Quicksilver's Knight

by Christopher Stasheff

  Geoffrey had not gone home to pack because he always kept everything he needed for a mission with him, in his saddlebags. He had clean linen, hardtack, and a canteen which he could fill at the first stream he came to. Beyond that, he needed only his sword, which never left his side, and his dagger. He might indeed find a need for armor and a lance, though he doubted that—if he was going to take on a whole army by himself, mobility and secrecy would count for more than steel plate. If he did need it, he could always send for it—he could teleport home quickly enough, put on his armor, and teleport back. He saw no reason not to take full advantage of all his psi powers—there was no lack of honor in it, if he was to go up against a whole army. In fact, that was why the Elf King had sent himself, instead of a whole expeditionary force—that, and his skill at arms and talent for tactics.

  Modesty? The need for it never occurred to Geoffrey. To believe himself capable of more than he really was would have been very bad tactics indeed. A general has to know the exact strength of his forces if he is to plan a campaign wisely, and Geoffrey had to know his own exact strengths and weaknesses for the same reasons. He was as wary of false modesty as of overconfidence. He would never make the mistake of underestimating an enemy and for the same reason, he would never underestimate himself. To some people, conceit was a moral flaw; to Geoffrey, it was a military one.

  On the one hand, he knew how to pretend modesty when the occasion called for it. He had learned that most people find truth distasteful, especially the truth about their own weaknesses and vices, and someone else's strengths and virtues. To others, a frank statement of Geoffrey's abilities counted as bragging, so he had learned to hold his tongue. Shortly thereafter, he had realized it was a good tactic—for it allowed possible enemies to underestimate him.

  On the other hand, he knew himself for an arrogant idiot in any matter not relating to war or wooing—which, to him, were much the same; both involved the planning of a campaign, and both culminated in action. He was content to leave intellectual matters to Gregory, the care of others to Cordelia, and the rest of the galaxy to his absent brother Magnus. Governance he left to Their Majesties or, possibly, Cordelia—he knew he would make a botch of it if he tried. It had occurred to him, idly, that if he and his three siblings were all rolled into one person, they would make the ideal monarch. Since they were separate, however, he paid his allegiance to King Tuan and Queen Catharine, and when they were dead, he would pay allegiance to Alain—he had no doubt the prince would become an excellent ruler, with Cordelia beside him to guide and temper him.

  That, however, was for the future. Today was for action. Geoffrey rode south with a light heart and a song on his lips. He was riding to battle—nothing else mattered.

  Doll would have been highly indignant to learn that. But it would have reassured Puck immensely. What the elf had not told Geoffrey was that his elves had been following "Doll" for some time, and had reason to wonder whether or not she would be good for Geoffrey. Puck certainly had no objection to two young folk merrily playing together, but he had other notions about entanglements, and though he was not sure exactly where Doll had come from, his agents had definitely overheard some remarks' that were without question predatory, before she had taken up her station dallying by the wayside waiting for a dalliance—and knowing exactly who the next knight would be.

  When Geoffrey came to a town large enough to have a fair, he stopped and bought a few items. He paid in gold, leaving the merchants goggling in his wake—not only because he paid generously, but also because the last thing they would have expected of a rough-clad knight-errant was to buy a burgher's robe and hat, not to mention the donkey and the load of odds and ends. But, when he brought the donkey back to his horse, he was amazed to find it gone, and a tall black stallion standing in its place—a stallion he recognized. He glanced around quickly, saw there was no one near, and muttered, "Fess! What are you doing here?"

  "Waiting to serve you, Geoffrey," the huge black horse answered in a voice as low as his.

  Fess wasn't a horse, really—he was a computer that could be installed in any number of robot bodies. This imitation horse was the one he had been inhabiting for the last twenty-odd years, ever since his master—Rod Gallowglass, Geoffrey's father—had landed on this planet of Gramarye to begin subverting its medieval monarchy into a democracy.

  "I know, I know, you live but to serve!" Geoffrey said impatiently. "What happened to my horse, Fess?"

  "An elf is riding him home this very minute. They seem to have established friendly relations."

