The Warlock In Spite of Himself Read online

  "Nay, the noblemen will stand for naught that the Queen designs!" Adam plunged his knife into the tabletop. "Will not the Loguire see that?"

  "Nay, speak not against the Loguire!" One-Ear's face darkened. "If 'twere not for him, we would still be a ragtag horde, with no common purpose! Speak not against Loguire, Adam, for without him, we would not have the brass to sit in this inn, where the Queen's soldiers are but guests!"

  "Oh, aye, aye, he pulled us together and made men of us thieves. Yet now he holds our new manhood in check; he seeks to keep us from fighting for that which is ours!"

  One-Ear's mouth turned down tight at the corners. "Thou hast hearkened too much to the idle and envious chatter of the Mocker, Adam!"

  "Yet fight we must, mark my words!" Adam cried, clenching his fist. "Blood must be shed ere we come to our own. Blood must answer for blood, and 'tis blood the nobles have ta'en from—"

  Something huge slammed into Rod, knocking him back against the table, filling his head with the smell of sweat and onions and cheap wine.

  Rod braced an arm against the table and shoved with his shoulder. The heavy form swayed away with a whuff! of breath. Rod drew his dagger and thumbed the signet ring to off.

  The man loomed over him, looking eight feet tall and wide as a wagon.

  "Here now!" he growled. "Why doncha look where I'm going at?"

  Rod's knife twisted, gleaming light into the man's eyes. "Stand away, friend," he said softly. "Leave an honest man to his ale."

  "An honest man, is it!" The big peasant guffawed. "A sojer, callin' hisself an honest man!" His roaring laughter was echoed from the tables.

  On an off bet, Rod decided, strangers weren't popular here. The laughter stopped quite suddenly. "Nay, put down your plaything," said the big man, suddenly sober, "and I'll show you an honest villager can outfight a sojer."

  A prickle ran down Rod's spine as be realized it was a put-up job. The landlord had advised the big ox of the whereabouts of a heavy purse…

  "I've no quarrel with you," Rod muttered. He realized it was the worst thing he could have said almost before the words were off his tongue.

  The big man leered, gloating. "No quarrel, he says now. He throws hisself in the path of a poor staggering man so's he can't help but ran into him. But, 'No quarrel,' sez he, when he's had a look at Big Tom!"

  A huge, meaty hand buried itself in the cloth at Rod's throat, pulling him to his feet. "Nay, I'll show you a quarrel," Big Tom snarled.

  Rod's right hand lashed out, chopping into the man's elbow, then bouncing away. The big man's hand loosened and fell, temporarily numbed. Big Tom stared at his hand, a look of betrayal.

  Rod pressed his lips together, tucked his knife into the sheath. He stepped back, knees flexed, rubbed his right fist in his left palm. The peasant was big, but he probably knew nothing of boxing.

  Life came back into Tom's hand, and with it, pain. The huge man bellowed in anger, his hand balling into a fist, swinging at Rod in a vast roundhouse swipe that would have annihilated anything it struck.

  But Rod ducked under and to the side and, as the fist went by him, reached up behind Tom's shoulder and gave a solid push to add to the momentum of the swing.

  Big Tom spun around; Rod caught the man's right wrist and twisted it up behind Tom's back. Rod jerked the wrist up a little higher; Big Tom howled. While he was howling, Rod's arm snaked under Tom's armpit to catch the back of his neck in a half nelson.

  Not bad, Rod thought. So far he hadn't needed boxing.

  Rod planted a knee in Tom's backside as he released his holds; Tom blundered into the open space before the hearth, tried to catch his balance, and didn't make it. Overturned tables clattered and thudded as the patrons scuttled back, all too glad to leave the fireside seat to Big Tom.

  He came to his knees, shaking his head, and looked up to see Rod standing before him in a wrestler's crouch, smiling grimly and beckoning with both arms.

  Tom growled low in his throat and braced a foot against the fieldstones of the hearth.

  He shot at Rod head-first, like a bull.

  Rod sidestepped and stuck out a foot. Big Tom went flailing straight for the first row of tables. Rod squeezed his eyes shut and set his teeth.

  There was a crash like four simultaneous strikes in a bowling alley. Rod winced. He opened his eyes and forced himself to look.

