The Warlock In Spite of Himself

by Christopher Stasheff

  Brom sprang to bar Rod's path. "What devil possesses you, Rod Gallowglass, that you …,"

  But Rod was already past him and still moving.

  He swung to a stop before the table, glaring across at her, his eyes chips of dry ice.

  Catharine stepped back, one hand coming to her throat, disconcerted and afraid.

  Brom leaped to the tabletop, thundering, "What means this unseemly intrusion, Rod Gallowglass? Get thee hence, till the Queen shall summon thee!"

  "I would prefer not to come before her Majesty in chain—" his words cold and clipped. "And I will not allow that a nobleman of the highest rank be clapped in a common, noisome dungeon with rats and thieves."

  "Thou wilt not allow!" Catharine gasped, outraged; and, "Who art thou to allow or not allow?" roared Brom. "Thou hast not even gentle blood!"

  "Then I must think that blood is opposed to action," Rod snapped.

  He flung the table out of his way and advanced on the Queen. "I had thought you noble." The word was a sneer. "But now I see that you will turn against your very family, even to one near as nigh you as a father! Certes, if you would fight any of your nobles, you must needs fight a kinsman but your very uncle? Fie, woman! Were he the foulest murderer, you had ought to receive him with courtesy and the honor due his station. Your finest chamber you should appoint his cell; 'tis but your duty to blood!"

  He backed her up against the fireplace, glowering deep into her eyes. "Nay, were he but a murderer, no doubt you would receive him with all honor! But no, he has committed the heinous crime of objecting to your high-handed, arbitrary laws, and the further calumny of maintaining his honor against your calculated insults. He will insist on being accorded the respect due a man during the reign of a vindictive, childish, churlish chit of a girl who hath the title of a Queen but none of "the graces, and for this he must needs be damned!"

  "Fie, sirrah," she quavered, waxen pale, "that you would speak so to a lady!"

  "Lady!" he snorted.

  "A lady born!" It was a forlorn, desperate cry. "Will you, too, desert me? Will you speak with the tongue of Clovis?"

  "I may speak like a peasant, but you act like one! And now I see why all desert you; for you would whip to scorn Loguire, who alone of all your lords is loyal!"

  "Loyal!" she gasped. "He, who leads the rebels?"

  "Anselm Loguire leads the rebels! For keeping faith with you, the old Duke is now deposed in favor of his son!"

  He smiled bitterly as the horror and guilt dawned in her, then turned his back upon her and stepped away, giving her time to realize the breadth of her betrayal. He heard a long-drawn, shuddering breath behind him; Brom rushed past him to aid his Queen. He heard a chair creak as Brom made her sit.

  Looking up, he saw the Lord Mayor staring past him wide-eyed. Rod cleared his throat; the burgher's eyes shifted to him. Rod jerked his head toward the door. The Mayor glanced back at the Queen, hesitating. Rod toyed with the hilt of his dagger. The Mayor saw, blanched, and fled.

  Rod turned back to the stricken girl.

  Brom, at her elbow, threw Rod a glance of withering hatred and growled, "Ha' done! Have you not cut deep enough?"

  "Not yet." Rod's lips thinned. He stepped up to the Queen again, his voice cold. "This good nobleman, the Duke Loguire, your own uncle, out of love for you stood against the whole of your nobility, even his own son!" His voice crackled. Her eyes jerked up to him, filling with dread. "And it is your doing, by your high-handed lawmaking and utter lack of diplomacy, that Anselm turned against his father. He had two sons, and you have robbed him of both!"

  She shook her head, faster and faster, lips shaping silent denials.

  "Yet still he is loyal!" Rod murmured. "Still he is loyal, though they would have slain him for it — and damn near did!"

  She stared in horror.

  Rod tapped his shoulder. "This took the dagger that would have pierced his heart. And even at that, 'twas only by a miracle, and the help of one of the witches whom you scarce acknowledge, that I managed to bring him out alive!"

  Brom's head snapped up, searching Rod's face for something. Rod frowned, and went on.

  "But bring him out I did, at peril of my life, and brought him safely back. And what do I find? He is to be held a prisoner! And not even as befits a royal prisoner! No, no! to be treated with due courtesy and deference, but as a common cutpurse, in a lightless, damp, dank dungeon!"

