The Warlock In Spite of Himself

by Christopher Stasheff

  Tom gave a last pry, and caught the sheet of stone as it fell outward. It was perhaps an inch thick.

  He laid the slab on the ground and looked up at his companions. His grin flashed chill in the moonlight. "I had thought I might have need of a bolthole one day," he whispered. "Gently now, lads."

  He ducked head and arms through the hole, kicked off with his feet and slithered through.

  Rod swallowed hard and followed Tom. Tuan came through at his heels.

  "All in?" Tom whispered as Tuan's feet stood hard to the floor, and the moonlight was cut off as Tom fitted the stone plug back into place.

  "Light," he whispered. Rod cupped his hand over the hilt of his dagger and turned it on, letting a ray of light escape between two fingers. It was enough to see Big Tom grope up a worm-eaten panel from the floor and fit it back into place in the bolthole.

  Tom straightened, grinning. "Now let them wonder at our coming. To work, masters."

  He turned away. Rod followed, looking quickly about him. They were in a large stone room that had once been paneled. The panels were crumbled and fallen away for the most part. The room held only cobwebs, rusty iron utensils, and long trestle tables, spongy now with rot.

  " 'Twas a kitchen, once," Tom murmured. "They cook at the hearth in the common room, now. None ha' used this place for threescore years or more."

  Rod shuddered. "What's a good kid like you doing in a place like this, Tom?"

  Big Tom snorted.

  "No, I mean it," said Rod urgently. "You can judge a god, an ideal, by the people who worship it, Tom."

  "Be still!" Tom snapped.

  "It's true, though, isn't it? The councillors are all rotten, we know that. And the Mocker and his buddies are lice. You're the only good man in the bunch. Why don't you—"

  "Be still!" Tom snarled, swinging about so suddenly that Rod blundered into him. Rod felt the huge, hamlike hand grabbing a fistful of his doublet, right at the throat, and smelled the beery, garlic reek of Tom's breath as the man thrust his face close to Rod's.

  "And what of the Queen?" Tom hissed. "What says she for her gods, eh?"

  He let Rod go, with a shove that threw him back against the wall, and turned away.

  Rod collected himself and followed, but not before he had caught a glimpse of Tuan's eyes, narrowed and chill with hate, in the beam of the torch.

  "We approach a corner," Tom muttered. "Dampen the light." The torch winked out; a few moments later, Rod felt the stone wall fall away under his left hand. He turned, and saw a faint glow at the end of the blackened, short hallway ahead.

  Big Tom stopped, " 'Tis a corner again, and a sentry beyond. Walk wary, lads."

  He moved away again, stepping very carefully. Rod followed, feeling Tuan's breath hot on the back of his neck.

  As they neared the corner, they heard a rhythm of faint snores to their right, from the new hallway.

  Big Tom flattened himself against the wall with a wolfish grin. Rod followed suit… and drew away with a gasp and a convulsive shudder.

  Tom scowled at him, motioning for silence.

  Rod looked at the wall and saw a thick blob of grayish-white stuff fastened to the wall. It had brushed the back of his neck, and he could say with authority that the texture was flaccid, the touch cold and moist.

  He looked at the obscene glob and shuddered again. " 'Tis but witch-moss, Rod Gallowglass," Tuan whispered in his ear.

  Rod frowned. "Witch-moss?"

  Tuan stared, incredulous. "Thou'rt a warlock, and knowest not witch-moss?"

  Rod was saved from an answer by the cessation of the snores from around the corner.

  The trio caught their collective breath and flattened themselves against the wall, Rod carefully avoiding the witchmoss. Tom glared at his sidekicks.

  The moment of silence stretched out as thin as the content of a congressman's speech.

  "Hold!" shouted a voice from around the corner.

  Their muscles snapped tight in a spasm.

  "Where do you go at this hour?" the sentry's voice snarled.

  Dread clambered its way up Rod's spine.

  A quaking, nasal voice answered the sentry. "Nay, I do but seek the jakes!"

  The three men let their breath out in a long, silent sigh.

  "Sir, when yer speak to a soldier!"

  "Sir," the whining voice echoed, surly.

  "What was your reason for walking past curfew?" the sentry threatened in ominous tones.

  "I do but seek the jakes, sir," the nasal voice whined.

  The sentry chuckled, mollified. "And the jakes are near to the women's hall? Nay, I think not! Back to your pallet, scum! Your doxie's not for you this night!"

