The Warlock In Spite of Himself Read online

  "Yes. It gives me an excuse to travel."

  Fess winced. "You could pose as a wandering minstrel…"

  Rod shook his head. "Minstrels are supposed to be up on the current news. Might not be a bad idea to pick up a harp, though — especially if the ruler's a woman. Songs can get you places where swords can't…"

  "We go through this every time… Would 'Gallowglass' suit you, Rod? It was the Irish term for a mercenary soldier."

  "Gallowglass…" Rod rolled the word over his tongue. "Not bad. That's got some dash to it."

  "Like yourself."

  "Do I detect a touch of irony there? But it is a good, solid word… — and it's not exactly what you'd call pretty…"

  "Definitely like yourself," the robot murmured.

  "I daresay it'll do. Rod Gallowglass it is. Whoa!"

  Rod sawed back on the reins, frowning. From someplace ahead of them came the low mutter of a mob.

  Rod frowned. "What's all the commotion?"

  "Rod, may I recommend caution…

  "Not a bad idea. Gee-up again, but lightly with the hooves, please."

  Fess went at a walk through the narrow moonlit street, sidling up against the weathered wall of a building. He stopped at the corner, thrust his horse's head around the angle.

  "What do you see, Sister Ann?"

  "A mob," said Fess.

  "Astute observation, Watson. Anything else?"

  "Torchlight, and a young man climbing up on a platform. If you'll pardon the analogy, Rod, it closely resembles a pep rally at your alma mater."

  "Just might be what it is," Rod swung out of the saddle. "Well, you stay here, big fella. I'll scout the terrain."

  He rounded the corner and let himself fall into a soldierly swagger, one hand on the pommel of his sword.

  Not a bad idea, from the look of the crowd. Must be a meeting of the local Vagabond's Union. Not an unpatched doublet among them. He wrinkled his nose; a washed body seemed to be even more rare. Definitely a seedy lot.

  The meeting-place was a large, open square, bordered by a wide river on one side; there were wharves with wooden ships riding at their moorings. On the other three sides of the square were cheap, decaying lodging-houses; sea-tackle stores and other cheap shops, and warehouses. The warehouses, at least, were in good repair. All the buildings were hall-timbered, with the characteristic overhanging second storey.

  The shouting, jostling mob filled the whole square. Flaming pine knots lent a demonic light.

  A closer look at the crowd revealed patched eyes, shriveled limbs, heads minus ears — an odd contrast to the figure that stood on the jury-rigged platform.

  He was young, broad-shouldered and blond-headed. His face was clean and unscarred, snub-nosed and blue-eyed. It was a round, almost innocent face, open and honest, filled with the eerie light of a Man with a Mission. His doublet and hose were clean, for a wonder, and well-tailored from good cloth. A sword hung at his hip.

  "A kid from the right side of the tracks," Rod mused. "What in the Seventh Hell is he doing in this rathole?"

  The youth threw up his hands: the crowd roared, pine-knot torches surged forward to light him.

  "Whose shoulders have borne up the weightiest burdens?" the boy shouted.

  "Ours!" roared the crowd.

  "Whose hands are worn hard and scarred with rough toil?"

  "Ours!"

  "Who is it have built all the wealth that the noblemen squander?"

  "We!"

  "Who is it have reared up their lofty castles of granite?"

  "We!"

  "Shall you not have a share in these riches and luxuries?"

  "We shall!"

  "Why," roared the young spokesman, "there is wealth enough in even one of these castles to make each one of you a king!"

  The crowd went wild.

  "You catching this, Fess?"

  "I am, Rod. It sounds like a mixture of Karl Marx and Huey Long."

  "Strange synthesis," Rod muttered. "And yet, maybe not so strange, when you come to think of it."

  "This is your wealth!" shouted the youth. "You have a right to it!"

  The crowd went wild again.

  "Will they give you your due?"

  The crowd went suddenly quiet. An ugly murmur began. "No!" the young man bellowed. "You must therefore demand it, as is your right!"

  He threw up his arms. "The Queen has given you bread and wine when the famine was upon you! The Queen has given meat and good wine to the witches whom she harbors!"

