The Warlock Unlocked

by Christopher Stasheff

  The Warlock Unlocked

  by Christopher Stasheff

  Table of Contents

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  PROLOGUE

  Pope John the XXIV said his first Mass with the whole world watching through its 3DT cameras. He said his second at sunrise the next morning, with a handful of devoted clerics watching, in a little chapel adjoining his chambers. Not too many were willing to get up at 5:00 AM, even for a Mass said by the Holy Father.

  After a frugal breakfast—he had resurrected the quaint, antique custom of saying Mass on an empty stomach, in spite of what his doctor told him that thimbleful of wine every morning was doing to its lining—the Pope sat down at his desk to face his first day on the job.

  Cardinal Incipio gave him just time enough to get settled before entering with an armful of fiche-wafers. “Good morning, Your Holiness.”

  “Good morning, Giuseppe.” Pope John eyed the bulging case, sighed, and pulled over his wafer-reader. “Well, let’s get started. What’ve you got for me?”

  “An air of mystery.” Cardinal Incipio produced an ancient envelope with a magician’s flourish. “I thought you might like to start the morning with a dash of intrigue.”

  The Pope stared at the nine-by-twelve parchment container. “You’ve certainly got my attention. What, by all the stars, is that?”

  “An envelope.” Cardinal Incipio handed it to him reverently. “Be careful, Your Holiness; it’s rather old.”

  “An envelope.” The Pope took it, frowning. “Enclosures for messages. So large? It must be old!”

  “Very old,” Cardinal Incipio murmured, but Pope John wasn’t hearing him. He was staring, awed, at the sprawling, handwritten inscription:

  To be opened by:

  His Holiness, Pope John XXIV On August 23, 3059

  Pope John felt a tingling spread from the base of his neck over his upper back and shoulders.

  “It’s been waiting a very long time,” Cardinal Incipio said. “It was left by a Dr. Angus McAran, in 1954.” And, when the Pope remained silent, he went on nervously, “It’s amazing anyone was able to keep track of it, buried in the vaults like that. But it was hermetically sealed, of course.”

  “Of course.” His Holiness looked up. “One thousand, one hundred and five years. How did he know I’d be Pope on this date?”

  Cardinal Incipio could only spread his hands.

  “Certainly, certainly.” The Pope nodded, glowering. “I can’t expect you to know. In fact, it should be the other way around—but I’m afraid Papal Infallibility is only in matters of doctrine, and even then, only ex cathedra … Well! No sense sitting here, contemplating in awe!” He took out a pocket-knife and slit the flap. It broke with a skeleton’s rattle. Cardinal Incipio couldn’t restrain a gasp.

  “I know.” The Pope looked up in sympathy. “Seems like desecration, doesn’t it? But it was meant to be opened.” Carefully, gingerly, he slid out the single sheet of parchment the envelope contained.

  “What language is it?” Cardinal Incipio breathed.

  “Early-International English. I don’t need a translator.” Even as Cardinal Kaluma, Pope John had still found time to teach an occasional course in comparative literature. He skimmed the ancient, faded handwriting quickly, then read it again very slowly. When he was done, he lifted his eyes and stared off into space, his dark brown face becoming steadily darker.

  Cardinal Incipio frowned, worried. “Your Holiness?”

  The Pope’s eyes snapped to his, and held for a moment. Then His Holiness said, “Send for Father Aloysius Uwell.”

  The pitcher crashed to the floor. The child darted a quick, frightened glance at the video pickup hidden in the upper right-hand corner of the room, then turned to start picking up the pieces.

  In the next room, Father Uwell nodded, and sighed, “As I expected.” He turned to the orderly, waiting at the back of the chamber. “Go clean that up for him, would you? He’s only eight years old; he might cut a finger, trying to do it himself.”

  The orderly nodded and left, and Father Al turned back to the holovision tank with a sad smile. “So many unbreakable materials in this world, and we still prefer our vessels made of glass. Reassuring, in its way… and so is the boy’s glance at our hidden pickup.”

  “How so?” Father LeBarre frowned. “Is it not proof that his powers are magical?”

