The Warlock In Spite of Himself

by Christopher Stasheff

  Catharine's eyes hardened. "That I might bear these two peasants before I gave ear to the petitions of my noblemen?"

  "Your Majesty must not!" Durer dropped to his knees, hands clasped in supplication. "Thou must not risk offense of the Great Lords today! Fear for thy very life if thou—"

  "Sirrah, do you call me coward?"

  Rod closed his eyes; his heart sank.

  "Your Majesty," cried Durer, "I meant but to—"

  "Enough!" Catharine turned away, spurning the meager form of the councillor. Brom O'Berin and the Guardsmen moved with her. The great oaken doors swung open before them.

  Rod risked a glance back over his shoulder.

  Durer's face was contorted with malevolent glee; his eyes glittered with triumph.

  The best way to get a teenager to do something is to tell her not to…

  Brom led the Queen's entourage into a great vaulted room, lighted by a row of clerestory windows on each side. Fifty feet above, the roof-beam ran through the hall like a spine, with oaken ribs running down to the granite walls. Two great wrought-iron chandeliers hung from the ceiling, with candles burning in the sconces.

  They had come in onto a raised dais, ten feet above the floor of the hall. A huge gilded throne rose before them.

  Brom led them in a swing around the lip of the dais to the throne. There the Guardsmen lined up on either side, and Catharine mounted the last half-step to stand slender and proud before the throne, gazing out over the multitude gathered below.

  The multitude looked like a sampling of the population. They filled the great hall, from the steps of the dais to the triple doors at the far end of the hall.

  In the first rank were the twelve great nobles, seated in wooden hourglass-shaped chairs in a semicircle twelve feet out from the steps of the throne.

  Behind them stood forty or fifty aging men in brown, gray, or dark green robes with velvet collars and small, square, felt hats. Chains of silver or gold hung down over their ample bellies. Burghers, Rod guessed — local officials, merchants, guildmasters — the bourgeoisie.

  Beyond them were the black, cowled robes of the clergy and beyond them were the dun-colored, patched clothing of the peasantry, most of whom, Rod felt moderately certain, had been sent up from the castle kitchen so that the Great Court would have representatives of all classes.

  But in the center of the peasants stood four soldiers in green and gold — the Queen's colors — and between them stood two peasants, one young and one old, both looking awed and scared almost to the point of panic, caps twisting in their horny hands. The oldster had a long, grizzled beard; the youngster was clean-shaven. Both wore dun-colored smocks of coarse cloth; more of the same material was bound to their legs, to serve as trousers. A priest stood by them, looking almost as much out of place as they did.

  All eyes were on the Queen. Catharine was very much aware of it; she stood a little taller, and held her pose until the hall was completely quiet. Then she sat, slowly, and Brom sank cross-legged at her feet. Pike-butts thudded on stone as Rod and the other three Guardsmen stood to rest, pikes slanting outward at twenty degrees.

  Brom's voice boomed out over the hall. "Who comes before the Queen this day?"

  A herald stepped forward with a roll of parchment and read off a list of twenty petitions. The first was that of the twelve noblemen; the last was Durer's two peasants.

  Catharine's hands tightened on the arms of the throne. She spoke in a high, clear voice. "Our Lord hath said that the humble shall be exalted, the last shall be first; therefore let us first hear the testimony of these two peasants."

  There was a moment's shocked silence; old Lord Loguire was on his feet bellowing.

  "Testimony! Have you such great need of their testimony that you must set these clods of earth before the highest of your nobles?"

  "My lord," Catharine snapped, "you forget your place in my court."

  "Nay, it is you who forget! You who forget respect and tradition, and all the law that you learned at your father's knee!"

  The old lord drew himself up, glaring. "Never," he rumbled, "would the old king have disgraced his liegemen so!"

  "Open thine eyes, old man!" Catharine's voice was chill and arrogant. "I would my father still lived; but he is dead, and I reign now."

  "Reign!" Loguire's lips twisted in a sour grimace. " 'Tis not a reign, but a tyranny!"

  The hail fell silent, shocked. Then a whisper began and grew:

  "Treason! Treasontreasontreason Treason!"