  The crowd fell deathly still. A whisper ran through the ranks:

  "The witches! The witches!"

  "Aye," roared the spokesman, "even the witches, the outcast and spurned. How much more, then, will she give to you, who have borne the heat of the day?

  "She will give you your due!"

  The crowd echoed his roar.

  "Where do you go?" yelled the young Demosthenes.

  "To the castle!" someone shouted, and other voices took up the cry. "To the castle! To the castle!" It became a rhythmic chant. "To the castle! To the castle! To the castle!"

  A high, keening wail cut across the chant. The crowd fell silent. A narrow, twisted figure hobbled to the edge of a warehouse roof and called out over the square:

  "Soldiers, a company or more!"

  "Out through the alleys and wharves!" bellowed the young man. "At the House of Clovis we shall meet, within the hour!"

  To Rod's amazement, the crowd remained silent. Streams of people began to pour down the twisted alleys. There was no panic, no crush.

  Rod shrank into a doorway and watched as the torches were grounded. Score upon score of beggars ran past him, light-footed and silent, to be swallowed up by the dark mouths of the byways.

  The square emptied; the light sounds of scampering faded away. In the sudden quiet, Rod heard the drum of approaching hooves — the soldiers, coming to check up on the Queen's loyal subjects.

  Rod stepped out onto the cobbles, running on the balls of his feet, -around the corner where Fess stood waiting.

  He was into the saddle without breaking stride. "The good part of town," he whispered, "fast and quiet."

  Fess could extrude inch-thick rubber pads from his hooves when silence was called for—, he had also memorized a photo-map of the city from their aerial survey. There are advantages to a robot horse.

  They fled through the town; the ground rose beneath them, building into the hill crowned by the royal castle. The quality of the buildings improved gradually they were coming to the more affluent districts.

  "What do you make of all that, Fess?"

  "A totalitarian movement, beyond question," the robot replied. "A rabble-rouser, no doubt power-hungry, who will lead the people to make demands on the government, demands which cannot be met. The crown's refusals will be used to incite the mob to violence, and you have your revolution made."

  "Couldn't be just an ambitious nobleman trying to usurp the crown?"

  "Usurpation derives its support from the upper classes, Rod. No, this is a proletarian revolution — a prelude to a totalitarian government."

  Rod pursed his lips. "Would you say there was evidence of outside intervention from a more advanced society? I mean, proletarian revolutions aren't usually found in this kind of culture, are they?"

  "Rarely, Rod, and the propaganda is rudimentary when they do occur. Persuasion in a medieval society never refers to basic rights; the concept is alien to the culture. The probability of intervention is quite strong…"

  Rod's lips pulled back in a savage grin. "Well, old mechanism, it looks like we've come to the right place to set up shop."

  At the uphill edge of the town, they came on a rambling, two-storied structure built around three sides of a torch lit courtyard. A timber palisade with a gate closed the fourth side. A party of laughing, well-dressed young men sauntered out of the gate; Rod caught a snatch of drunken song. Tableware rattled, and voices called for meat and ale.

  "I take it we've found one
of the better inns."

  "I would say that was a warranted assumption, Rod." Rod leaned back in the saddle. "Looks like a good place to spend the night. Is garlic sausage possible in this culture, Fess?"

  The robot shuddered. "Rod, you have the most unearthly tastes!"

  "Make way, make way!" a voice trumpeted behind him. Turning, Rod saw a party of soldiers, cavalry, trotting toward him. Behind them rolled a gilded, richly-carved carriage.

  A herald rode in front of the soldiers. "Stand aside from the road, fellow I" he called. "The Queen's coach passes!"

  "Queen!" Rod's eyebrows shot up. "Yes, yes! By all means, let's stand aside!"

  He nudged Fess with his knee. The horse whirled off the road and jockeyed for a position on the shoulder that would give Rod a good look at the royal party.

  The curtains on the coach were half drawn, but there was looking space. A lantern cast a warm yellow glow inside the coach, affording Rod a brief glimpse as the coach spun by.

