The Warlock Unlocked wisoh-4

by Christopher Stasheff

  Geoff toddled over to Gwen, stood mute and apprehensive until she was done melding the last piece back in place, then lisped, “I sorry, Mommy. Di’t mean to.”

  Gwen heaved up a sigh that said chapters, then managed a smile and tousled his hair. “I know thou didst not, my jo. ‘Twas happenstance; still, when all’s said, thou didst break it. ‘Tis why I have told thee to keep thy swordplay out of doors. So thou wilt ever keep thy manly arts out of housen from this day forth, wilt thou not?”

  Geoff nodded miserably. “Yes, Mommy.”

  “And thou wilt obey thy mother henceforth?”

  “Uh-huh… But, Mommy!” he cried, in a sudden wail of protest, “was raining!”

  Gwen heaved a sigh. “Aye, and I know, thou couldst not go out of house. Yet still, jo, ‘twas then time to draw up thy pictures.”

  Geoff made a face.

  Gwen bent an accusing eye at Rod.

  He looked around, frantically, then pointed to himself, with an incredulous look.

  Gwen leaped up and marched over to him… “Aye, thee! How many times hast thou said thou wouldst show him the drawing of a moated keep? That, at least, he would draw—once, and again, and a thousand times! Wilt thou not do it?”

  “Oh, yeah!” Rod slapped his head. “I didn’t really have to do research this morning. Well, better late than never…”

  They both whirled around at an explosion of wailing, screaming, and angry barking.

  Magnus had come in from the boys’ room and found the evidence. He stood over little Geoff, waving a heavy forefinger down from the height of his eight years of life-experience. “Nay, ‘twas foully done! To break a present to our Mother that I was so long in the crafting of! Eh, little Geoffrey, when wilt thou learn…”

  And Cordelia had sailed in to Geoff’s defense, standing up to her big brother from five years’ age and forty inches’ height. “How durst thee blame him, thou, who didst bar him from his own room…”

  “And mine!” Magnus shouted.

  “And his! Where he might have played to’s liking, with hurt to nought!”

  “Be still, be still!” Gwen gasped. “The baby…”

  On cue, a wail erupted from the cradle, to match Geoffrey’s confused bawling.

  “Oh, children!” Gwen cried in final exasperation, and turned away to scoop up eleven-month-old Gregory, while Rod waded into the shouting match. “Now, now, Geoff, you haven’t been that naughty. Magnus, stop that! Scolding’s my job, not yours—and giving orders, too,” he added under his breath. “ ‘Delia, honey, it’s very good of you to stick up for your brother like that—but don’t be good so loudly, okay?… Sheesh!” He hugged them all, pressing their faces against his chest to enforce silence. “The things they don’t tell you about the Daddy business!”

  On the other side of the room, Gwen was crooning a lullaby, and the baby was already quiet again. Rod answered her with a quick chorus of:

  “Rain, rain, go away!

  Come again some other day!”

  “Well, if you really want it, Daddy.” Magnus straightened up and looked very serious for a minute.

  “No, no! I didn’t mean… oh, stinkweed!” Rod glanced at the window; the pattering of the rain slackened, and a feeble sunbeam poked through.

  “Magnus!” Gwen’s tone was dire warning. “What have I told thee about tampering with the weather?”

  “But Daddy wanted it!” Magnus protested.

  “I did let that slip, in an unguarded moment,” Rod admitted. “But it can’t be just what we want, son—there’re other people who actually like the rain. And everyone needs it, whether they like it or not—especially the farmers. So bring it back, now, there’s a good boy.”

  Magnus gave a huge sigh that seemed to indicate how disgustingly irrational these big people were, screwed up his face for a moment—and the gentle patter of raindrops began again. Cordelia and Geoffrey looked mournful; for a moment there, they’d thought they were going to get to go out and play.

  “Odd weather we’re having around here lately,” Rod mused, wandering over to the window.

  “In truth,” Gwen agreed, drifting over to join him with Gregory on her shoulder. “I cannot think how he does it; ‘twould take me an hour to move so many clouds away.”

