Quicksilver's Knight

by Christopher Stasheff

  "So, for that matter, can Cordelia's marriage," Finister informed him.

  "Can what?" Grommet stared. "Be changed. Of course."

  Grommet suddenly understood—and also understood that there was a great deal of Finister's self-esteem at stake here. He would have to tread carefully. "But they're engaged..."

  "Yes," said Finister, "but the wedding is still three months away, and while there's bachelorhood, there's hope."

  Grommet gave a humorless bark of laughter. "Chief, with your talents, even after the wedding, there's hope."

  "Yes, there is, isn't there?" Finister said, preening. "Marriages can always be wrecked."

  "And if you don't mind my saying so," Grommet said, "no one's better fitted for the task than you."

  "You say the sweetest things, Grommet. Yes, I am well suited to the task, aren't I? Which is why I have to take charge of Geoffrey Gallowglass's case personally."

  Grommet looked up in alarm, to her satisfaction. Had he really thought he had sidetracked her? Yes, none of her agents had anywhere nearly as good a chance of ensnaring Geoffrey as she had—she shivered at the thought of how she would go about that ensnaring. Certainly that was the reason—or one of the reasons, anyway; the shiver summed up all the rest.

  In her natural form, Finister was a voluptuous, striking beauty—striking anyone who could be lulled into lowering his guard to her charms. But she depended on artifice more than nature, appearing to the Gallowglasses in a host of disguises, which made her appear even more beautiful than she was. She was a projectile telepath, and therefore skilled at casting illusions. She was also skilled at stimulating men's ardor, both telepathically and otherwise.

  "So you've taken a personal interest in the case?" Grommet asked, with irony.

  "Personal in more ways than one," Finister countered. "He's escaped me once already. Curse the fool! Doesn't he know I can see how badly he wants me?"

  "From what you've told me, he hasn't made any effort to disguise how much he desired you," Grommet said shortly.

  "No, he hasn't," Finister agreed, "but he seems somehow to be infuriatingly proof against my spells!" Forget the spells, Grommet thought—her physical charms were enough. "He must be the only man you've ever met who is."

  "Definitely the only one." But Finister reflected grimly that Geoffrey was also the only man who might be capable of enjoying her favors without being captivated by them. "It's a challenge I can't resist."

  Nor could she, really, resist Geoffrey himself. She could not explain this obsession—he was handsome enough, surely, but there were men who were more handsome still; Geoffrey was certainly not what she would call a gorgeous hunk of male animal. Oh, he was male enough, to be sure, and a hunk—she had seen him without his doublet, and knew that he was muscular enough to make Adonis blush for shame; his chest and arms were magnificent, and the way he wore tights was distinctly unfair to every unattached female in his vicinity—and perhaps to some of those who were attached, too. Still, there were men enough with handsome displays of pectorals and biceps, and many of them were even more handsome than Geoffrey—so what was it about him that sent pangs of covetousness coursing through her whenever she thought of him? She could not make sense of it; she only knew that she had to have him, and would have him, some day.

  Have him permanently, if she was bewitching enoughand she knew she could be.

  "But what are you going to do with him once you catch him?" Grommet asked.

  "What?" Finister looked up, startled at his words having matched her thoughts so well. Grommet was no telepathbut even if he had been, she was very adept at shielding what she was thinking. Covering her surprise, she snapped, "What am I going to do with him? I'm going to light such a flame of lust in him that it will never die down! Once I've done that, I can transmute it into what fools like him call love, even though it's just an obsession surging up from the gonads." She saw, with satisfaction, that Grommet was suffering. "Once I've done that, he'll realize that he absolutely must have me with him always."

  "Meaning that you intend to marry him," Grommet said softly.

  "Of course." Finister tossed her head, "I'm every bit as good as any of those highborn trulls he might be thinking about, when he gets old enough. In fact, I'm a lot better!" Was that a groan she heard from Grommet? Well, maybe a very soft one.

  "You know that and I know that," Grommet said, his voice low, "but his parents don't."