  Which was quite an accomplishment, considering that horses were usually spooked by close contact with elves. Geoffrey wondered how many apples and lumps of sugar it had taken. He sighed, resigning himself to accept the situation—there was no point in arguing with Fess, since he only carried out Rod's commands. "Why did Father send you?"

  "Puck told him of your current mission, and both your parents became a trifle nervous over your confronting a small army single-handedly. They found it reassuring to think that you might have the company of a trusted retainer."

  "Well, to speak truly, I do too," Geoffrey admitted. Not much—he knew that in a battle, Fess would fight with amazing bravery for several minutes, at which point the stress would take its toll, and the robot's faulty capacitor would discharge, tripping a circuit breaker that would turn him off to prevent his burning out. Fess was a cybernetic epileptic.

  Nonetheless, Geoffrey felt quite cheered as he swung up into the saddle. There was nothing like the presence of an old family retainer to give you a sense of stability—and Fess had been with the family for five hundred years, give or take a decade or three.

  However, Geoffrey braced himself for a few lectures. The "horse" he was riding might have been the friend of his childhood, but it had also been his tutor. Fess couldn't resist the chance to impart wisdom.

  As they rode out of town, leading the donkey, Geoffrey drew many glances from people who exchanged very skeptical looks with their neighbors, shaking their heads and turning back to count their profits. What business of theirs was it if the young knight was a fool? The more fools they would have been, not to take the gold he offered!

  But as soon as he had ridden into the woods, our young knight found a clearing where he could change his clothes—and a few minutes later, a young merchant was riding his way south through the woods, whistling and kicking his heels. His robe and hat were not rich or trimmed with fur, but he was clearly a merchant, with no armament except the dagger at his belt.

  No armament visible, that is. The loose robe nicely concealed the sword slung across his back.

  A lone merchant was, of course, too easy a prize for forest outlaws to resist, and at any other time, Geoffrey would have been delighted to battle any one of them, or even all together—he had done so before, when he became really bored; chivalry always allowed him to clean up a few menaces to public safety. But this time he was after bigger game, and couldn't take the time to knock out and bring in every petty outlaw who came his way—so Geoffrey kept his mind open, picking up their greedy thoughts as soon as they sighted him, and managing to insert a little apprehension, then nourishing it. After a few minutes, even the most hardened bandit turned away with a shudder. There was something about this young merchant, something eldritch, some shadow of menace that overhung him. Tempting his donkeyload of goods might be, but not so tempting as to defy whatever force it was that shadowed him.

  When he came into County Laeg, though, Geoffrey dropped the aura of dread that he had been projecting and rode along looking as innocent as possible. Now he wanted to attract bandits' attention—but only that of the right bandits. Still, from what Puck had said, he suspected that any bandits here would be the right bandits—he didn't expect that Quicksilver would allow any small fry to go poaching on his domain, any more than Count Laeg had.

  He did not stop by the castle to tell the Count he was here, though by the laws of chivalry, he should have. Since that wo
uld have given away who he really was, though, he let it slide—he had a notion the Count would overlook the rudeness, if Geoffrey brought in Quicksilver.

  Finally, he felt a surge of interest in a mind not far from the trail—but he was surprised to discover that it was less an outlaw's greed than a sentry's wariness. Still, larceny was definitely there, and Geoffrey heard the bird calls with which the sentry summoned his captain.

  The blood began to sing in Geoffrey's veins as the minds about him became more numerous. He faked a yawn and reached up to scratch his back—and clear the collar of his robe from the hilt of his sword. Excitement gathered; it was time for action!

  He rounded a bend and found a dozen outlaws blocking the path, quarterstaves at the ready, the leader with his sword raised.

  Geoffrey stopped, feigning shock—and noticed the dozen more outlaws who stepped out of the brush to block the road behind him. These bandits, at least, didn't believe in taking chances.

  He was amazed at their discipline, but even more amazed at the state of their clothing. Here were no patched tunics with cloaks of untanned hides, but jerkins and hose of good stout broadcloth, in the green and brown that blended so well with the forest foliage. Only the leader wore a hat, but it looked new, and was decorated with a bright red feather. His sword was bright, not rusty, and not honed down from decades of sharpening. As outlaws went, these were very affluent.

