Warlock's Last Ride wisoh-13

by Christopher Stasheff

  "Praise Heaven you are come, then!" Sir Reginald said.

  "We're all the same in this hour," Rod told him, "and all need the reassurance of a man who's been through it before, having to stand by and do nothing when his wife's in torment… So you didn't know these three were going to be out there hunting knights?"

  "Belike they only sought to trouble my people," Sir Reginald said, then clamped his jaw against pain.

  "It will fade eventually," Rod told him, "as the wound heals. Then it will begin to itch most abominably, but you mustn't scratch it… So that's why you didn't bring any men-at-arms; you were afraid of looking foolish if all you found was a boar."

  "Aye," Sir Reginald gasped. "Yet when I found a boar dead and saw the wound in its shoulder, I knew there were strangers in the wood." He frowned, focusing on Rod. "What manner of outlaws are these, who seek to stir up even happy peasants against their lords?"

  "Ones who will never stop causing trouble, I fear," Rod sighed, "but whom I think I…"

  The nurse came in, holding a squalling bundle in her arms—and Sir Reginald's relief and sudden awe and massive urge to protect nearly bowled Rod over. He came around to put an arm under the young knight and lift him up to sit so that the nurse could put the baby into his arms, saying, "Here is your daughter, Sir Knight."

  "She is beautiful," Sir Reginald said, huge-eyed, and held the baby as though she were made of glass, then looked up at the nurse with anxiety. "My lady . .."

  "She is quite well, though weak from her ordeal—and immensely happy," the nurse told him.

  "I must go to her!"

  "That's not impossible," Rod said, "but it will be painful."

  "The devil with the pain!"

  "Where it belongs, no doubt," Rod agreed. "Very well, then—up with you."

  But the knight still clung to the baby.

  The nurse reached down for her, saying in a tone that would brook no argument, "You may not have her long, for she needs her mother." She lifted the child out of his arms and turned away—which was just as well, since Sir Reginald emerged from his bed naked and Rod had to call a man-at-arms to fetch a robe while he steadied the knight on his feet.

  HE RODE AWAY an hour later, basking in the reflected glow of the young couple's joy and love—but as the leaves closed about him, he remembered the "outlaws" and frowned. "We'll have to be ready for attack, Fess."

  "I always am, Rod," the robot replied.

  Of course, Fess was epileptic, as much as an electronic brain could be, so he couldn't fight for more than a few minutes without having a seizure—but Rod could be sure no one could take him by surprise while Fess was near.

  "I think I recognize the modus operandi," Rod mused, "the jolly boys from VETO."

  "Their rhetoric does have the ring of the totalitarians," Fess agreed, "and their fondness for stirring up peasant rebellions."

  "Or trying to," Rod said. "Catharine and Tuan have ruled with the best interests of all their people at heart, so VETO'S agents are going to have to stir up discontent before they can exploit it. Y'know, this almost sounds like the work of my old enemy the Mocker."

  "Not impossible, Rod, considering that he was a time traveller. Indeed, as I remember, we heard nothing of him after he escaped from the royal dungeons again."

  "You mean he could have jumped forward in time to this moment?" Rod frowned. "Why now, though?"

  "His organization has been in decline since its last defeat," Fess pointed out. "It could be a last desperate measure."

  "I suppose his bosses could have sent him off to the fourteenth century, or some such time, in disgrace," Rod said, frowning, "and be calling him back because they don't have any better guesses—but why now?"

  They rode a moment in silence. Then Rod said, "You're thinking it's because of me, aren't you? Because I've retired."

  "The idea has some merit," Fess agreed. 'The totalitarians have been suspiciously inactive for ten years. They could have realized that you and your family are insuperable obstacles."

  "Yes, because we combine medieval loyalty with tremendous psi power and modern knowledge." Rod frowned and forced the next words out even though they tore at him. "But with Gwen gone …"

  "Half your strength went with her," Fess agreed, "not only in her own ESP talent, but also in her influence with others."

