The Warlock in Spite of Himself wisoh-2

by Неизвестный

  Rod frowned, and stepped over for a closer look. The face was slender, the nose tilted, mouth small, with a smug little smile of content.

  It was obviously not the brunette who had accosted Rod in the hallway earlier. He grunted in surprise; so the wench hadn't gone after the servant when she was refused by the master.

  Of course, it might be just that she hadn't moved fast enough… But no, Big Tom would've been glad to accommodate both.

  He replaced the torch, came back to the loft with a nod of grudging admiration at Big Tom, and without bothering to pull off his doublet, dropped into the heap of hay that served for a bed. It brought back fond memories. He yawned, cushioned his head on his forearm, and drifted slowly toward sleep.

  "Man Gallowglass!"

  The voice boomed in the little room. Rod jerked bolt upright; the girl screamed, and Big Tom swore.

  A ghost towered before them, glowing cold in the dark.

  Rod came to his feet, flicking a glance at Tom and the girl. She cowered in abject terror against the bear-hide of his chest. Tom's face had already settled into surly (and probably frightened) defiance.

  Rod switched his eyes to the ghost, standing tall above him in plate armor, its face incredibly long and thin. The sword at its hip was a rapier; it was not Horatio Loguire.

  Rod reminded himself that he was boss, a fact he had almost forgotten. He repaid the hollow gaze with the haughtiest look he could manage. "What sty were you raised in," he snapped, "that you come before a gentleman with such ill ceremony?"

  The cavern eyes widened, the ghost's jaw dropping down inside its mouth. It stared at Rod, taken aback.

  The mortal pressed his advantage. "Speak, and with courtesy, or I'll dance on your bones!"

  The ghost fairly cringed; Rod had struck pay dirt. Apparently there was some sort of ectoplasmic link between a ghost and its mortal remains. He made a mental note to track down the graves of all relevant ghosts.

  "Your pardon, milord," the ghost stammered. "I meant no offense; I only—"

  Rod cut him off. "Now that you have disturbed my rest, you may as well speak. What brings you to me?"

  "You are summoned—"

  Rod interrupted him off again. "None summon me."

  "Your pardon, lord." The ghost bowed. "Milord Loguire requests your presence."

  Rod glared a moment longer, then caught up his harp with a sigh. "Well, he who deals with spirits must deal at odd hours." He cocked his head. "Horatio Loguire?"

  "The same, my lord."

  The servant girl gasped.

  Rod winced; he had forgotten his audience. His reputation would be all over the castle by noon.

  "Well," he said, shouldering his harp, "lead on."

  The ghost bowed once more, then turned toward the wall, stretching out a hand.

  "Hold it," Rod snapped. Better to leave the secret passages secret. "Go ye to Milord Loguire and tell him I shall come to him presently. You forget that I cannot walk through walls, like yourself."

  The ghost turned, frowning. "But, my lord…"

  "Go to Milord Loguire!" Rod stormed.

  The ghost shrank away. "As you will, my lord," it mumbled hastily, and winked out.

  In the sudden darkness, the girl let out her breath in a long, sobbing sigh; and, "How now, master," said Big Tom, his voice very calm, with only a trace of wonder, "do you traffic with spirits now?"

  "I do," said Rod, and flung the door open, wondering where Tom had picked up a word like "traffic."

  He turned to look at the couple in the light from the doorway, his eyes narrowed and piercing. "If word of this passes beyond this room, there shall be uneasy beds and midnight guest for the both of you."

  Big Tom's eyes narrowed, but the girl's widened in alarm.

  Good, thought Rod, I've threatened her income. Now I can be sure she'll keep quiet.

  He spun on his heel, pulling the door shut behind him. Big Tom would console her, of course, and his master's control over ghosts wouldn't exactly hurt his standing with her.

  And, of course, she'd keep her mouth shut.

  Which was just as well. For a man who didn't believe in magic, Rod already had altogether too much of a name as a warlock.