  Finister shrugged. "They'll object to my class, of course—peasant girls are all very well to bed, but not to marry. When the time is right, though, I'll reveal that I'm really the long-lost daughter of some forgotten earl who secretly married a woman who conveniently died in childbirth."

  Grommet nodded; the device came as no surprise. "So you'll be legitimately of the nobility, but since you won't be competing with anybody for inheritance, you won't make enemies out of the dead lord's heirs—and, of course, you'll have a marriage contract and a statement from the priest who married them, just in case they want you to prove it."

  "Of course," Finister agreed sweetly. "After all, we have the best forgers in the country, don't we?"

  "The best we know about, Chief—so even the High Warlock and his wife won't be able to deny you."

  "No, they won't. What good would it do them, anyway? I'll have their son so emotionally hog-tied that saying no will only make him elope with me."

  "They'll disinherit him," Grommet warned.

  That struck a qualm within Finister, making her angry at herself—she knew it for the mere instinctive response that it was. So she took it out on Grommet, speaking harshly. "What difference does that make? With his sword and my magic, we'll carve out our own fortune fast enough! But I don't think they will cut him off—their children mean too much to them, the fools! They won't be able to deny me, either. No one will."

  "Least of all Geoffrey," Grommet said darkly. "So you'll live like a duchess, with all the respect and kowtowing that goes with it."

  "Yes, I will," Finister said, gloating, but she thrilled inside at the thought of the less public rewards that would go with marriage to Geoffrey. She hid it, though. "I'll be in an excellent position to sabotage the government of King Tuan and Queen Catharine, too."

  "Very subtly, of course," Grommet said sourly. "Can't risk your cover, can you?"

  "Only as far as making sure I don't have any children," Finister assured him. That was no great sacrifice—she hated the little monsters anyway, especially babies, and wasn't about to go through that much inconvenience and pain, to say nothing of the damage it would do to her figure—or to her relationship with Geoffrey; the enforced abstinence of pregnancy would weaken the power she intended to have over him.

  "How are you going to hold onto him if you don't give him the children he wants, though?"

  Finister flashed Grommet an angry glare, then followed it with a lazy smile, stepping closer. "The same way I hold onto you, little man, and make sure you do exactly as I want. Could you dream of disobeying me?"

  Grommet turned away, his face scarlet.

  Finister gave him a low, gloating laugh, then turned away and tossed her head. "Don't worry, I'll have a grip on him that no infant could match—a grip so strong that he'll have to be faithful to me, whether he likes it or not."

  "A compulsion," Grommet breathed. He knew it would not be completely natural.

  "Yes, a compulsion—and don't worry about his defenses. Psi or not, he can't stand against this form of projective telepathy. He's a man, after all, and this is my area of psionics."

  Grommet didn't doubt it for a second. With Finister around, testosterone haze would cloud Geoffrey's psi abilities to the point of disability.

  "I'll see to it that he can't even think of leaving me!"

  Finister's eyes glowed. "He'll be so ecstatic that he'll never regret the children he doesn't have—at least, not for any longer than it takes to come near me."

  "He doesn't exactly seem to be the fatherly sort, anyway," Grommet grumbled.
Then he saw a chance to get a little of his own back, and took it. "But even your charms can't last forever, Chief."

  Finister tossed her head as though she didn't care, but inwardly marked Grommet for a long and painful revenge. "There's always the poison bottle."

  "Why don't you just kill him right now and be done with it?" Grommet muttered.

  "Because I can't get close enough to him for long enough, of course! I have to win his confidence first, so that he's willing to drink what I give him. We've already tried all the other ways—several times, too. The man has an uncanny knack for knowing where the knife is coming from."

  It was a good excuse, but she and Grommet both knew the real reason—that she hated to see such a good hunk of manflesh go to waste. Finister intended to take her pleasures of Geoffrey first; there would be time enough to kill him later—and it would be far easier when his wariness had been blunted by love and trust.

  In the meantime, if he could give her the power and status she had always craved, so much the better.

  "It's just a matter of time, then," Grommet said. "Yes," Finister echoed, "just a matter of time." Time until she had her way with him, time until she wed himtime until she killed him.