  He paused for effect, rather proud of the last bit of alliteration.

  But he had overdone it a bit; she rallied. Her chin came up and she sniffled back some tears. "Before my laws, sirrah, all are equal!"

  "Yes," Rod agreed, "but that should mean you treat a peasant like a lord, not that you treat a lord like a peasant!"

  He leaned over her, his face an inch from hers. "Tell me, Queen: why is it that Catharine must treat all with contempt?"

  It was a lie; she didn't treat all with contempt, just the noblemen; but anguish and sudden self-doubt showed in her eyes.

  Still she tilted her chin a fraction of an inch higher, and declaimed, "I am the Queen, and all must bow to my power!"

  "Oh, they bow, they bow! Until you slap them in the face; then they slap back!"

  He turned away, glowering at the hearth. "And I can't say I blame them, when you deprive them of liberty."

  Catharine stared. "Liberty? What talk is this, sirrah? I seek to give the serfs greater liberty!"

  "Aye, so you seek." Rod smiled sourly. "But how do you go about giving it? You gather all ever more tightly unto you. You deprive them today, that you may give them more later!"

  He slammed his fist onto the arm of her chair. "But later will never come, don't you see that? There is too much ill in the land, there will always be another evil to fight, and the Queen's word must be law unquestioned to command the army against the evil."

  He drew his hand back slowly, eyes burning. "And so it will never come, the day that you set them free; in your land, none will have liberty, save the Queen."

  He locked his hands behind his back and paced the room. "There is only just so much of it to go around, you know — this liberty. If one man is to have more, another must needs have less; for if one is to command, another must obey."

  He held his hand before her, slowly tightening it into a fist. "So little by little, you steal it away, till your slightest whim is obeyed. You will have complete freedom, to do whatever you wish, but you alone will be free. There will be none of this liberty left over for your people. All, all, will be gathered unto Catharine."

  His hand loosened and clasped her throat lightly. She stared and swallowed, pressing against the back of the chair.

  "But a man cannot live without at least a little liberty," he said softly. "They must have it, or die." His hand tightened slowly. "They will rise up against you, made one by their common enemy — you. And then will squeeze their liberties out of you again, slowly, slowly."

  Catharine tore at his hand, fighting for breath. Brom leaped to free her, but Rod loosed her first.

  "They will hang you from your castle gates," he murmured, "and the nobles will rule in your stead; your work will all be undone. And of this you may be certain, for thus was it ever with tyrants."

  Her head jerked up, hurt deep in her eyes. She gasped for breath to speak, shaking her head in ever harder denial.

  "No, not I," she finally rasped. "Not that, no! Never a tyrant!"

  "Always a tyrant," Rod corrected gently, "from your birth. Always a tyrant to those about you, though you never knew it till now."

  He turned away, hands locked behind his back. "But now you know, and know also that you have none to blame but yourself for rebellion. You pushed them and pushed them, harder and harder, your nobles — for the good of your people, you said."

  He looked back over his shoulder. "But was it not also to see which among them would dare say you nay? To see which among them were men?"

  Contempt curdled her face. "Men!" The word was obscenity. "There are
no men in Gramarye any more, only boys, content to be a woman's playpretties!"

  He smiled, one-sided. "Oh, there be men still. Men in the South, and men in the House of Clovis — or one, at least, there. Men, my Queen, but gentle men, loving their Queen, and loath to strike at her."

  Her lids lowered, the contempt playing over her lips in a smile. "It is as I have said: there are no men in Gramarye more."

  "They are men," Rod answered, very quietly, "and they march north to prove it."

  She stared.

  Then slowly sat back. "Well, then, they march north, and I shall meet them on Breden Plain. Yet still there is none among them I would call man. Beasts, every one."

  "Oh, you shall meet them." Rod gave her a syrupy, mocking smile. "And what shall you use for an army? And who will command it?"

  "I will command," she replied haughtily. "I and Brom. And there be five hundred of the Queen's Guard, and seven hundred of the Queen's Army, and threescore knights at my manors."