  “Yeah, well, just add it to the list of our son’s unexplained powers.” He glanced back at Magnus, a chunky boy in tunic and hose with his hand on the hilt of his dirk. His hair had deepened to auburn, and the loss of his baby-fat had revealed a strong chin that puberty might turn to a lantern-jaw—but Rod could still see the affectionate, mischievous toddler. Strange to think his powers were already greater than his mother’s—and his father’s, of course; Rod had only knowledge and wit, and a computer-brained robot-horse, on his side. But Magnus had the wit already.

  They all did. Cordelia was a flame-haired fairy-slender version of Gwen. Golden-haired Geoff had a compact little body that would probably grow up into a unified muscle, where Magnus would probably turn lean and rangy; golden hair that would probably stay that way, though Magnus’s was darkening; clear, blue eyes that seemed to show you the depths of his soul, and a square little chin that seemed made for deflecting uppercuts.

  And Gregory, who was fair-haired and chubby, though not as much as a baby should be, who was so very quiet and reserved, and very rarely smiled—an enigma at less than a year, and a prime focus for Rod’s chronic, buried anxiety.

  Each of them gifted enough to drive Job to distraction!

  There was a knock at the door.

  Gwen looked up, inquiringly.

  Rod stepped over to the panel with a sinking stomach. Knocks meant trouble. So much for his quiet day at home!

  He opened the door, and found what he’d expected—Toby the warlock, in his mid-twenties now, grinning and cheerful as ever, in the livery of a King’s courier. “Good day to thee, High Warlock! How goes it with thee?”

  “Hectic, as usual.” Rod smiled; he couldn’t help it, when Toby was around. “Step in, won’t you?”

  “Only the moment; I must be up and away.” Toby came in, doffing his cap. “A fair day to thee, fair Gwendylon. Thy beauty never fades!”

  “Uncle Toby!” shrieked three gleeful voices, and three small bodies slammed into him at speed. Rod put out a hand to prop up the esper, who was crooning, “Ho-o-o, whoa, not so quickly there! How goes it w’ thee, Geoffrey-my-bauble? Cordelia, little love, thoul’t steal my heart yet! Good Magnus, good tidings!”

  “What did you bring me, Uncle Toby?”

  “Can I play with your sword, Uncle Toby?”

  “Toby! Unc’ Toby! Can’y?”

  “Now, now, children, let the poor man capture his breath!” Gwen pried her brood off her guest with tact and delicacy. “Thou’It take ale and a cake, at least, Toby.”

  “Ah, I fear not, sweet Gwendylon,” Toby sighed. “When I said I must be away, I spoke not lightly. Queen Catharine is wroth, and the King waxes somber.”

  “Oh.” Gwen’s glance went to Rod, and a shadow crossed herface. “Well, I should not complain. I’ve had thee home a week, now.”

  “ ‘Fraid the work goes with the title, dear,” Rod said, commiserating. “Twenty-four-hour call, and all that.” He turned to Toby. “What’s going on?”

  “I know only that I was summoned to fetch thee, with their Majesties’ compliments and a request for greatest speed.” Toby inclined his head knowingly. “Yet I know the Lord Abbot approaches Runnymede at greatest speed.”

  “Yeah, there has been something brewing between the Church and the Crown, hasn’t there? Well, I’d better let Tuan fill me in on it.”

  “In Runnymede, then!” Toby raised his hand in farewell. “ ‘Til next we meet, fair mother!” And his form started to waver around the edges.

  “Toby,” Gwen said, quickly but firmly, and the young warlock’s form stabilized again. “Not in the house, if you please,” she explained. “An’ you do, the boys’ll be popping in and out in all manner of places the rest of
the day, and part of the night!”

  “Oh! Aye, I had forgot. Well, ‘tis gratifying to know they hold me in such regard. Farewell, children!” He doffed his cap, and stepped to the door.

  “Uncle Toby!” cried three anguished voices, and they pressed forward to their friend. He slipped a hand into his belt-purse, cast a quick, furtive look at Gwen, then tossed a quick spray of candies at the children and ducked out the door as they scrambled for the booty.

  Gwen heaved a sigh. “They’ll never eat now! Well, I’d best delay dinner.”

  “Yeah, but I think you’d better not keep it warm for me.” Rod looked up at the thunder-rumble as air rushed in to fill the space where the young warlock had just disappeared. He turned back to Gwen. “From the sound of it, this could go on for some time.”

  Gwen shook her head. “But why do they not call thee when they know such broils are brewing? Why do they always wait ‘til the troubles are come?”