  "Of course," Grommet said spitefully, "there's always the chance that there might not be that much time." Finister suppressed a surge of rage-because she knew the man was right. Every day that passed increased the chance that Geoffrey might meet the wrong woman—wrong for Finister, anyway—and fall in love. He was at that atrociously dangerous age—one of the characteristics that made him so fascinating. He was twenty, which was old for a peasant to marry, just right for a lord. He might well hold onto bachelorhood for another ten years—or he might surrender it tomorrow.

  "Don't worry," she assured Grommet, with her sweetest smile. "I can frustrate any romance he might develop and it's more fun after it's started. First I lead him into infidelity, then I make him forget the woman he thought he loved."

  If that failed, of course, she had an excellent team of assassins, and though Geoffrey might have proved immune to them, his ladylove certainly would not.

  "You failed today." Grommet was becoming reckless indeed, in his jealousy. "You might fail, period."

  "Don't be ridiculous!" Finister snapped. "You know I would have had had him today, if it hadn't been for that blasted elf!" For a moment, she let her anger boil over, picturing the little fellow screeching through all manner of delightful torments, then shut the picture away with a shudder of pleasure and turned her mind back to Geoffrey, who quite frankly held much more of her attention than an enemy should. She would never admit it aloud, but she knew Grommet was right—Geoffrey was a tougher target than any she had ever faced. She would have to be very industrious in her seductions.

  Well, she had failed to captivate him again—but it did not much matter that the elf had destroyed this opportunity for her. "I'll find another chance," she assured Grommet, "or make one."

  Grommet knew she would. Finister excelled in the use of makeup, so none of the Gallowglasses had ever seen her in the same guise twice. A discerning eye could see which facial features Doll had in common with the Faerie Queene, or the Hag of the Tower, or La Belle Dame Sans Merci—but when she appeared to one of the Gallowglass boys, their minds were scarcely discerning.

  "I'll meet Geoffrey Gallowglass again," she breathed, "in one disguise or another—and I'll know him when we meet, but he won't know me."

  CHAPTER 2

  If Finister had thought about it, she might have wondered why Geoffey didn't have to follow the elf back to "The Chief." Of course, by the time she came down from the loft, he was long gone, so the thought never crossed her mind.

  What crossed Geoffrey's mind was the need to get out of that farmyard before the farmer happened to come by. He strode out the gate, totally unaware of the haystorm going on in the loft, and veered into a grove of trees. There he stopped and called out, "Well enough, Puck, I am come! What is your pleasure?"

  There was an instant's pause—no doubt Puck had been shadowing his every footstep, but it still took him a moment to catch up—then a brawny, foot-and-a-half-high form detached itself from the shadows under the leaves, and a deep voice chuckled. "Well asked. We know what thy pleasure was, lordling!"

  Geoffrey's mouth tightened with annoyance, as much at the stilted "thee" and "thou" speech of the older generation (in Puck's case, a much older generation) as at the jibe. "You could indeed have chosen a better moment for your summons, Robin!"

  "Nay, never one more apt," the elf retorted, "The look on thy face alone must have been worth a king's ransom."

  Puckish humor indeed; Robin Goodfellow was ever the prankster, as who should know better than a young man who had suffered Puck as a babysitter? But Geoffrey remembered the top elf's notions of chastisement, too, so he forced back the irritation and sighed, "Well, it's done, and the lass fled, no doubt."

  " 'The lass?' " said Puck. "Dost not even know her name?"

  Geoffrey shrugged irritably. "It is of no importance now. Was the matter truly so grave that it could not have waited another hour, Puck?"

  "Nay, I suppose," the elf agreed. "'Twas only more enjoyable in this fashion."

  Anger sprang, but Geoffrey remembered how ugly he had looked as a toad, the last time he had let himself be angry with Puck, and schooled himself to patience. "Well, then, what was this errand that could have waited, O Friend of All Who Are Wary?"

  Puck chuckled. "Thou hast learned thy lessons well, lad."

  "But school is out," Geoffrey countered. "'Tis a mission now, not homework. Come, tell me of it. Is it your notion of fitting work for me, or His Majesty's?"