  "Yes, starting with her own children but expanding to Queen Catharine and the Royal Witchforce." Rod turned somber as memories rose around him. "And I suppose my retiring doesn't help any."

  "They could think they see a moment of weakness and the opportunity that accompanies it, yes."

  "If that's so, then they don't know my kids," Rod said, grinning, then frowned again. "Though it will take Magnus a while to re-establish his own influence, and expand it…"

  "You know he will not seek to command his siblings, Rod."

  "Yes. He did when he was seventeen, but he seems to have learned a bit on his travels—mostly that manipulation is far more effective than bossing," Rod said, "especially considering his training as a secret agent."

  "Your central office did give you some difficulty about his resignation, as I recall."

  "They called it a defection." Rod smiled at the memory. "I pointed out that he couldn't have defected because he hadn't joined the other side—and he hadn't."

  "But that made him a loose cannon, a wildcard, and in some ways a greater threat than a turncoat."

  "Which he certainly proved to be." Rod nodded. "It was just good luck that he never landed on a SCENT planet again—good luck for them."

  "Now he has, though, Rod."

  "Yes, well, he was born and reared here," Rod said, "which I think gives him a somewhat stronger claim than my old organization can have. But he will need some time to consolidate his position."

  The robot was silent a moment, choosing his words carefully. Then he said, "It will take you some time to find Tir Nan Og, Rod."

  "Yes, and if I manage to bump into some VETO cells and wreck their games, that should take some of the pressure off Magnus." Rod sighed. "Well, I suppose Gwen will forgive me if she has to wait a little longer."

  "But she would not forgive you if you abandoned your children before they could manage by themselves."

  "No, she wouldn't, would she? Well, let's see what we can find in the wildwood, shall we?"

  "Whatever awaits, you will find it more easily if you make some noise."

  "Or let it find me, huh? Okay, I can take a hint." Rod pulled out his harp. "Though I do take umbrage at your calling it 'noise.'"

  "I was not necessarily speaking of your attempts at singing, Rod."

  "Attempts, huh?" Rod gave a snort of mock indignation and began to pluck at the strings.

  The birds braced themselves for a quick retreat.

  THE ANARCHISTS' BASE was modest, as manor houses go, but was nonetheless respectable by the standards of the gentry, in case any of the noblemen who were their targets ever found it. A person coming from that big tranquil-seeming ivy-covered house would be acceptable in polite society, for she would be a lady or he a knight. Even a duke would talk with such a person, though he might not make her his friend.

  Of course, the agents who worked and visited there had elaborate safeguards in place to make sure none of the lords ever discovered the estate.

  One of the Home Agents knocked at the door of the solar, then opened it. An old-seeming man was seated at a table in the fan of sunlight from the tall windows behind him. He looked up as the Home Agent came in. "News, Dierdre?"

  "Yes, Chief." Dierdre handed the old man a scroll of paper.

  The Chief Agent took it, broke the seal, and unrolled it. He stared.

  "What is it, Chief?"

  "A letter from my old enemy the Mocker." The Chief Agent looked up. "He proposes a temporary alliance."

  Eleven

  "ALLIANCE? WITH TOTALITARIANS? CHIEF, THEY stand for the worst in everything we detest!"

  "True—but they could be useful." The Chief A
gent laid down the scroll and turned to look out the window at the gardens. "Also, it seems, they've done just as our future Central Committee did—sent back the Chief of Mission who directed things when that confounded Gallowglass first came."

  "You would have succeeded in your palace coup if he hadn't interfered." The young woman had read SPITE's official history. "Then it would have been only a matter of time before you had all the noblemen fighting each other."

  "And exterminating the Mocker and his gang." The Chief Agent turned back to her, nodding. "We didn't realize then that the Lord Warlock was a bigger enemy for each of us than we were for each other."

  "He put you in jail, Chief Durer."

  "Yes, with the Mocker in an adjoining cell." Durer gazed back into memory—for him, only three months earlier. "Of course we spent the first week going at it hammer and tongs through the bars, but in the second week we started comparing notes. By the time we were ready to break out of there, we both understood who the real enemy was."