  "Well met, stranger!" the leader called, and one of his men chuckled. "We have met him well indeed, Ostricht."

  "Be still, Tomkin!" Ostricht snapped, then to Geoffrey again, "Be sure you may ride our pathways in safety, young merchant—if you pay our toll."

  Geoffrey forced himself to look casual and heaved a sigh. "Ah me, how the cost of doing business keeps rising! Very well, forester—how much toll does your lord demand?"

  At the word 'forester,' the outlaws all began to snicker. Ostricht glared them down, then smiled at Geoffrey. "A half of all your goods, young merchant."

  Geoffrey stared. "A half! Nay, sir! That is far too high a tax! If I were to pay that at every toll gate, I would have nothing left to sell before I came to the next town!"

  A soft rustling sounded all around him as archers drew their bows.

  "True," Ostricht admitted, "but we shall see to it that there are no other tolls—and if you do not pay us half, you will not live to sell the other half."

  "Oh, I think that I shall," Geoffrey said quietly.

  He rolled off Fess and down, below the archers' aim. For a second they stood, realizing that their arrows might very well hit one another—which gave Geoffrey just enough time to spring upward, whipping the sword out from behind his back and lunging at Ostricht.

  Suprised, the leader nonetheless managed to parry, but not well—Geoffrey's blade grazed his left arm. He howled in anger, but Geoffrey was already crowding him, sword flickering in and out, pushing him back and back among his own men. A ranker broke out of the paralysis of surprise and swung his quarterstaff with a snarl; Geoffrey chopped it aside, thrust into the man's thigh, hearing the bellow of pain as he collapsed and Geoffrey turned to catch Ostricht's blade on his own, then riposted quickly to thrust at the bandit leader's face. Ostricht flinched away, and a quarterstaff cracked across the back of Geoffrey's shoulders. He grunted with pain and half-turned, just far enough to lash a kick into the stomach of the man who had struck him—a foul blow was fully justified, when an assailant struck from behind. Then back he spun, to catch Ostricht's blade in a bind and step up corps d corps, backing the bandit leader into a tree. An arrow whistled past his ear to bite into the trunk, and Geoffrey snarled, "Fool!"

  "Fool!" Ostricht agreed in a bellow. "Put up your bows! Do you mean to slay me?" Prudently, he didn't wait for an answer, but shoved hard, trying to push Geoffrey far enough away so that he could disentangle his blade ...

  It was like trying to shove a boulder.

  A quarterstaff caught Geoffrey across the back of the knees.

  He grunted and threw an arm around Ostricht. The bandit leader saw his chance and shoved, hard, and Geoffrey fell ...

  ... with Ostricht right on top of him.

  Even so, Geoffrey managed to twist as he fell, and rose up with his dagger at Ostricht's throat, sword sweeping up to knock aside the quarterstaves that struck at him as he bellowed, "Hold! Or I'll cut his throat!"

  The bandits froze.

  Then an ugly, bearded one snarled, "Do, and we'll crush you to jelly!"

  Geoffrey's hand twitched, and a drop of blood appeared on Ostricht's throat. The bandit leader went rigid, eyes wide in horror.

  "Crush away, then," Geoffrey hissed.

  The bandit glared at him, but held his staff still—and his tongue.

  "Away!" Ostricht grated. "Put down your bows! If he falls, he's like to slit my throat as he topples!"

  "Wisely said," Geoffrey agreed. "Bid them back away now, a good ten feet."

  "Do as he says!" Ostricht snapped. Reluctantly, the bandits gave ground. "Now," Geoffrey said, "put down your bows."

  He did not even look, only kept his gaze locked with Ostricht's, his lips thin, hand rock-steady.

  "Obey!" Ostricht groaned.

  There was silence. Then one bow dropped, and all the others clattered down beside it.

  "Now," said Geoffrey, "take me to your leader." Ostricht stared at him, and his men growled and muttered. "I would sooner die!" the bandit leader snapped. "You have chosen." Geoffrey swung the sword-tip down, right above Ostricht's eyes.