  "Sixty knights!" Rod's lips tightened, puffing down at the corners. "Not even enough to give the Southern knights entertainment for one full charge! Sixty knights out of how many hundreds in your kingdom? And all the rest arrayed there against you! And twelve hundred footmen against the rebels" thousands!"

  Her hands seized the arms of the chair in a spasm, to hide their trembling; fear drained her face of its color. "We shall win, for the honor of Plantagenet or Gramarye, or die nobly."

  "I have yet," Rod said tightly, "to see a noble death in battle. They re all just a little on the messy side."

  "Be still!" she snapped, then closed her eyes and bowed her head, knuckles whitening on the chair arms.

  She rose, proud and calm again, and Rod couldn't help a brief, admiring thought for her spunk.

  She sat at the table, drew up parchment and quill, scribbled a moment, then folded the parchment and held it out to Rod. "Bear this to my Uncle Loguire," she said. " 'Tis a command that he appear here before me, and a warrant of safe-conduct; for I bethink me that I shall -need all loyal to me by my side ere greatly long."

  Rod took the parchment and crumpled it slowly in his fist. He flung it into the fire without taking his eyes from Catharine. "You shall write a letter to the Duke, and I shall bear it," he said in an Antarctic voice; "but in it you shall beg of him the courtesy of an audience."

  Her back stiffened and her chin came up. Rod warmed his voice hastily, smiling. "Come, come, my Queen! You already have all the liberty; can you not expend a little in courtesy?"

  His eyes darkened, the smile faded. "Or will you be swept by the sin of pride, and allow your liberty to become license?"

  He stepped a little closer, towering over her. "Will your people pay the price of your pride, my Queen? Or will you?"

  She glared back at him a moment, but something inside her was clamoring for attention. She dropped her eyes and sat quiet a moment, then turned to the table again and wrote.

  She folded the letter, sealed it, and held it out to him. He took it, bowed a little too deeply, with a click of the heels, and turned for the door.

  He caught a quick scurry of movement along the baseboard out of the corner of his eye. He turned, saw a mouse duck under the tapestry, where it stayed very still.

  Rod's jaw tightened. He crossed the room in two strides, lifted the tapestry.

  The mouse looked up at him, its eyes very wide, very green, and very intelligent.

  "I do not appreciate eavesdroppers," Rod said coldly.

  The mouse flinched, but stared back defiantly.

  Rod frowned at a sudden thought. Then his stern look melted. He picked the mouse up, gently, held it level with his eyes, with a tender look that did a very nice job of negating any image of dignity he might have built up.

  He shook his head slowly. "You didn't really think I'd need help in here, did you?"

  The mouse lowered its eyes, whiskers twitching a little. "Certes," murmured Catharine, "methinks the man is possessed."

  "Your Majesty," Brom said with a musing tone and a gleam in his eye, "may speak more truth than she knows."

  Chapter 28

  The drawbridge echoed hollowly under Rod's striding feet. He ran lightly down the slope, away from the castle, and slipped into a copse of spruce.

  "Fess," he called softly.

  "Here, Rod." The great black steel horse came through the trees.

  Rod smiled, slapped the metal side affectionately. "How the hell'd you know I'd come here?"

  "Quite simply, Rod. An analysis of your behavior patterns, coupled with the fact that this grove is the closest to—"

  "Skip it," Rod growled. "Big Tom took Loguire to the House of Clovis?"

  "Affirmative, Rod."

  Rod nodded. "Under the circumstances, it's probably the safest place for the Duke. What a comedown for a nobleman."

  He swung into the saddle, then fumbled in his doublet and brought out the little mouse. It looked up at him apprehensively.

  "Well," he sighed, "it doesn't seem to make any difference what I tell you to do; you're going to go right ahead and do whatever you want anyway."

  The mouse lowered its eyes, trying to look guilty and ashamed; but its whiskers quivered with delight.

  It rubbed its cheek against the skin of his palm.

  "Affection will get you nowhere," Rod growled. "Now, listen. You go to the House of Clovis; that's where I'm bound. That's an order."

  The mouse looked up at him with wide, innocent eyes.

  "And it's one order I can be sure you'll obey," Rod went on, "since it's what you were going to do anyway. But, look!" A note of anxiety crept into his voice. "Be careful, will ya?"

  He brought his hand forward and kissed the mouse's nose, very gently.