  He prowled along the hall till he found an empty chamber with access to the hidden tunnel. The granite blocks of one wall had been carved into a bas-relief of an orange flute being burned at the stake; apparently the Loguires took their adopted Irish name rather seriously. Rod found the one coal in the pile of faggots that was cut a little deeper than the rest, and threw all his weight against it, pushing it to his right. The ancient machinery gave a deep-throated grumble, and a trapdoor pivoted up from the stone flags of the floor.

  Rod felt for the steps with his toes, reached up for the great iron ring set in the underside of the trapdoor, and pulled it shut as he went down the stairs.

  He emerged from the massive door in the great hall with the dark altar. His phantom guide was there before him, waiting.

  The ghost bowed. "If you would be so good as to follow me, master…"It turned away, drifting toward the archway into the corridor.

  Rod followed, muttering, "A little lighter on the sarcasm there."

  They came out into the corridor; and, off to his right, Rod saw the fox-firelight of a cluster of ghosts. They were motionless, their heads bent, looking at something on the floor in the center of their circle. Rod heard a very mortal, and very terrified, whimper.

  Horatio looked up at Rod's approach. He glided apart from the knot of ghosts, his cadaverous face knotted with anger.

  "My Lord Loguire!" Rod bowed his most courtly, straightened. "Why do you summon me?"

  The ghost's brow smoothed a little, somewhat mollified. "Man Gallowglass," it growled, "wherefore did you not tell me you had come accompanied into our halls?"

  "Accompanied?" Rod's eyebrows lifted. "Oh, was I, now?"

  Loguire's frown deepened again, puzzled. "In truth, there was one who followed after you, as I found upon my outgoing from the chamber with the strange device."

  "Excelsior," Rod murmured.

  "Gesundheit," said Loguire. "If we are to have a continual passage of mortals here, I shall have to see to the heating of these halls. But anon: I found your servant, as I have said, directly without the chamber."

  "Servant?" Rod frowned. "How do you know it was a servant?"

  "It was listening at the door. And we may know that it is yours, for when we advanced upon it, it cried your name."

  "Oh." Rod scratched at the base of his skull, frowning. "It did, did it?"

  "Aye; else would we have slain it. And therefore did I send to you to claim it."

  Loguire stepped aside; the circle of ghosts parted, and Rod stepped up. By the cold light of the ghosts, he saw a huddle of misery trying to push itself into the wall. The face was turned away from him. Long black hair flowed down over the shoulders. It wore white blouse, full skirt, and black bodice. The last was very well filled.

  "My Lord Loguire," Rod began; his voice cracked; he tried again. "My Lord Loguire, this is scarcely an 'it.' " Then, in the gentlest voice he could manage, "Look at me, wench."

  The girl's head jerked up staring, lips parted. Joy and relief flooded her face. "My lord!"

  Then her arms were about his neck, so tight he had to fight for breath; and her body was pressed tight against him, head burrowing into his shoulder, her whole frame trembling with sobs. "My lord, O my lord!"

  "My Lord!" Rod echoed, prying at her shoulder to get clearance for his larynx.

  He recognized her, of course. It was the servant girl who had propositioned him earlier in the evening.

  "There, there, now, lass, it's all right," he murmured, rubbing her back. The room seemed to reel about him; he picked out a fixed point of light and stared at it.

  It turned out to be Horatio Loguire, face contorted by a touch of disgust. "Take her out from my halls, Man. They are damp enough of their own."

  Rod was just noticing how nic
ely the peasant girl fitted in his arms. He closed his eyes, savoring the warmth and closeness of her. He nodded. "Aye, my lord, that I shall. There, there, now, lass, you mustn't cry." He pulled a handkerchief from his cuff and dabbed at her cheeks with it. "No more tears, there's a darling, you're raising the humidity, and Horatio's got arthritis, if he can just remember where he put his bones—there, that's right."

  Her head lay against his chest, sniffling. Her eyes closed, her face relaxed; it almost seemed she was asleep. Rod was swept with a sudden wave of tenderness, aided and abetted by a feeling of towering strength contributed by his protective instinct, and silently cursed the adhesive effect of a damsel in distress.

  He looked up into the brooding, empty eyes of the Loguire.

  "Thou'rt ensnared, Man."

  "Who, me?" Rod scowled and thumped his throat in the carotid region. "Fire seven times tried this."