  "But I—"

  "Nay!" the guard snapped. "You do know the rule, fellow. Do you ask of the Mocker first." The voice became almost confidential. " 'Tain't so much as all that, chum. Like as not he'll give yer the paper says yer can do't, an' set yer a fit place an' time. He's free 'nough about it."

  The nasal one hawked and spat.

  "Come on, now," the guard growled. "Yer've but to ask of him."

  "Aye," sneered the nasal voice, "and ask again every night that I'm wishin' to see her! Hell, 'twas the one thing in this world that came cheap!"

  The guard's voice hardened again. "The Mocker's word is the law in this House, and my club'll remind you of it, if my word's not enough!"

  There was a pause, then an angry, despairing snarl, and feet padded away.

  There was silence again; after a while, the guard began to Snore again.

  Rod glanced at Tuan. The boy's face was dead white, lips pressed so tight the color'd gone out of them.

  "I take it you didn't know anything about this?" Rod whispered.

  "Nay," Tuan whispered back. "Once they'd set me by, they wasted no time. A guard at each hall, a writ ere two may share a bed — this is worse than the lords of the South!"

  Tom's head jerked up. "Nay!" he snarled. " 'Tis but inconvenience. The gains to be got from it are well worth the price."

  For his part, Rod agreed with Tuan. Police state, control over every facet of the people's lives — yes, the Mocker's Marxism was showing.

  "What gains are worth that price?" Tuan snorted, raising his whisper a trifle.

  "Why," growled Big Tom, at minimum bullfrog volume, "more food for all, more and better clothing, none poor and none starving."

  "And all thanks to planned parenthood," Rod murmured, with an apprehensive glance at the corner.

  "And how may this come?" asked Tuan, hiking his voice another notch and ignoring Rod's frantic signals. "From a writ of consent for a lovemaking? I cannot see how!"

  Tom's lip twisted in scorn, and the bullfrog croaked louder. "Nay, you cannot! But the Mocker can!"

  Tuan stared; then his jaw tightened, and his hand slipped to his dagger. "Do you place yourself and your kind above a nobleman, churl?"

  "Uh, gentlemen," Rod whispered.

  Big Tom tensed, grinning; his eyes danced mockery. "Blood will tell," he said, full voice.

  Tuan's dagger leaped out as he sprang.

  Tom lugged out his minor sword.

  Rod threw out his hands, stiff-arming both of them at the collarbone. "Gentlemen, gentlemen! I realize you both feel very strongly about the issues at hand; but it is my bounden duty to remind you that a sentry fully capable of bringing the wrath of the House down on our heads is dozing, and not too heavily either, just around the corner!"

  "This is not to be borne, Rod Gallowglass!"

  "Aye," chuckled Big Tom, "the truth was ever hard to bear." Tuan lunged, trying to stab at Tom over Rod's head. Rod shoved back on the boy's collarbone and ducked as the knife arced past his head.

  Tom chuckled softly. "There is a nobleman for you! A fool could see the reach is too great! Ever will he overreach himself, when he knows he must fail."

  Rod eyed Tom sideways. "You're slipping, Big Tom. That was almost a compliment."

  "Nay!" Tom hissed, his eyes fir
e. "To attempt the impossible is the act of a fool! The nobles are fools, and the roads to their utopias are paved with the bones of the peasants!"

  Tuan spat. "And what else are they—"

  "Be still!" Rod gave them both a shake. "Could I possibly persuade you to overlook your obvious differences in favor of the common good for a moment?"

  Tom straightened to his full height and looked down his nose at Tuan. "Little man," he crooned.

  Rod let go of Tuan and swung on Big Tom, grabbing the big man's collar with both bands. Tom grinned and brought up a hamlike fist. "Aye, master?"

  "What's the utopia right now, Big Tom?" Rod breathed.

  Tom's grin faded to a frown. "Why, that the people of Gramarye should rule their own land for themselves."

  "Right!" Rod let go of Tom's collar, patting the man's cheek. "Bright boy! You get the silver star this week! And what do you have to do first?"

  "Kill the councillors and noblemen!" Tom grinned.

  "Very good! A gold star for the boy! You'll make valedictorian yet, Big Tom! Now, if you really want to be a good boy, tell teacher what you have to do before that!"

  Tom sobered. "Jail the Mocker."

  "A-plus! And what comes before that?"

  Big Tom knit his brow, confused. "What?"