  Brom O'Berin rose, trembling. "Now, Milord Loguire, must thou kneel and ask pardon of milady the Queen, or be adjudged forever a traitor to the throne."

  Loguire's face turned to stone, he drew himself up, back straightening, chin lifting; but before he could answer, Catharine spoke in a tight, quavering voice.

  "There shall be no forgiveness asked, nor none given. Thou, Milord Loguire, in consideration of insults offered our Royal Person, art henceforth banished from our Court and Presence, to come near us nevermore."

  Slowly, the old Duke's eyes met the Queen's. "How then, child," he murmured, and Rod saw with a shock that there were tears in the corners of the old man's eyes. "Child, wilt thou serve the father as thou hast served the son?"

  Catharine's face went dead white; she half rose from her throne.

  "Hie thee from this place, Milord Loguire!" Brom's voice shook with rage. "Hie thee from this place, or I shall hound thee hence!"

  The Duke's gaze slowly lowered to Brom. "Hound me? Aye, for thou art most surely our gentle Queen's watchdog!" He raised his eyes to Catharine again. "Lady, lady! I had hoped to grace thee with a greyhound ere I died."

  Catharine sat down again, drawing herself up proudly. "I have a mastiff, milord; and let my enemies beware!"

  The old man nodded slowly, his grieving eyes never leaving her face. "Thou wilt, then, call me enemy …"

  Catharine tilted her chin a little higher.

  Loguire's eyes hardened; the grief was swept from his face by cold pride.

  He spun on his heel, stalking down the length of the great hall. A lane through the crowd opened before him. The Guardsmen at either side of the great central door snapped to attention and threw the portals open.

  The Duke stopped short under the lintel and pivoted to look back over the throng at Catharine. His heavy old voice filled the hall one last time.

  And his voice was somehow gentle, almost kindly.

  "Yet take this of me, Catharine, whom once I called my niece — you shalt not fear the armies of Loguire while I live."

  He stood motionless a moment, holding Catharine's eyes.

  Then he swung about, cape swirling, and was gone.

  The court was silent for the space of three breaths; then, as a man, the eleven remaining Great Lords rose and filed down the lane to the great central door, and followed Loguire into exile.

  "So how did she decide the case of the two peasants?" Fess asked.

  Rod was riding the robot horse on the slope outside the castle, "for exercise," or so he had told the stableboy. Actually, he needed Fess's advice as to What It All Meant.

  "Oh," he answered, "she upheld the parish priest's decision: the fitting punishment for the kid was marriage. The old man didn't like that too well, but Catharine had an ace up her sleeve — the kid would have to support his father-in-law in his old age. The old man grinned at that, and the kid walked out looking like he wasn't quite so sure he'd come out on top after all."

  "An excellent decision," Fess murmured. "Perhaps the young lady should seek a career in jurisprudence."

  "Anything, so long as it keeps her out of politics… Glorious sunsets on this planet."

  They were riding into the setting sun; the dying globe painted the sky russet and gold halfway around the horizon and nearly to the zenith.

  "Yes," the robot supplied, "the excellence of the sunsets is due to the density of the atmosphere, which is nearly one point five Terra-normal. At this latitude, however, due to the i
nclination of the planet's axis, which is—"

  "Yes, yes, I wrote it all down in the logbook when we landed. Have the grace to let it rest in peace… I notice the sun's rays turn almost blood-red …

  "Appropriate," Fess murmured.

  "Hmm, yes. That brings us back to the point, doesn't it? What's this about another assassination coming up?"

  "Not an assassination, Rod — an attempt."

  "All right, an attempt. Pardon my denotations, and get on with it."

  Fess paused a moment to set up the readout for a prefabricated report.

  "The political situation an the island of Gramarye is comprised of three definite factions, one Royalist and two Anti-Royalist. The Royalist faction consists of the Queen, her chief councillor — one Brom O'Berin — the clergy, the Royal Army, the Queen's Bodyguard, and a group of espers known by the local term "witches"."

  "How about the judges?"

  "As I was about to say, the civil servants may also be included in the Royalist faction, with the exception of those officials whose corruption leaves them opposed to the Queen's reforms."