  “Well, you know Catharine—she always thinks she and Tuan can handle it on their own, until the moment arrives. Then they want me by, just for moral support.”

  “And skill,” Gwen reminded him. “When ‘tis all done, ‘tis thou who hast averted conflict, not they.”

  “Yeah, well, you can’t expect one of the teams to referee.” Rod leaned forward to kiss her. “Bear up without me, darling. I’ll be home when I can.”

  “Papa’s going!” Cordelia shrieked, and delight filled the air as the children ran for the back room window that faced the stable, to wave goodbye when Papa left.

  Gwen caught Rod’s sleeve and glanced back, waiting till all three were out of sight. Then she leaned forward and hissed, “Beware, my lord! I would I could’st go with thee, to guard thy steps.”

  “Why?” Rod frowned. “Oh! Those idiots and their ambushes… Don’t worry, dear. Their marksmanship’s no better than their intentions.”

  “Yet how oft have they tried, my husband?”

  Rod pursed his lips. “Well, now, let’s see…” He started counting on his fingers. “There was the cretin who took a potshot at me from the steeple in that village—what was it, about a year ago now?”

  “Eleven months,” Gwen corrected. “Three weeks ere Gregory was born.”

  “Eleven months, then. He didn’t seem to realize that a crossbow bolt can’t possibly go as fast as a robot horse with a built-in radar. And there was that so-called ‘peasant,’ who jumped out of a hay wagon with a laser—poor chump.” He shook his head sadly. “He didn’t realize he should’ve waited until he was away from the hay before he pulled the trigger.”

  “ ‘Twas good of thee, to pull him from the flames, and hurl him into the millpond. Still, his lance of light did come but a hair’s-breadth from thy body.”

  “Yeah, but Fess side-stepped in time. And there was that guard at Tuan’s castle; Sir Maris is still wearing sackcloth and ashes because the enemy managed to infiltrate his troops. But, that! My Lord, that was a joke! You can see a pike blow coming a mile away! It takes at least a quarter-second to swing a ten-foot pole; all I had to do was dodge, and yank the shaft as it came past.” He shook his head, remembering. “He went right past me, into the moat—and Fess wasn’t even with me on that one.”

  “Aye, my lord, but ‘tis the only one of these ambushes in which he hath not saved thee—and he may not ‘company thee within the castle. Nay, sweet lord, take care!”

  “Oh, don’t worry.” Rod reached out to caress the line of her jaw. “I’ll be wary. After all, I have something to come home to, now.”

  The great black horse looked up as Rod stepped into the stable, and a voice spoke through the amplifier embedded in the bone behind Rod’s ear. “I detected a warlock’s arrival, Rod, and his departure. Are we off to the castle, then?”

  “We are.” Rod threw the saddle on Fess’s back. “Just a Sunday outing, I think.”

  “But it is Wednesday, Rod.”

  “Well, the clergy’ll be there, anyway. The Lord Abbot himself.”

  Static whispered in Rod’s ear—Fess’s equivalent of a sigh. “What game is the Church beginning?”

  “Cards, probably.” Rod tightened the girth and took down the bridle. “At least, I’ll have to keep a poker-face.”

  “Are you sure of your hand, Rod?”

  “The best.” Rod fitted the bridle, grinning. “Full house, Fess.”

  As they rode out of the stable, the back window of the house exploded into a hail of goodbyes, and the frantic waving of three little hands.

  A few minutes later, as his steel horse’s gait ate up the miles between his home and the King’s Castle at Runnymede, Rod mused, “Gwen’s worried about the assassination attempts, Fess.”

  “I will always guard you, Rod—but I do wish that you would take greater precautions.”

  “Don’t worry—they bother me, too, but in a different way. If our futurian foes are suddenly working so hard to get rid of me, they must have plans for a big push at toppling Tuan’s government.”

  “Why not say ‘revolution,’ Rod?”

  Rod winced. “Nasty word, when it’s my side that’s in power. But they do seem to be gearing up for a big offensive, don’t they?”

  “I agree. Could this conference between the Abbot and Their Majesties signal the beginning of such an offensive?”

  Rod scowled. “It could, now that you mention it. The totalitarians have pretty much exhausted the ‘Peasants’ Revolt’ motif for the moment, and the anarchists have ridden the ‘Barons’ Rights’ movement into the ground. They’ve got to try a new theme, don’t they?”