  "Meaning the Lord Warlock."

  "He was neither a lord nor a warlock at the time," Durer told her, "at least, as far as any of us knew—including him."

  The young woman stared. "You mean he didn't know he had ESP powers?"

  "If he had, he would have used them." Durer pulled a volume to him and pointed to the open page. "According to my successors' journals, he had a rather extended visit from a monk, after which he demonstrated a wide range of talents."

  "Brother Aloyuisis Uwell." Dierdre nodded, again demonstrating her knowledge of recent history.

  "I have a message into headquarters checking on him," Durer said. "I suspect he taught the Lord Warlock how to live up to his title." He sighed, paging through the book. "Three Chief Agents after me, and none of them had any better luck than I—but I have their hard-won knowledge to help me now, and a better idea of what the Gallowglasses can do."

  "Now that the Lord Warlock is off on his own, maybe he's more vulnerable."

  Durer shook his head. "His children can teleport to him in an instant. No, we have to remove them first. Then we can take care of my old enemy." His eyes gleamed.

  That gleam chilled Dierdre—and surprised her; usually the old man seemed so nice.

  Durer turned back to the book, leafing through the pages and frowning. "Not much here from the traitor."

  He meant Finister, the last Chief Agent before the one he had replaced.

  "She wasn't Chief Agent very long before she changed her name and turned her coat to marry the youngest Gallowglass." Dierdre's tone was sharp with spite.

  Durer shook his head. "I don't know what possessed Chief Agent Lewis to appoint that witch as his successor just before he died."

  On Gramarye, the term "witch" might have been merely descriptive, referring to someone with extra-sensory talents—but Durer chose to interpret it as an insult.

  "I don't think he had much choice about it," the Home Agent said. "We all knew Finister was a powerful esper, but we had no idea how powerful."

  Durer turned to her with a frown. "You mean she bewitched Lewis?"

  "In more ways than one," the Home Agent said. "I'll admit he was using her for his own … amusement… so she may have thought she was justified in using him in return."

  "Using him in what way?"

  "She projected a very beautiful and voluptuous image, but we're pretty sure she manipulated his emotions telepathically, too. Why else would he have given the order that she be his successor? And considering that he died the next day …"

  "The autopsy?"

  "Showed no reason for death—his heart simply stopped."

  Even Durer felt a chill. "I take it this Finister was telekinetic, too?"

  "She had all the ESP talents except levitation and teleportation," the Home Agent confirmed.

  "I'll have to meet her—with my most advanced weapons," Durer said with a smile.

  Dierdre nodded. "You might want to consider a quiet little assassination for her before that."

  "Oh, no! Our revenge on the Gallowglass heirs comes first," Durer said. "Then I shall have my own revenge on the young woman who usurped my office and betrayed our Cause." He gazed off into a dream future, his eyes kindling. "My revenge on this Finister-Allouette will be delicious and prolonged."

  Dierdre stared at the look on his face and shuddered. How could she have ever thought this man was kindly?

  Durer made a quick gesture that banished his vision. "When I'm satiated, I'll be generous and give her a quick death." He turned back to Dierdre, all business once more. "After all, she was Chief Agent once, no matter how briefly, nor what skulduggery she used to get the job. We do owe her some respect."

  THE SUN WAS rising when Cordelia came out onto the battlements, where the servants had told her she could find Magnus. Sure enough, there he was, strolling along the eastern wall, stopping to chat briefly with each sentry, then standing still in the center of the parapet to watch the great orange disk rise.

  Cordelia came up behind him. "How now, brother— have you become a Zoroastrian, that you must rise to pray to the light as it returns?"

  Magnus looked down with a fond smile. "Not at all, sister. It is simply that it is beautiful, and a promise that some of the world, at least, is clean of humankind's more sordid doings."

  Cordelia wondered what had happened to the cheerful, optimistic big brother of her youth, then reminded herself that two years' difference in age didn't mean much between adults. "You rise early only for this moment of contemplation?"