  Big Tom's head emerged out of a welter of woodwork, wide-eyed and slack-jawed.

  Rod shook his head sadly, clucking his tongue. "You've had a rough night, Big Tom. Why don't you go home and sleep it off?"

  Tom picked himself up, shin, wristbone, and clavicle, and put himself back together, taking inventory the while.

  Satisfied that he was a gestalt again, he stamped a foot, planted his fists on his hips, and looked up at Rod.

  "Here now, man!" he complained. "You don't half fight like an honest gentleman!"

  "Not hardly a gentleman at all," Rod agreed. "What do you say we try one more throw, Tom? Double or nothing!"

  The big man looked down at his body as if doubting its durability. He kicked at the remains of an oak table tentatively, slammed a fist into his own tree-trunk biceps, and nodded.

  "I'll allow as I'm fit," he said. "Come on, little man."

  He stepped out onto the cleared floor in front of the hearth, walking warily around the perimeter, keeping one baleful eye on Rod.

  "Our good landlord told you I had silver in my purse, didn't he?" said Rod, his eyes snapping.

  Big Tom didn't answer.

  "Told you I was an easy mark, too." Rod mused. "Well, he was wrong on both counts."

  Big Tom's eyes bulged. He gave a bellow of distress. "No silver?"

  Rod nodded. "I thought he told you." His eyes flicked over to the landlord, ashen and trembling by a pillar.

  And looked back to see Big Tom's foot heading right toward his midriff.

  Rod fell back, swinging both hands up to catch Big Tom's heel and inspire it to greater heights.

  Tom's foot described a neat arc. For a moment, he hung in the air, arms flailing; then he crashed howling to the floor.

  Rod's eyes filled with pain as Big Tom floundered about, struggling for the breath that the floor had knocked out of him.

  Rod stepped in, grabbed the front of Tom's tunic, braced his foot against Tom's and threw his weight back, hauling the big man to his feet. Tom immediately sagged forward; Rod shoved a shoulder under Tom's armpit and pushed the big man back to the vertical.

  "Ho, landlord!" he shouted. "Brandy — and fast!

  Rod liked to think of himself as the kind of man people could lean on, but this was ridiculous.

  When Big Tom had been somewhat revived and commended to the gentle jeers of his booze buddies, and the guests had somewhat restored the room and resumed their places, and Rod had still not wreaked anything resembling vengeance on the landlord, that worthy's eyes sparked with a sudden hope. He appeared again before Rod, his chin thrust out and the corners of his mouth drawn down.

  Rod hauled himself out of the depth of a rather cynical contemplation of man's innate goodness and focused on the landlord. "Well, what do you want?"

  The landlord swallowed thickly. "If it please your worship there's a little matter of some broken chairs and tables…"

  "Chairs," said Rod, not moving. "Tables."

  He slammed to his feet and coiled a hand around the innkeeper's neck. "Why, you slimy little curmudgeon! You set that ox on me, you try to rob me, and you have the gall to stand there and tell me I owe you money?" He emphasized each point with a shake of the landlord's neck, slowly pushing him back against the pillar. The landlord made a masterful attempt to blend into the bark, but only succeeded in spreading himself thin.

  "And to top it all off, my ale's gotten warm!" Rod shouted. "You call yourself a landlord, and you treat a gentleman of arms like this?"

  "Forgive, master, forgive!" the landlord rattled, clawing at Rod's hand with commendable effort and negative effect. "I me
ant no harm, your worship; I meant only—"

  "Only to rob me, yes!" Rod snorted, letting him go with a toss that fetched him up backward over a table. "Beware the kind, for they tend to grow cruel when you cross them. Now! a goblet of hot mulled wine by the time I count three, and I may refrain from stretching your ears out and tying them under your chin. Git!"

  He counted to three, with a two-second pause between numbers, and the goblet was in his hand. The landlord scuttled away with his hands clapped over his ears, and Rod sat down to sip at the wine and wonder what a curmudgeon was.

  Looking up, he saw half a garlic sausage sitting on the table. He picked it up with a heavy hand and tucked it into his purse. Might as well take it along; it was about the only good thing that had happened today.

  He surged to his feet and called, "Ho, landlord!"

  Mine host came bobbing up.

  "A chamber alone, with heavy blankets!"