  A slender, frail form wrapped in a dark, hooded traveling cloak; a pale, small-boned face framed with blonde, almost platinum hair; large, dark eyes; and small, very red lips drawn up in a pout.

  And young, very young — scarcely past childhood, Rod thought.

  She sat ramrod straight, looking very fragile but also very determined — and, somehow, forlorn, with the hostile, chip-on-the-shoulder attitude that so often goes with fear and loneliness.

  Rod stared after the retreating party.

  "Rod."

  Rod started, shook his head, and realized that the coach had been out of sight for a while.

  He glowered at the back of the horse's head. "What is it, Fess?"

  "I wondered if you'd fallen asleep." The black head turned to Rod, the great eyes laughing gently.

  "No." Rod twisted, looking back at the turn where the coach had disappeared.

  Fess schooled his voice to patience. "The Dream again, Rod?"

  Rod scowled. "I thought robots didn't have emotions."

  "No. But we do have an innate dislike of a lack of that quality which has often been termed common sense."

  Rod threw him a sour smile. "And, of course, an appreciation for that quality called irony, since it's basically logical. And irony implies—"

  "—a sense of humor, yes. And you must admit, Rod, that there is something innately humorous in a man's chasing an object of his own invention over half a galaxy."

  "Oh yeah, it's a million yuks, sure. But isn't that the difference between a man and a robot, Fess?"

  "What? The ability to form imaginary constructions?"

  "No, the ability to get hung up on them. Well, let's see if we can't find you a quiet stall where you can chew your data in peace."

  Fess turned and trotted through the inn-yard gate.

  A hostler came running from the stables as Rod dismounted. Rod tossed him the reins, said, "Don't give him too much water," and strolled into the big common room.

  Rod hadn't known that rooms could be smoky without tobacco. Obviously, chimney-building was numbered among the underdeveloped sciences on this planet.

  The customers didn't seem to mind, though. The room was filled with laughter, coarse jokes, and coarser voices in loud conversation. The great room was taken up by twenty or so large, round tables; there were several smaller tables, occupied by people whose dress marked them above the common (but not high enough to be staying at the castle). Lighting consisted of pine torches, which added to the atmosphere; tallow candles, dripping nicely on the guests; and a huge fireplace, fit to roast an ox, which was exactly what it was doing at the moment.

  A small horde of boys and stocky peasant girls kept a steady stream of food and drink passing between the tables and the kitchen; many of them displayed considerable skill at broken-field running.

  A large balding man with an apron tied around his ample middle burst out of the kitchen with a great smoking platter — the landlord, at a guess. Business was good tonight.

  The man looked up, saw Rod, took in the gold and scarlet doublet, sword and dagger, the general air of authority, the well-filled purse — most especially the purse — and shoved the platter at the nearest serving girl. He bustled up to Rod, rubbing his hands on his apron.

  "And how may I serve you, good master?"

  "With a tankard of ale, a steak as thick as both your thumbs, and a table alone." Rod smiled as he said it.

  The innkeeper stared, his lips forming a round 0— Rod had apparently done something out of the ordinary.

  Then the old man's eyes took on a calculating look, one that Rod had seen before; it was usually accompanied by a remark to the waiter, sotto voce, "Soft touch. Soak him for all he's worth."

  Rod had smiled.

  He should have known better.

  Some things can be undone, though. Rod let his smile droop into a scowl.

  "Well, what are you waiting for?" he barked. "Be quick about it, or I'll dine on a slice off your backside!"

  The landlord jumped, then cringed, bowing rapidly. "But of course, m'lord, of course! Quickly it will be, good master; yes, quickly indeed!" He turned away.

  Rod's hand clamped onto his shoulder. "The table," he reminded.

  The landlord gulped and bobbed his head, led Rod to a table beside an upright log that served as a pillar, and scurried away — cursing under his breath, no doubt.

  Rod returned the courtesy, but enlarged the object to include all that the landlord stood for, namely the mercenary ways of mankind.

  And, of course, wound up cursing himself for having catered to Mammon by getting tough.

  But what could he do? SCENT agents were supposed to remain inconspicuous, and a softhearted medieval bourgeois was a contradiction in terms.