  “The Church-State conflict has a long tradition, Rod. Henry II of England had a protracted feud with St. Thomas a Becket, Archbishop of Canterbury, because the Church’s authority obstructed Henry’s attempts to centralize government. The feud ended with Thomas’s murder, and Henry’s public humiliation; he was forced to grant concessions to the Church. His son, King John, was more obstinate; John’s feud with the Pope resulted in England being laid under the Interdict, which meant that no baptisms, weddings, or funerals could be held—no Masses could be said, no confessions heard; none of the sacraments could be performed. To the medieval mind, this was disaster; most of the people of England felt they were being doomed to Hellfire eternally, because of their King’s sin. The resulting pressure was so great that John had to publicly repent, and do penance. The Protestant movement in Christianity succeeded partly because the German princes welcomed an excuse to oppose the Holy Roman Emperor. England became Protestant because Henry VIII wished a divorce that the Pope would not grant him. The Inquisition, the Huguenot Rebellion… the English Civil War occurred partly because the nation was Protestant, but ruled by a Catholic King… The list goes on. It is small wonder that, when the United States of America was established in the 18th Century, the founding fathers wrote a separation of Church and State into their Constitution.”

  Rod nodded grimly. “It’s a potent force, no question about it—especially in a medieval society, where most of the people take their religion superstitiously. Just the kind of a conflict to topple a government, in fact—if the Church can drum up enough popular support, and an army.”

  “With the futurians’ propaganda techniques and weaponry, neither should be too great a problem.”

  “Not if it gets that far.” Rod grinned. “So it’s up to us to head it off before it gets to that pass, eh, old circuit rider? ”

  “So many human battles could be averted by a little common sense,” Fess sighed.

  “Yes, but the King and the Lord Abbot aren’t common—and when religion and politics are involved, no one’s got much sense.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Travel light, don’t you, Father?” the spaceport guard commented.

  Father Al nodded. “It is one of the advantages of being a priest. All I need is a spare cassock, a few changes of underwear, and my Mass kit.”

  “And a surprising amount of literature.” The guard riffled through a book from the stack. “M
agic and the Magi… Little odd for a priest, isn’t it?”

  “I’m a cultural anthropologist, too.”

  “Well, to each his own.” The guard sealed the suitcase. “Certainly no weapons in there—unless you come across a devil or two.”

  “Hardly.” Father Al smiled. “I’m not expecting anything worse than the Imp of the Perverse.”

  “ ‘Imp of the Perverse?’ ” The guard frowned. “What’s that, Father?”

  “An invention of Edgar Allan Poe’s,” Father Al explained. “To my way of thinking, it nicely explains Finagle’s Law.”

  The guard eyed him warily. “If you don’t mind my saying so, Father, you’re not exactly what I expect in a priest—but you’re clear.” He pointed. “The shuttle gate’s over that way.”

  “Thank you.” Father Al took up his suitcase and headed for the boarding area.

  On the way, he passed a fax-stand. He hesitated; then, on an impulse, he dropped in his credit card and punched up “McAran, Angus, ca. 1954.” Then he leaned back and waited. It must have been a long search; almost five seconds passed before the machine began humming. Then the hard copy emerged slowly—about a meter of it. Father Al pulled it out and devoured it with his eyes.

  “McAran, Angus, Ph.D., 1929 - 2020: Physicist, engineer, financier, anthropologist. Patents…”

  “Excuse me, Father.”

  “Eh?” Father Al looked up, startled, at the impatient-looking gentleman behind him. “Oh! My apologies. Didn’t realize I was in the way.”

  “Perfectly all right, Father,” the man said, with a smile that contradicted the words. Father Al folded the hard copy in thirds, hastily, and moved off toward the boarding area.

  He sat down in a floating chair and unfolded the copy. Amazing what the PIB had stored in its molecular circuits! Here was a thumbnail biography of a man who’d been dead more than a thousand years, as fresh as the day he’d died—which was presumably the last time it’d been updated. Let’s see, now—he’d patented five major inventions, then set up his own research and development company—but, oddly enough, he hadn’t patented anything after that. Had he let his employees take the patents in their own names? Improbably generous, that. Perhaps he just hadn’t bothered to keep track of what his company was doing; he seemed to have become very heavily involved in…