then occurred to Rod that he was in an excellent bargaining position. "Uh, Lord Horatio, for two songs, will you tell me where the secret passages are?"

  "Aye, aye!" the ghost fairly shrieked. "The castle is thine, my demesne, all that I have! The kingdom, if thou wish it! Only play for us, Man! For ten hundreds of years we have heard not a strain of Man's music! But play, and the whole world is thine!"

  His fingers started plucking then, and the ghosts shivered like a schoolgirl getting her first kiss.

  He gave them "Greensleeves," and "The Drunken Sailor," they being the oldest songs he knew. From there he went on to "The Ghost's High Noon," and "The Unfortunate Miss Bailey." He was about to swing into "GhostRiders in the Sky" when it occurred to him that ghosts might not particularly like songs about ghosts. After all, mortals told spook stories for escapism; and by that yardstick, specters should want songs about humdrum, ordinary, everyday life, something peaceful and comforting, memories of green pastures and babbling brooks, and the lowing herd winding slowly o'er the lee.

  So he went through as much of Beethoven's Sixth as he could remember, which was not easy on an Irish harp.

  The last strains died away among the hollow halls. The ghosts were silent a moment; then a satiated, regretful sigh passed through them.

  Horatio Loguire's great voice spoke quietly at Rod's elbow. "In truth, a most fair roundelay." Then, very carefully: "Let us have another, Man."

  Rod shook his head with a sorrowful smile. "The hours of the night crowd down upon us, my lord, and I have much that I must do ere daybreak. Another night I shall return and play for you again; but for this night, I must away."

  "Indeed," Horatio nodded, with another mournful sigh. "Well, you have dealt fairly with us, Man, and shown us courtesy without constraint to it. And shall we, for hospitality, be beholden to a guest? Nay; but come within, and I will show you doors to the pathways within the walls of this keep, and tell you of their twists and turnings."