  "And found it wanting," Loguire agreed, "and seven times tried that judgment is. Take her from my halls, Man."

  Rod threw him one last look of defiance and turned to the girl. "Come lass," he murmured, "we must go out from this place now."

  He swung her up into his arms. She stirred, murmured petulantly, and burrowed her head tight into his shoulder again, her arms tight about his neck.

  Babies and women, Rod thought, exasperated; they're worse than quicksand.

  "My lord," he said to Loguire, "will you lead me? You may understand that I am somewhat turned about…"

  "Aye," said the ghost, and turned away down the hall; but not before Rod had glimpsed a faint, phantom smile on the ghost's face…

  He came out into the torchlit corridor, where he had met Durer earlier. The little man was gone; apparently he had assumed the worst and gleefully gone his way.

  Rod lowered the girl's feet to the floor. She mur-mured another little inarticulate protest, and pressed her head tighter against him.

  Rod tightened his arms about her and brushed his cheek against her hair, drawing out the moment as long as he could.

  Then he smiled sadly and lifted his hand to stroke along her jaw, tilting her chin up. The long-lashed eyes were still closed; the full red lips pursed and parted, just a little…

  Rod steeled himself and said gently, "You must tell me now, lass. Why did you follow me?"

  Her eyes flew open, widened in alarm. Then she bit her lip, bowing her head, and stood away from him, clenching her hands in the cloth of his doublet.

  "You must tell me, lass," he repeated softly. "Who sent you to spy on me?"

  Her head flew up, eyes wide in dismay. She shook her head. "None, my lord. None, only myself."

  "Oh?" Rod smiled sadly. "Of your own doing, you followed me into the haunted quarter?"

  She looked down again. "I did not fear the spirits, lord."

  Rod pursed his lips in surprise. If it was so, she had uncommon courage for a serving maid. Her nerve hadn't broken till she actually saw the ghosts—and having experienced their moans himself, Rod could understand her breaking then.

  Too, she might have followed him in hopes that he might reconsider his decision to sleep alone. Or maybe she'd thought she could help if he got into trouble. Rod smiled at that last thought. But he had to make sure.

  "Still, you have not yet told me: why did you follow me?"

  She bit her lip again, her face twisting. Rod waited, quietly.

  Grudging every word, she said, "I—I feared for you, my lord."

  Rod stared; then his mouth twisted into a wry smile. He shook his head, slowly. "Yon feared for me!"

  "Aye!" Her head snapped up, eyes flashing. "I had no knowing you were a warlock, and… a man alone, in those halls…"

  Her voice trailed off; her eyes dropped again.

  Rod heaved a sigh and clasped her to him. She resisted a moment, then yielded.

  "Lass, lass!" he murmured. "What could you have done to help me?"

  "I—I have some small way with some spirits, lord." Her voice was muffled by the cloth of his tunic. "I had thought…"

  Rod scowled. Was communication with the spirit world the norm on this kooky planet?

  He rubbed her back gently, pressed his cheek against her hair. She could be lying, of course; but that would imply she was an excellent actress, and she seemed a little too ingenuous for that.

  He sighed and tightened his arms about her. She murmured sulkily and pushed her hips against him.

  Rod closed his eyes and wiped his mind of all but the touch of her body. She felt good, very good. Almost like that farm wench, Gwendylon…

  His eyes snapped open. He stared into the torchlit dusk of the hall, picturing the two faces before him, side by side. Dye the hair black, tilt the eyes a little, straighten the nose…

  She had felt him tense; she looked up at him. "What is it, my lord?"

  The voice was a little higher-pitched, yes; but it had that same quality.

  He looked down at her. The complexion was flaw-less, not a single freckle; but it didn't take that much technology to concoct a makeup base.

  He pointed his forefinger between her eyes. "You," he said, "have been deceiving me." His finger came to rest on the tip of her nose.

  There was a flicker of disappointment in her eyes; then she was all innocence. "Deceiving you, my lord? I—I know not…"

  Rod flicked his finger; the tip of her nose came off. He smiled grimly, nodding. "Cornstarch and water. But you were wrong to straighten it; I like it much better with that little tilt at the end."