  But when the landlord said quickly, he meant it. The steak and ale appeared almost before Rod had sat down. The landlord stood by rubbing his hands on his apron and looking very worried. Waiting for Rod to accept the cooking, probably.

  Rod opened his mouth to reassure the man, and stopped with a word not quite past his larynx. His nose twitched; a slow grin spread over his face. He looked up at the landlord.

  "Do I smell garlic sausage?"

  "Oh yes, your worship!" The landlord started bobbing again. "Garlic sausage it is, your worship, and very fine garlic sausage too, if I may say so. If your worship would care for some…?"

  "My worship would," said Rod, "and presto allegro, sirrah." The landlord shied, reminding Rod of Fess regarding a syllogism, and ran.

  Now, what was that all about? Rod wondered. Must have been something he said. And he'd been rather proud of that sirrah…

  He sampled the steak, and had just washed it down when a plate of sausage thunked! onto the table.

  "Very good," said Rod, "and the steak is acceptable."

  The landlord's face broke into a grin of relief; he turned to go, then turned back.

  "Well, what is it?" Rod asked around a mouthful of sausage.

  The landlord was twisting his hands in his apron again. "Beg pardon, my master, but…" His lips twisted too, then the words burst out. "Art a warlock, m'master?"

  "Who, me? A warlock? Ridiculous!" For emphasis, Rod jabbed his table knife in the landlord's general direction. The huge belly shrank in amazingly; then it bolted, taking its owner along.

  Now where did he get the idea I was a warlock? Rod mused as he chewed a mouthful of steak.

  Never had a better steak, he decided. Must be the smoke. Wonder what wood they're using?

  Must have been the presto allegro bit. Thought they were magic words, probably…

  Well, they had worked wonders.

  Rod took a bite of sausage and a swig of ale.

  Him, a warlock? Never! He might be a second son of a second son, but he wasn't that desperate.

  Besides, being a warlock involved signing a contract in blood, and Rod bad no blood to spare. He kept losing it in the oddest places..

  He drained his tankard, set it down with a thump. The landlord ma
terialized with a jug and poured him a refill. Rod started a smile of thanks, remembered his station, and changed the smile to a sneer. He fumbled in his purse, felt the irregular shape of a gold nugget — acceptable currency in a medieval society — remembered the quickness of the house to gyp the generous, and passed over the nugget in favor of a sliver of silver.

  The landlord stared at the small white bar in the palm of his hand, his eyes making a valiant attempt to turn into hemispheres. He made a gargling sound, stuttered elaborate thanks, and scurried away.

  Rod bit his lip in annoyance. Apparently even so small a chunk of silver was enough to excite comment here.

  The touch of anger dissipated quickly, though; a pound or two of beef in the belly did tend to make the world look better. Rod threw his legs out in the aisle, stretched, and slumped backward in the chair, picking his teeth with the table knife.

  Something was strangely wrong in this common room. The happy were a little too professional about it — voices a shade too loud, laughter a trifle strained, with a dark echo. The glum, on the other hand, were really glum; their brown studies were paneled in walnut.

  Fear.

  Take that pair at three o'clock on the third table from the right, now — they were awfully earnest about whatever it was they were bashing over. Rod gave his ring a surreptitious nudge and pointed it at the twosome.

  "But such meetings do no good if the Queen is continually sending her soldiers against us!"

  " 'Tis true, Adam, 'tis true; she won't hear us, for, when all's said and done, she won't let us close enough to speak."

  "Why, then, she must be forced to listen!"

  "Aye, but what good would that do? Her nobles would not let her give what we demand."

  Adam slammed his open hand on the table. "But we've a right to be free without being thieves and beggars! The debtors' prisons must end, and the taxes with them!"

  "Aye, and so must the cutting off of an ear for the theft of a loaf of bread." He rubbed the side of his head, with a hangdog look on his face. "Yet she hath contrived to do summat for us…"

  "Aye, this setting-up of her own judges now! The great lords will no longer give each their justice, by style and taste."

  "The nobles will not bear it, and that thou knowest. The judges will not stand long." One-Ear's face was grim; he traced circles on the wet tabletop.