  He didn't mean King Tuan, but rather the King of the Elves. He didn't know who that individual was, exactly, and had never officially seen him—but he had made some shrewd guesses.

  "Be easy in thine heart—'tis His Majesty's," Puck said, with studied nonchalance, "and 'tis he who bade me summon thee at once, saying thou must needs drop whatever else thou hadst in train."

  "Then I am glad you did not catch me a few minutes sooner, when I had caught the wench up in my arms. What is this matter of supreme importance?"

  "A warlord," Puck replied, watching Geoffrey closely. "An outlaw who had conquered several parishes, nigh onto a whole county, has but only now defeated the army the Count sent against him. He has established sway over the peasantry, and rules them like any lord."

  Which meant exploitation and oppression. Geoffrey grinned with anticipation; giving such tyrants their due was one of the things he lived for. Unfortunately, legal excuses for it were rare. "What is his name, this warlord?"

  "None know, nor have any seen him."

  "What!" Geoffrey frowned. "Not even an elf?"

  "'Tis so. We have discovered his battle-leaders, but he himself has not even a tent. We do not know how he gives his orders to his warriors and battle-maids; we can only speak of their effect."

  "Which seems to be massive." Geoffrey frowned. "Do they have no name for him, none of any kind?"

  "Aye; they call him 'Quicksilver."'

  "An odd name, but fitting for one who cannot be found," Geoffrey mused. "And you say his army has shield-maidens as well as men?"

  "Not shield-maidens, but warriors in their own right," Puck corrected. "He has a score of them, and score they do, for each seems to have a score of her own to settle, 'gainst men and, most pointedly, the Lord's men."

  Geoffrey thought of the kind of hatred that bespoke and the ferocity that went with it, and frowned in thought. He had been trained never to strike a woman—but surely one who went in battle, and was trying to kill him, was another matter entirely. Still, it would be better if he could find this Quicksilver and bring him to justice—or death in battle, which was far more likely. With the head gone, the limbs would not know how or where to strike. "I may need to call for soldiers to gather up the leavings," he said slowly.

  "An army the King must not send," Puck contradicted, "or th
is bandit Quicksilver may get notions above his station. 'Tis bad enough that he doth defy a count! If he should confront a king's army, we might have a full-blown rebellion afoot."

  Geoffrey scowled; he knew what that meant. Lowborn or not, Quicksilver would become the focus of every disaffected lordling in Gramarye, and of any squire and knight who thought he had a score to settle with the Crown. It had been tried before, several times during the reign of Queen Catharine and King Tuan—but there was always the danger that the next try might succeed. It was a slight danger, to be sure, but a danger nonetheless.

  What was far more likely was that estates and farmland would be torn apart in the battling, and that many peasants would lose their lives. "So. If His Majesty cannot send an army, he can send me."

  "Do not preen thyself overmuch," Puck said with a jaundiced eye. "If thou dost think of thyself as the equal of an whole army, thou wilt shortly be dead."

  Geoffrey shrugged off the comment; they both knew it was false. Still, for the sake of form, he said, "Do not worry, Puck—I am aware that I have only two arms and two legs. Still, though I might not face the whole army, I might find and defeat their commander—though 'tis scarcely chivalrous to slay a peasant."

  "Then capture him if thou canst, but if 'tis his life or thine, do not hesitate to make it his. There is, after all, no loss of honor in slaying a peasant who hath defeated a count and his army."

  "And great honor in freeing other peasants from a tyrant and brigand." Geoffrey grinned, his pulse quickening at the thought of real, genuine action. "Thanks for this good news, Puck. I was like to rot from inaction."

  "In more ways than one," Puck muttered under his breath, then said aloud, "Ride swiftly, then, and with good heart."

  "I shall," Geoffrey assured him, "for all laws of chivalry do agree on this being a noble and worthy quest. Thank you, Puck! I ride!"

  And he did—he leaped on his horse and set off down the road. Puck watched him go, shaking his head, marvelling once again at the folly of mortals. Geoffrey was in such a hurry to meet a chance of death that he had not even turned to go home for a clean shirt!