  “No more than his making that pitcher float through the air, Father. You see, he made no use of the paraphernalia of magic—no mystic gestures, no pentagrams, not even a magic word. He simply stared at the pitcher, and it lifted off the table and began to drift.”

  “Demonic possession,” Father LeBarre offered halfheartedly.

  Father Al shook his head. “He’s scarcely even naughty, from what you tell me; if a demon possessed him, it would make him a very unpleasant child indeed.”

  “So.” Father LeBarre ticked off points on his fingers. “He is not possessed by a demon. He does not work magic, either black or white.”

  Father Al nodded. “That leaves us with one explanation—telekinesis. His glance at the 3DT pickup was very revealing. How could he know it was there, when we did not tell him, and it is well hidden, built into the ceiling? He probably read our minds.”

  “A telepath?”

  Father Al nodded again. “And if he is telepathic, it’s quite probable that he’s also telekinetic; psi traits seem to run in multiples.” He stood. “It is too early for a complete opinion, of course, Father. I will have to observe the boy more closely, inside this laboratory and outside—but at the moment, I would guess that I will find nothing of the supernatural about him.”

  Finally, Father LeBarre dared a smile. “His parents will be vastly relieved to hear it.”

  “Now, perhaps.” Father Al smiled, too. “But before long, they will begin to realize the problems they will have, rearing a telekinetic and telepathic boy who has not yet learned to control his powers. Still, they will have a great deal of help, possibly more than they want. Telekinetics are rare, and telepaths are even more so; there are only a few dozen in the whole of the Terran Sphere. And in all but two of them, the talent is quite rudimentary. The interstellar government realizes that such abilities may be of enormous benefit, so they take a great interest in anyone found to possess them.”

  “The government again,” Father LeBarre cried, exasperated. “Will they never be done meddling in the affairs of the Church?”

  “Beware, Father—the government might think it is you who violates the separation of Church and State.”

  “But what was more natural than to bring him to the priest?” Father LeBarre spread his hands. “This is a small village; only the magistrate represents the Terran government, and none represents the DDT. The parents were on the verge of panic when objects within their house began to fly through the air in the boy’s presence. What was more natural than to bring him to the priest?”

  “N
atural, and wise,” Father Al agreed. “For all they knew, it might have been a demon, or at least a poltergeist.”

  “And what was more natural than that I should call upon my Archbishop, or that he would call upon the Vatican?”

  “Quite so. And therefore I am here—but I doubt not I’ll find no taint of the supernatural, as I’ve said. At that point, Father, the matter ceases to fall within our jurisdiction, and moves to the government’s. ‘Render unto Caesar…’ ”

  “And is this boy Caesar’s?” Father LeBarre demanded.

  A soft, muted chime spared Father Al from answering. He turned to the comscreen and pressed the “accept” button. The screen blinked clear, and Father Al found himself looking through it into a Curia chamber, hundreds of miles away in Rome. Then the scene was blocked by a brooding face under a purple biretta. “Monsignor Aleppi!” Father Al smiled. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

  “I have no idea,” the Monsignor answered, “but it should be a great pleasure indeed. His Holiness wishes to speak to you, Father Uwell—in person.”

  “ ‘On September 11, 3059 (Terran Standard Time), a man named Rod Gallowglass will begin learning that he is the most powerful wizard born since the birth of Christ. He dwells on a planet known to its inhabitants as ‘Gramarye’… Then he gives the coordinates, and that’s all. Nothing more but his signature.” The Pope dropped the letter on his desk with a look of disgust.

  Joy flooded through Father Al; he felt like a harp with the wind blowing through it. His whole life he had waited for it, and now it had come! At last, a real wizard!

  Perhaps…

  “Reactions?” His Holiness demanded.

  “Does he offer any proof?”

  “Not the slightest,” His Holiness said in exasperation. “Only the message that I’ve just read you. We’ve checked the Public Information Bank, but there’s no ‘Rod Gallowglass’ listed. The planet is listed, though, and the coordinates match the ones McAran gives. But it was only discovered ten years ago.” He passed a faxsheet across the desk to Father Al.

  Father Al read, and frowned. “The discovery is credited to a Rodney d’Armand. Could it be the same man?”