  He rubbed his fingertip across the corner of her eye; the eye was no longer slanted, and there was a dark smudge on his finger. "Cornstarch and water, and black paint at the eye-fold. Flour mixed with a little burnt umber on the face, and henna in the hair."

  The corners of her mouth tightened. Her face blushed with the heat of anger under the paint.

  He shook his head, brow puckered. "But why, lass? Your face is so much more beautiful."

  He allowed himself a shot of self-satisfaction as the anger in her face melted into tenderness and longing.

  She lowered her eyes. "I—I could not leave you, lord."

  He closed his eyes, grinding his teeth, and only by main force of will kept himself from squeezing her.

  "But…"He stopped, and drew a long hissing breath. "But how did you follow me, lass?"

  She looked up, eyes wide in innocence. "In the guise of an osprey, lord."

  His eyes snapped open with a near-audible click. He stared. "A witch? You? But…"

  "You will not despise me for it, lord?" she said anxiously. "You, who are a warlock?"

  His eyes had lost focus. "Huh? Uh—warlock? He shook his head, trying to clear it. "Uh, I mean… No, of course I don't. I mean… well, some of my best friends are… uh…"

  "My lord?" She peered into his face. "Art thou well?"

  "Who, me? Of course not! No, wait a minute…" He stopped and drew a very, very deep breath. "Now, look. You're a witch. So. Big deal. I'm far more interested in your beauty than your talents."

  Embers there, in her eyes, ready to flame if he breathed upon them.

  He took another deep breath and called his hormones to order. "Now. Let's get one thing straight."

  She brushed up against him, breathing, "Aye, my lord."

  "No, no! I didn't mean that!" He took a step back, hands coming up to hold her off. "Look. The only reason you followed me here was because you were afraid I'd get into trouble I couldn't handle, right?"

  She paused, the glow dying in her eyes under a chill flow of disappointment. She lowered her eyes. "Aye, my lord."

  The way she said it made him think she was leaving an awful lot to implication; but he hurried on to the next point.

  "But now you know I'm a warlock. Right?"

  "Aye, my lord." He could scarcely hear her.

  "So you know I don't have to be afraid of anything, right? So there's no reason to follow me any more, right?"

  "Nay, my lord!" Her face whipped up to him, glaring; then her ch
in lifted a little higher, proud and haughty and stubborn. "Still will I follow you, Rod Gallowglass. There be spells in this world that you wot not of."

  And one of the most galling things about her, he decided, was that she was always so damned right. In this crazy, topsy-turvy world, there probably were quite a few "spells" he couldn't even imagine.

  But, on the other hand, there seemed to be a few that she didn't know, either. An amateur witch, most likely, and too old to join the union—she must be almost as old as Rod was. In fact, her "witchcraft" seemed to consist of cosmetic skill, the ability to go birdie (he hadn't quite figured that one out yet), and a degree of courage that was totally unexpected in a woman.

  So she was right, she had good cause to worry about him, he would still be in danger—but so would she.

  No. It wouldn't do any good to tell her she couldn't follow him—she would anyway. And he'd come out of it alive, like he always did, but she'd get murdered in a ditch somewhere along the way. Or maybe she'd handicap him enough so they'd both wind up dead.

  His head moved from side to side, tightening into a quick shake. He couldn't let her get killed. He had to shake her somehow—and he knew just how.

  His mouth quirked into a sour smile. "It's true, what they say about farm girls: give them a moment of kindness, and you'll never be rid of them. My dear, you have an excellent nuisance rating."

  She gasped, stepped away from him, her face twisting into a grimace of pain, the back of her hand coming up to her lips. Her eyes flooded with tears; she bit on her hand, turned, and fled.

  He stared at the floor, listening to her sobs fading, feeling the hollowness grow within him.

  A fist thundered on the heavy oaken door. Rod struggled up out of the depths of sleep, floundering to sit up in the hay.

  Big Tom and his wench lay still, eyes fixed on the door.

  Rod grunted and levered himself to his feet. "Don't worry," he growled. "Ghosts don't knock."