  "Hmm, yes. I'd forgotten that hitch. Anybody else on the Plantagenet side?"

  "Yes, a subspecies of Homo sapiens characterized by extreme dwarfism and referred to by the local term "elves"."

  "Well, they sure don't seem to be against her, anyway," Rod murmured.

  "The Anti-Royalist factions are significantly not united by their common opposition to the Throne. The first of these factions is the aristocracy, led by twelve dukes and earls, who are in turn led by the Duke Loguire. It is worth noting that the aristocrats are unanimous in their opposition to the Queen. Such unanimity among the aristocrats of a feudal culture is totally without precedent, and must therefore be regarded as an anomaly."

  "And just where did this strange united front come from?"

  "The unanimity may be attributed to the presence of a group termed the councillors, each member of which serves in an advisory capacity to one of the twelve great lords. The physical coherence of this group indicates—"

  Rod jerked his head around, staring at the robot horse's ears. "How's that again?"

  "Each of the councillors is physically characterized by a stooped posture, extreme leanness, sparse cranial hair, pale skin, and a general appearance of advanced age."

  Rod pursed his lips. "Ve-ry interesting! I hadn't caught any significance in that."

  "Such a physical appearance is characteristic of an extremely advanced technological society, in which the problems of longevity, metabolic adjustment, and exposure to ultraviolet have been controlled."

  "Modern medicine and a barroom pallor." Rod nodded. "But how do you account for the hunched-over posture?"

  "We may assume that is a part of the obsequious manner employed by this group. The extremeness of this behavior would seem to indicate that it is not natural to the men in question."

  "Finagle's Law of Reversal." Rod nodded. "Go on."

  "The goal of the Royalist faction is to increase the power of the central authority. The goal of the councillors seems to be the elimination of the central authority, which will result in that form of political organization known as warlordism."

  "Which," said Rod, "is a kind of anarchy."

  "Precisely; and we must therefore entertain the possibility that the councillors may pursue the pattern of political breakdown from warlordism through parochialism to the possible goal of total anarchy."

  "And that's why they're out to kill Catharine."

  "An accurate observation; any chance to eliminate the central authority will be taken."

  "Which means she's in danger. Let's get back to the castle."

  He pulled on the reins, but Fess refused to turn. "She is not in danger, Rod, not yet. The mythos of this culture requires that preliminary to a death, an apparition known as a banshee must be seen on the roof of the dwelling. And the banshee cannot appear until nightfall."

  Rod looked up at the sky. It was twilight; there was still some of the sunset's glow around the horizon.

  "All right, Fess. You've got fifteen minutes, maybe a half-hour."

  "The evidence of the councillors" origin in a high-technology society," the robot droned on, "indicates that the group derives from off-planet, since the only culture on the planet is that of Catharine's realm, which is characterized by a medieval technology. The other Anti-Royalist faction also bears indications of off-planet origin."

  "I think I've heard that before," Rod mused. "Run through it again, will you?"

  "Certainly. The second Anti-Royalist faction is known as the House of Clovis, a name deriving from the supposedly elective process of choosing ancient kings. The rank and file of the House of Clovis consists of beggars, thieves, and other criminals and outcasts. The titular leader is a banished nobleman, Tuan Loguire."

  "Hold it a moment," said Rod. "Titular leader?"

  "Yes," said Fess. "The superficial structure of the House of Clovis would seem to verge on the mob; but further analysis discloses a tightly-knit sub-organization, one function of which is the procurement of nourishment and clothing for the members of the House."

  "But that's what Tuan's doing!"

  "Is it? Who supplies the necessities of life at the House of — Clovis, Rod?"

  "Well, Tuan gives the money to the innkeeper, that twisted little monkey they call the Mocker."

  "Precisely."

  "So you're saying," Rod said slowly, "that the Mocker is using Tuan as a fund-raiser and figurehead, while the Mocker is the real boss."

  "That," said Fess, "is what the data would seem to indicate. What is the Mocker's physical appearance, Rod?"

  "Repulsive."

  "And how did he earn his nickname of 'the Mocker'?"