  The mouse leaped, wriggled with delight, dancing gleeful on his hand; as it danced, it reared up, its front paws stretching and broadening into wings. Its tail fanned out; feathers sprouted on its body; its nose blurred and became a beak, and a wren was dancing on Rod's hand.

  Rod caught his breath. "Uh… yeah," he said after a while. "That's just a little hard to take the first time I watch it happen. But don't worry, I'll get used to it."

  The bird hopped from his hand, flew once around his head, hovered in front of him, then sprang arrowing into the sky.

  Rod looked after the wren, murmured, "Do you think she'll do what I tell her this time, Fess?"

  "She will." There was a strange quality to the robot's voice.

  Rod looked sidewise at the great black head. "Thought robots couldn't laugh."

  "A misconception," Fess replied.

  "Git." Rod knocked his heels against the steel sides. Fess leaped into his long, steel canter.

  "What else could I do?" Rod growled.

  "With that lady," Fess answered, "nothing. But have no regrets, Rod. It's excellent policy. Many kings have used it."

  "Yes," Rod mused. "And after all, being obeyed is the important thing, isn't it?"

  Fess galloped silently into the moonlit courtyard on rubber-padded hooves and stopped abruptly. Rod's chest slammed against the horse's neck.

  "Whuff!" He slammed back into the saddle. "Ohhhh I My tail-bone! Look, Fess, warn me before you pull a stunt like that, will ya? Inertia may be just a nuisance to you, but it hits me right where I live."

  "Where is that, Rod?"

  "Never mind," Rod growled, dismounting. "Suffice to say that I just learned why the cavalry used split saddles."

  He crossed the courtyard, glancing at the moon as he went. It was low in the sky; dawn was not far off.

  He pounded on the door. There was a rustle of movement inside, then the door opened. The gnarled, bent figure of the Mocker stood before him.

  "Aye, milord?" he said with a snaggle-toothed grin. Wouldn't do to let him know that Rod knew he was the power behind the throne. Rod stepped in through the door, scarcely noticing the little man's presence. "Take me to the Lord Loguire, fellow."

  "Certes, milord." The Mocker scurried
around Rod and opened the inner door. Rod passed through it, puffing off his gauntlets … and stepped into the middle of a semicircle of beggars and thieves, standing three deep and armed with truncheons and knives.

  They grinned, their eyes hungry; here and there one licked his lips.

  Their faces were dirty and scarred, mutilated and festering with sores; their clothes were threadbare, patched, torn; but their knives were remarkably well-kept.

  Rod tucked his gloves into his belt, hands stiffening into karate swords, and turned to the Mocker. That worthy was now flanked by five or six prime samples of the lees of society.

  "I come here in friendship." Rod's face was immobile.

  "Do ye, now?" The Mocker grinned, exposing bleeding gums, and cackled. Suddenly his eyes gleamed with hate. "Declare yourself, lordling!"

  Rod frowned. "Declare myself how?"

  "For the noblemen, for the Queen, or for the House of Clovis!"

  "Be done with your blathering!" Rod snapped. "I have small stomach for nonsense, and I'm beginning to feel very full. Take me to Loguire, now!"

  "Oh, aye, that we shall. Yes, milord, at once, milord, straightaway." He rubbed his hands, chortling with glee. Then his glance darted over Rod's shoulder, and he nodded.

  Rod started to turn, but something exploded on the back of his head. Stars reeled about him, then blackness.

  Slowly, Rod became aware of pink light, pain and a thousand discordant bass fiddles tuning up inside his head.

  Slower yet, he became aware of something cold and slimy against his cheek. The pink light, he realized, was sunlight filtered through closed eyelids.

  The pain pulled itself in and concentrated in his head. He winced, then by heroic measures managed to open his eyes, and winced again.

  Everything was blurred, out of focus, sunlight and blobs of color.

  The slime under his cheek was moss, and the coldness beneath it was stone.

  He shoved hard with his hands; the slimy surface swung away, left him reeling, leaning on his hands heavily, stomach churning.

  He shook his head, flinched at the pain, and blinked several times. His lids rasped over gummy eyeballs, but slowly his vision cleared. He forced his eyes to focus on … the face of Tuan Loguire.