  "It would be worth it." Magnus turned back to look at the sun. "But I wake early without meaning to now. I've become accustomed to rising with the sun on my travels, and my body does it whether I wish it or not."

  "This is your idea of sleeping late, is it?" Cordelia turned to gaze at the great glowing ball, too. She let a few minutes pass, steeling herself to confrontation, then asked, "And do you mean to become the sun to us stay-at-homes, expecting us all to revolve around you?"

  Magnus's shoulders shrugged with a stifled laugh. "Scarcely."

  "I mean it, brother." Cordelia's voice gained steel. "You have little knowledge of what has passed on this world in this last ten years. You are in no position to give orders, no matter what Papa has said—and neither Alain nor I would obey you if you did!"

  "Dad did not say to give orders."

  Cordelia's eyes widened in surprise.

  "He told me to take care of the land and people of Gramarye," Magnus went on. "He did not say that I had to command a cadre of officers in the doing of it."

  "Surely you do not think you can answer every challenge alone!"

  "If there is an emergency to which I must respond, Alea may choose to come with me."

  "Well… so shall I, if it comes to that." Cordelia turned to look at the sun again. "But that is a matter of choosing, Magnus, not of responding to order."

  Magnus nodded. "It will be your choice, Cordelia, not mine."

  Cordelia snapped a sharp glance up at him, frowning. "Do I hear overtones of emotional blackmail in that?"

  "If you do, they are of your own making." Magnus smiled down at her, amused. "You may infer them, but I do not imply them."

  Cordelia stared at him a moment, frowning. Then she said, "So you will go kiting off on the spur of the moment to answer some fancied challenge and expect Alea, and the rest of us, to come chasing after you "

  "I shall not expect that." Magnus locked gazes with her. "I shall not expect anything."

  Cordelia frowned, trying to puzzle him out. "Do you think you can meet all threats alone?"

  "Not really. But I have no right to command anyone who has not elected me to the task. I have authority only over myself, so I shall go to meet every challenge by myself."

  "Is it thus that you overthrew governments as you careered through the stars?"

  "No," Magnus said. "I began alone, truly enough—on Melange, and again on Midgard. On all other planets, I had Dirk Dulaine, then Alea, for companions, and
redoubtable they were, I assure you."

  "And the two of you were proof against all encounters?" Cordelia didn't try to keep the skepticism out of her voice.

  "Not alone, no." Magnus turned to gaze at the sun again. "We generally found a local refugee or two to advise us, then gradually built up groups of disaffected people and found some way for them to communicate with one another. Twice there was some event, some unusually harsh burst of arrogance from the local lords that triggered an uprising, and we rose with them and made sure of their victory. More often, we put the individual cells of resistance on the road to eventual victory and left them to grow and flourish."

  Cordelia stared, appalled. "You shall never know whether you condemned them to defeat or assured them of victory?"

  "I don't suppose we'll ever have it confirmed," Magnus acknowledged, "but we never left until the crisis had passed and the machinery was in place to guarantee their eventual triumph. It is better, after all, for a system of government to grow rather than be grafted; it has a stronger chance of survival."

  Cordelia frowned, searching his profile. "There is no need for revolution here, brother."

  "No," Magnus agreed, "though SPITE and VETO may still foment discord and attempt upheavals, each in its own style. If they do, I shall do all in my power to thwart them, for I've no more wish to see totalitarians impose a dictatorship on our people than for Dad to foist on them a democracy that would be wrong for them."

  "But democracy is not wrong for them!"

  Magnus turned to her, amused. "Is it the future queen who speaks?"

  Cordelia's lips pressed thin. "A constitutional monarchy can become a form of democracy, Magnus. You know that!"

  "Yes, I do." Magnus met her eyes again. "Sharing power between a parliament and the crown is a way-station on the road to democracy, and I have no wish to block that road. In fact, I'll do all I can to make sure it is open for the people to travel." He frowned, suddenly intense. "But it must be a living thing, this democracy—it cannot be a corpse animated like a puppet. And to live, it must grow of its own and take what form is natural to it."