  "Be quiet!" Rod roared in his face, in a stage whisper. He spun on Tuan. "Now! What do we do about that sentry?" And to himself, he mumbled, "Sheesh! I should maybe have brought a political convention in here!"

  Tuan's chin jutted out stubbornly. 'Ere we go further, this fellow must acknowledge me lord!"

  Tom took a breath for a fresh blast.

  "Down, boy!" Rod said hurriedly. "High blood pressure's bad for you! Is Tuan Loguire a nobleman born, Tom?"

  "Aye," Tom grudged, "but that does not—"

  "Is Loguire one of the greatest of the noble houses?"

  "It is, but—"

  "And your mother and father were peasants?"

  "Yes, but that's not to say that—"

  "And you have absolutely no wish to have been born a nobleman!"

  "Never!" Tom hissed, eyes glowing. "May I be hanged from the highest gallows in Gramarye if ever I had wished that!"

  "And you wouldn't want to be a nobleman if you could?"

  "Master!" Big Tom pleaded, wounded to the core. "Hast so little regard for me that thou couldst think such of me?"

  "No, I trust you, Big Tom," said Rod, patting his shoulder, "but Tuan has to be shown." He turned to the young nobleman. "You satisfied? He knows his place, doesn't he?"

  "Aye." Tuan smiled like a fond father. "Fool I was to doubt him."

  Understanding come into Tom's eyes as his mouth dropped open. His heavy hand closed on Rod's neck. "Why, thou lump of…!"

  Rod reached up and squeezed Tom's elbow just at the funny bone. Tom let go, eyes starting from their sockets, mouth sagging in a cry of agony that he dared not voice.

  "Now," said Rod briskly, "how do we get rid of that sentry?"

  "Oh, thou scum!" Tom breathed. "Thou slimy patch of river-moss, thou mongrel son-of-a-democrat, thou!"

  "Precisely," Rod agreed.

  "Nay, but tell me," Tuan breathed in Rod's ear, eyes glowing. "What didst thou do to him? Thou didst but touch him and—"

  "Uh… warlock trick," said Rod, falling back on the easiest, though most distasteful, excuse. He caught the back of Tuan's neck and jerked the youth's head down into the huddle with himself and Big Tom. "Now, how do we knock out that sentry?"

  "There is but one way," murmured Tuan. "Wake him and fight him."

  "And let him give the alarm?" Tom stared, horrified. "Nay, nay! Come catpaw behind him, and give him a blow o" the head!"

  "That," said Tuan grimly, "lacks honor!"

  Tom spat.

  "Big Tom's plan is okay," said Rod, "except what happens if he wakes while we're sneaking up? And there's a very good chance of it; that lecherous beggar proved it for us!"

  Tom shrugged. "Then a quick rush, and a hope. If we die, then we die."

  "And the Queen dies with us," Rod growled. "No good."

  Tom pulled out his short sword and balanced it on a finger. "I'll strike him in the throat with this blade at full fifty paces."

  Tuan stared, appalled. "A man of your own men, sirrah!"

  "One for the good of the cause." Tom shrugged. "What of it?"

  Tuan's eyes froze. "That is worse than a stab in the back! We must needs give him lief to defend himself."

  "Oh, aye!" Tom snorted. "Lief to defend himself, and to raise the whole House with his cries! Lief to…"

  Rod clapped a hand over each mouth, glad that he hadn't brought three men with him. He hissed at Big Tom, "Be patient, will you? He's new to commando work!"

  Tom sobered.

  Tuan straightened, eyes icy.

  Rod put his mouth next to Tom's ear and whispered, "Look, if you hadn't known he was an aristocrat, how would you have judged him?"

  "A brave man, and a strong fighter," Tom admitted, "though foolish and young, with too many ideals."

  Rod shook a finger at him. "Prejudice, Big Tom! Discrimination! I thought you believed in equality!"

  "Well said," Tom growled reluctantly; "I'll bear him. But one more of his pious mouthings and…"

  "If we get this job done fast, he won't have a chance to. Now, I've got an idea."

  "Then why didst thou ask us?" growled Tom.

  " 'Cause I didn't get my idea till you two started haggling. What we need is a compromise solution, right? Tuan won't stand for a knife in the back, or a knife while the guy's sleeping, or for killing a loyal retainer who might make good cannon fodder tomorrow. Right?"

  "Aye," Tuan agreed.