  The bandits howled, starting forward, then froze. "Thrust," Ostricht grated. "I shall not betray my chief!"

  "Thrust," growled one of the bandits, "and we shall slay you."

  But Geoffrey ignored him, frowning. "What manner of bandit chieftain is this Quicksilver, to inspire such loyalty in you?"

  "A leader worth a thousand of the lord who claims the right to rule us," Ostricht snapped. "Strike, and be done—but I shall not betray Quicksilver!"

  "Then we shall carve up what's left," another bandit growled.

  "Carve!" Geoffrey snarled, and leaped up and back, kicking Ostricht aside as he did. He stumbled back, his knees not yet fully recovered, and the bandits roared and closed in. But Geoffrey had aimed well; he fell back against a tree. Quarterstaves rained down at him, but he blocked them with sword and dagger. Sticks exploded against his ribs, drubbed his shoulders, pounded his thighs, for he could not block them all—but by the same token, the bandits were too closely packed to be able to get much of a swing. Geoffrey's knees were strong enough for kicks, though, and suddenly all but two of the bandits were rolling on the ground, howling in pain, and the remaining pair were streaked with blood from Geoffrey's sword.

  He shouted, "Havoc!" and leaped at the one on his right, chopping and thrusting. His knees held, and the man howled, falling back with a gash in his thigh. Geoffrey spun in time to parry the staff that struck down from his left, then riposted and grazed the man's ribs. He swung back to the front just in time to parry a thrust from Ostricht, then advanced on him, thrusting so quickly that the man scarcely had time to parry, and certainly none to riposte. He gave ground, and none of his men could help him now—until a tree suddenly struck his back, and Geoffrey caught his sword in a quick circling movement of his own blade. Ostricht's sword went flying, and he stood at bay, bloodied and gasping for breath, staring wildly at the blade whose point touched his throat.

  "Now," Geoffrey called out, "one of you who can still walk, lead me to Quicksilver!"

  "I am here," said a voice behind him.

  Geoffrey spun about, leaping aside to keep his point near Ostricht's throat even in his amazement at the sound of that voice. He stared at its owner.

  She was long and lithe, slender and supple. If Helen's face would have launched a thousand ships, Quicksilver's figure would have wrecked them, for the helmsmen would not have been able to keep their eyes on the sea ahead. Her auburn hair was caught by a gleaming headband, but fell loose about her shoulders in a swayi
ng mass. She wore a copper-colored surcoat, but not the armor it should have covered, giving her, in effect, a long split skirt over girded loins, and a bodice that tied about her neck and just below her breasts, binding them as firmly as any brassiere. Her buskins were soft leather, almost moccasins, but crossgartered up over her calves.

  And her face ...

  Wide across high cheekbones, narrowing to a small, firm chin—a small, straight nose, huge dark brown eyes, a high unlined forehead, wide mouth with full, ripe lips ...

  Geoffrey caught his breath. His thoughts spun, seeking refuge, some defense against this goddess whose mere presence seemed to demand his homage, the total devotion of every fiber of his being, and found it—in the errant thought that he had, most surely, seen faces more beautiful.

  But not bodies ...

  Perhaps one or two faces more beautiful, but this one had a compelling quality, some strange attraction that made every cell within him scream to feel her touch, her embrace, fought for some action that would bring him into contact with her, no matter how brutal that action might be.

  Chivalry clamped down on instinct. Geoffrey caught his breath, and his presence of mind. Somehow, the magnificent creature facing him seemed to dwindle a bit, into a mere mortal woman, not the goddess she had seemed in the first shock of seeing ...

  But still fantastically attractive.

  Charisma, he thought crazily, she had immense charisma—and Ostricht slipped aside from his blade, then sprang back beside his chief, panting and glaring at Geoffrey, bloodied but still ready to try to tear him apart with his bare hands if Geoffrey so much as raised a finger against his female leader.

  Very female, immensely female—and every iota of his being clamored in response. He stood still, rooted to the spot, but felt as though his whole body was nonetheless straining to be closer to her—and she responded, he could feel the intensity of that response as her eyes glowed into his, seeming to swallow him up, yearning to devour every shred of his being and meld her substance with his ...