  "A chamber alone, sir? At once, sir!" The landlord scuttled away, still bobbing his head. "Heavy blankets, sir! Quite surely, sir!"

  Rod ground his teeth and turned away to the door. He stepped out and leaned back against the jamb, letting his head slump forward onto his chest, eyes closed.

  "The law of the jungle," he muttered. "If it looks weak, prey upon it. If it turns out to be strong, bow to it; let it prey upon you and hope it won't devour you."

  "Yet all men have pride," murmured a voice behind his ear.

  Rod looked up, smiled. " 'Art there, old mole?' "

  " 'Swear! Swear!' " Fess answered.

  Rod let loose a stream of invective that would have done credit to a sailor with a hangover.

  "Feel better?" Fess asked, amused.

  "Not much. Where does a man like mine host hide his pride, Fess? He sure as hell never lets it show. Obsequiousness, yes; avarice, yes; but self-respect? No. I haven't seen that in him."

  "Pride and self-respect are not necessarily synonymous, Rod." Someone tugged at Rod's elbow. He snapped his head around, muscles tensed.

  It was Big Tom, his six-foot-five bent strangely in a valiant attempt to put his head below the level of Rod's.

  "God e'en, master."

  Rod stared at him for a moment without answering. "God e'en," he replied, his voice carefully neutral. "What can I do for you?"

  Big Tom hunched his shoulders and scratched at the base of his skull. "Eh, master," he complained, "you made a bit of a fool of me back a while."

  "Oh?" Rod lifted an eyebrow. "Do tell!"

  "I do," the big man admitted, "and… well…" He pulled off his cap and twisted it in his great hands. "It do seem like… well, master, you've finished me here, and that's gospel."

  Rod felt his back lifting. "And I'm supposed to make it up to you, is that it? Pay you damages, I suppose!"

  "Eh, no, master!" Big Tom shied away. " 'Tisn't that, master, not that at all! It's just… well… — … I was a-wonderin", I was, if you might… that is… I, …"

  He twisted the hat through some gyrations that would have astounded a topologist; then the words came out in a rush.

  "I was wonderin" if you might be needin' a servin'—man, you know — a sort of groom and lackey, and…" His voice trailed off. He eyed Rod sidewise, fearful and hopeful.

  Rod stood frozen for a moment or two. He searched the big man's open, almost worshipful face.

  He crossed his arms and leaned back against the jamb again. "Why, how's this, Big Tom? Not half an hour agone, you sought to rob me! And now I am supposed to trust you for a squire?"

  Big Tom caught his nether lip between his teeth, frowning. " 'Taint right-seeming, master, that I know, but—" His hands gestured vaguely. "Well, the fact of it is, you're the only man what I ever raised hand against, could beat me, and …"

  His voice ran out again. Rod nodded slowly, his eyes on Big Tom's.

  "And therefore you must serve me."

  Tom's lower lip thrust out, pouting. "Not must, my master — only that I wants to."

  "A robber," said Rod, "A cutpurse. And I'm to trust you."

  Big Tom's hat twisted again.

  "You've got an open face," Rod mused, "not the kind of face that hides its feelings."

  Big Tom smiled widely, nodding…

  "Of course, that doesn't mean anything," Rod went on. "I've known quite a few gentle-seeming girls that turned out to be first-class bitches."

  Tom's face fell.

  "So you might be honest — or you might be a thorough rogue. It's a Fess-cinating puzzle."

  The voice behind his ear murmured, "Preliminary interpretation of available data indicates basically simplistic personality structure. Probability of individual serving as reliable source of information on local social variables exceeds probability of individual practicing serious duplicity."

  Rod nodded slowly. He would have settled for an even chance.

  He fished a scrap of silver from his purse — it smelt slightly of garlic — and slapped it into the big man's hand.

  Tom stared at the silver in his palm, then at Rod, then back at the metal.

  Abruptly, his hand closed into a fist, trembling slightly. His staring eyes came up to Rod again.

  "You've accepted my coin," said Rod. "You're my man."

  Big Tom's face split from ear to ear in a grin. He ducked his head. "Yes master! I thanks you, master! Forever I thanks you, master! I—"

  "I get the message." Rod hated to see a grown man grovel. "You go on duty right now. Tell me, what are the chances of getting a job with the Queen's army?"