  "And Big Tom won't stand for him giving the alarm — and neither will I, for that matter: we're all good fighters, but just the three of us against the whole Houseful of cutthroats is straining the bonds of fantasy just a little bit far. So, Tom! If that sentry should come running around this corner all of a sudden, will you clobber him lightly?"

  "Aye!" Tom grinned.

  "Lightly, I said. Does that satisfy honor, Tuan?"

  "Aye, since he faces us."

  "Good! Now, if we could just get him to chase a mouse around this corner, we'd be all set."

  "Aye," Tuan agreed, "but where's the mouse that would so nicely oblige us?"

  "The master could make one," Tom growled.

  "Make one?" Rod stared. "Sure if I had a machine shop and a…

  "Nay, nay!" Tuan grinned. "I know not those spells; but thou hast the witch-moss, and thou'rt a warlock! What more dost thou need?"

  "Huh?" Rod swallowed. "Witches make things out of that stuff?"

  "Aye, aye! Dost thou not know? Living things, small things -like mice!"

  The missing piece in the puzzle of Gramarye clicked into place in Rod's mind. "Uh, say, how do they work that trick?"

  "Why, they have but to look at a lump of the stuff, and it becomes what they wish it!"

  Rod nodded slowly. "Very neat, ve-ry neat. The only hitch in the plan is, that's not my style of witchcraft."

  Tuan sagged. "Thou craftest not witch-moss? Then how are we to …? Still, 'tis most strange that thou shouldst not know of it."

  "Not so," Tom dissented. "A very poor briefing bureau …"

  "Oh, shut up!" Rod growled. "There are other ways to get a mouse." He cupped his hands around his mouth and called softly, "Gwen! Oh, Gwe-en!"

  A spider dropped down on a thread right in front of his nose.

  Rod jumped. "Ye cats! Don't do that, girl!"

  "Vermin!" Tom hissed, and swung his hand back for a swat.

  Rod poked him in the solar plexus. "Careful, there! Squash a spider, and you get bad luck, you know — namely, me!"

  He cupped the spider in his hand and caressed it very gently with a finger. "Well, at least you didn't choose a black widow. Prettiest spider I ever saw, come to think of it."

  The spider danced on his hand.

  "Listen, s
weetheart, I need a mouse to bring me that sentry. Can you handle it?"

  The spider shape blurred, fluxed, and grew into a mouse. It jumped from his hand and dashed for the corner. "Oh, no you don't!" Rod sprang, cupped a hand over it, then very carefully picked it up. "Sorry, sweetheart, you might get stepped on — and if anything like that happened to you, I'd be totally crushed."

  He kissed its nose, and heard Tom gagging behind him. The mouse wriggled in ecstasy.

  "No," said Rod, running a fingertip over its back and pinching the tail, "you've got to make me one instead, out of that, blob of witch-moss. Think you can handle it, pet?"

  The mouse nodded, turned, and stared at the witch-moss. Slowly, the blob pulled itself in, extruded a tendril into a tail, grew whiskers at the top end, changed color to brown, and a mouse crept down off the wall.

  Tom gulped and crossed himself.

  Rod frowned. "Thought you were an atheist."

  "Not at times like this, master."

  The witch-moss mouse scurried around the corner.

  Big Tom lifted his dagger, holding it by the tip, the heavy, weighted handle raised like a club.

  The snores around the corner stopped with a grunt.

  "Gahhh! Nibble on me, will ya, y" crawlin" ferleigh?"

  The sentry's stool clattered over. He stamped twice, missed both times; then the waiting men heard running footsteps approaching.

  Tom tensed himself.

  The mouse streaked around the corner.

  The sentry came right behind it, cursing. His feet slipped on the turn. He looked up, saw Tom, and had just time enough to begin to look horrified before Tom's knife-hilt caught him at the base of the skull with a very solid thunk.

  Rod let out a sigh of relief. "At last!"

  The sentry folded nicely into Tuan's waiting arms. The young nobleman looked at Rod, grinning.

  "Who fights by the side of a warlock," he said, "wins."

  "Still, it was a pretty ratty trick," said Rod sheepishly. Tom winced and pulled a length of black thread from his pouch.

  "Nay, that will not hold him," Tuan protested.

  Tom's only answer was a grin.

  "Fishline?" Rod lifted an eyebrow.

  "Better," said Big Tom, kneeling, beginning to wrap up the sentry. "Braided synthetic spider silk."