  "Well, he's supposed to be a sort of Man of a Thousand Faces…"

  "But what is his basic physical appearance, Rod?"

  "Uh…" Rod threw his head back, eyes shut, visualizing the Mocker. "I'd say about five foot ten, hunched over all the time like he had curvature of the spine, slight build — very slight, looks like he eats maybe two hundred calories a day — not much hair -…" His eyes snapped open. "Hey! He looks like one of the councillors!"

  "And is therefore presumably from a high-technology society," Fess agreed, "and therefore also from off-planet. This contention is reinforced by his political philosophy, as indicated in Tuan Loguire's speeches to the rabble…"

  "So Tuan is also the mouthpiece," Rod mused. "But of course; he never could have thought up proletarian totalitarianism by himself."

  "It is also worth noting that the Mocker is the only member of the House of Clovis of this particular type."

  "Ye-e-e-s!" Rod nodded, rubbing his chin. "He's playing a lone game. All his staff are locals trained to back him up."

  "His long-range goal," said Fess, "may be assumed to be the establishment of a dictatorship. Consequently, he would wish someone on the throne whom he could control."

  "Tuan."

  "Precisely. But he must first eliminate Catharine."

  "So the councillors and House of Clovis are both out for Catharine's blood."

  "True; yet there is no indication that they have joined forces. If anything, they would seem to be mutually opposed."

  "Duplication of effort — very inefficient. But, Fess, what're they doing here?"

  "We may assume that they derive from two opposed societies, both of which wish to control some commodity which may be found on Gramarye."

  Rod frowned. "I haven't heard of any rare minerals around-about"

  "I had in mind human resources, Rod."

  Rod's eyes widened. "The espers! Of course! They're here because of the witches!"

  "Or the elves," Fess reminded.

  Rod frowned. "What would they want with the elves?"

  "I have no hypothesis available; yet the logical possibility must be entertained."

  Rod snorted. "All right, you stick with the logical possibility, and I'll stand by the witches. A
nyone who could corner the market on telepaths could control the galaxy. Hey!" He stared, appalled. "They probably could control the galaxy."

  "The stakes," Fess murmured. "are high."

  "I'll have mine …," Rod began; but he was cut off by a ululating, soaring wail that grated like nails on glass.

  Fess swung about Rod looked back at the castle.

  - A dim shape glowed on the battlements, just below the east tower, like a fox-fire or a will-o"—the wisp. It must have been huge; Rod could make out detail even at this distance. It was dressed in the rags and tatters of a shroud, through which Rod could see the body of a voluptuous woman; but the head was a rabbit's, and the muzzle held pointed teeth.

  The banshee began to wail again, a low moan that rose to a keening cry, then stabbed up the scale to a shriek, a shriek that held, and held and held till Rod's ears were ready to break.

  "Fess," he gasped, "what do you see?"

  "A banshee, Rod."

  Rod rode down, ran into, through and over five pairs of sentries en route to the Queen's chambers. But there, at her doors, he met an insurmountable roadblock about two feet high — Brom O'Berin, standing with feet set wide and arms akimbo.

  "Thou hast been long in coming," the little man growled. His face was beet-red with anger, but fear haunted the back of his eyes.

  "I came as fast as I could," Rod panted. "Is she in danger?"

  Brom grunted. "Aye, in danger, though there is as yet no sign of it. Thou must stand watch at her bedside this night, warlock."

  Rod stiffened. "I," he said, "am not a warlock. I am a simple soldier-of-fortune who happens to know a little science.

  Brom tossed his head impatiently. "This is a poor time to reason, thou hast still warlock's powers. But we waste time."

  He rapped back-handed on the door; it swung in, and a sentry stepped out. He saluted and stood aside.

  Brom bowed Rod into the room. "After you, Master Gallowglass."

  Rod smiled grimly and went through the door. "Still don't trust me behind your back, eh?"

  "Nearly," said Brom.

  "That's what I said."

  The sentry entered behind them and closed the door.

  The room was large, with four shuttered slit windows on one side. The floor was covered with fur rugs; the walls were hung with silk, velvet, and tapestries. A fire crackled on a small hearth.