  "Oh, most excellent, master!" Big Tom grinned. "They're always needing new sojers."

  A bad omen, Rod decided.

  "Okay," he said. "Duck back inside, find out which room we've been assigned, and check it to make sure there isn't a cutthroat in the closet."

  "Yes, master! Right away!" Big Tom bustled back into the inn. Rod smiled, closed his eyes, and let his head fall back against the jamb. He rolled his head from side to side, laughing silently. He would never cease to be amazed at the bully psychology; how a man could go from arrogance to servility in less than ten minutes, he would never understand.

  A low, quavering wail cut the night air, soaring into a shriek.

  Rod's eyes snapped open. Sirens? In this culture?

  The sound was coming from the left he looked up, and saw the castle, there on its hilltop.

  And there, at the base of the tower, something glowed, and keened like a paddy wagon lamenting the death of some squad cars.

  The guests tumbled out of the inn to stand in the courtyard, staring and pointing.

  " 'Tis the banshee!"

  "Again!"

  "Nay, all will be well. Hath it not appeared thrice before? And yet the Queen lives!"

  "Fess," Rod said carefully.

  "Yes, Rod."

  "Fess, there's a banshee. On the castle battlements. A banshee, Fess."

  There was no answer.

  Then a raucous buzz snarled behind Rod's ear, swelled till it threatened to shake his head apart, and cut off.

  Rod shook his head and pounded his temple with the heel of his hand.

  "I'm going to have to have that boy overhauled," he muttered. "He used to have quiet seizures."

  Chapter 3

  It would have been unwise for Rod to go to the stables to reset Fess while the inn-yard was full of gawkers; he would have been thoroughly conspicuous.

  So he went up to his room, to lie down till things had quieted down a bit; and, of course, by the time the courtyard was clear, Rod was too comfortable to take the trouble of going down to the stables. No real reason to reset the robot, anyway; it would be a quiet night.

  The room was dark, except for a long swathe of light streaming in the window from the largest moon. There was a subdued murmur and clatter from the common room — night-owl guests drinking late. Rod's chamber was very peaceful.

  Not quiet, though. Big Tom, curled up on a pallet at the foot of the bed, snored like a bulldozer on idle, making m
ore noise asleep than he did awake.

  Now there was a riddle — Big Tom. Rod had never before been in a fight where he hadn't been hit at least once. Big Tom had left himself wide open, every time; and sure, he was big, but he didn't have to be that clumsy. Big men can be quick…

  But why would Big Tom have thrown the fight?

  So Rod would take him on as a serving-man?

  And what about Adam and One-Ear? Their talk would seem to indicate they'd been at the pep rally down by the wharf, which would mean they were members of the proletarian party. What had the young rabble-rouser called it? The House of Clovis, yes.

  But if Adam and One-Ear were a representative sample, the House of Clovis was a house divided against itself. There seemed to be two factions, one backing the Loguire — the juvenile orator? — and one led by the Mocker, whoever that might be. The usual two factions, nonviolent and violent, tongue and sword.

  Now, why would Big Tom have wanted a butler job? Social climber, maybe? No, he wasn't the fawning type. Better wages? But he'd seemed to be moderately prosperous as the neighborhood heavy.

  To keep an eye on Rod?

  Rod rolled over on his side. Tom just might be a member in good standing of the House of Clovis. But why would the House want to keep tabs on Rod? They couldn't suspect anything, could they?

  If Fess's guess was right, and the House was backed by an off-planet power, they definitely might suspect something —never mind how.

  But wasn't Rod letting his paranoia show again?

  He was wide awake, every muscle tense. He sighed and rolled out of bed; he couldn't sleep now. Better reset Fess and have a talk. Rod needed the robot's electronic objectivity; he had very little of his own.

  Big Tom stirred and wakened as Rod lifted the rusty door latch.

  "Master? Where dost thou go?"

  "Just got a little worried about my horse, Big Tom. Think I'll run down to the stables and make sure the hostler's treating him right. Go back to sleep."

  Big Tom stared a moment.

  "Certes," he said, "thou'rt a most caring one, master."

  He rolled over and burrowed his head into the folded cloak he used for a pillow. "To be so much concerned for a horse," he muttered, and snored again.