  The Pope threw up his hands. “Why not? Anything is possible—and nothing probable, when you’ve so little information. But we checked his PIB bio. He’s a younger son of a cadet branch of an aristocratic house on a large asteroid called ‘Maxima.’ He had a short but varied career in the space services, culminating in his enlistment in the Society for the Conversion of Extra-terrestrial Nascent Totalitarianisms…”

  “The what?”

  “I don’t think I could say it again,” His Holiness sighed. “It seems to be a sort of government bureau that combines the worst aspects of both exploration and espionage. Its agents are supposed to seek out the Lost Colonies, decide whether or not their government is headed towards democracy and, if it’s not, put it onto a path that will eventually evolve a democracy.”

  “Fantastic,” Father Al murmured. “I didn’t even know we had such a bureau.”

  “Any government that’s overseeing three-score worlds should have a bureau that just keeps track of all the other bureaus.” His Holiness spoke from personal experience.

  “I take it, then, that this Rodney d’Armand discovered a Lost Colony on Gramarye.”

  “Yes, but the Lord only knows which one,” the Pope sighed. “You’ll notice that the PIB sheet doesn’t tell us anything about the inhabitants of the planet.”

  Father Al looked. Sure enough, any human information on the planet was summed up in one word at the bottom of the page: CLASSIFIED. It was followed by a brief note explaining that the planet was interdicted to protect its inhabitants from exploitation. “I’d guess it’s a rather backward culture.” Excitement thrilled through Father Al’s veins—were they backward enough to still believe in magic?

  “Backward, indeed.” The Pope peered at another paper on his desk. “We checked our own data bank, and found we did have an entry on the planet—just a very brief report, from a Cathodean priest named Father Marco Ricci, that he’d accompanied an expedition by a group calling themselves the ‘Romantic Émigrés.’ They found an uncharted, Terra-like world, seeded a large island with Terran bioforms, and established a colony, four or five hundred years ago. Father Ricci requested permission to establish a House of the Order of St. Vidicon of Cathode—your own Order, I believe, Father Uwell.”

  “Yes, indeed.” Father Al tried not to let his disappointment show; the Cathodeans had to be engineers as well as priests. No planet could be too backward, if they were there. “Was he granted permission?”

  His Holiness nodded. “So it says; but apparently the Curia was never able to convey the news to him. The Interstellar Dominion Electorates fell about that time, and the Proletarian Eclectic State of Terra was established. As you know, one of the first things PEST did was to lose the Lost Colonies. There was no way to communicate with Father Ricci.”

  “Well, that’s hopef… I mean, that might create problems.”

  “Yes, it might.” The Pope fixed him with a glittering eye. “We may have another splinter sect there, calling themselves Roman Catholics, but out of touch with us for centuries. No telling what heresies they’ll have dreamt up in that time.” He sighed. “I’d hoped to have a rest from that sort of thing for a while.”

  Father Al knew what the Pope meant. Just before he’d been elevated to the Chair of St. Peter, Cardinal Kaluma had conducted the negotiations with the Archbishop of Burbank, a Lost Colony that had been found about twenty years before. They’d managed to keep the Faith fairly well, except for one heresy that had taken firm root: that plants had immortal souls. It turned out to be a fundamental point of doctrine on Burbank, since the whole planet was heavily involved in botanical engineering, with the goal of creating chlorophyll-based intelligence. The talks had become rather messy, and had ended with the establishment of the Church of Burbank. Its first act had been to excommunicate the Church of Rome. His Holiness hadn’t been quite so drastic; he’d simply declared that they were incommunicado, and that the Church of Burbank could no longer really be said to be Roman Catholic.

  A shame, too. Other than that, they’d been so sane…

  “I will be discreet, Your Holiness, and only report accurately what I discover.”

  “Oh?” The Pope fixed Father Al with an owlish eye. “Are you going somewhere?”

  Father Al stared at him for a moment.

  Then he asked, “Why else would you have sent for me?”

  “Quite so,” His Holiness sighed, “I admit to the decision. It rankles, because I have no doubt that’s what this McAran intended.”

  “Have we any choice, really?” Father Al asked quietly.

  “No, of course not.” The Pope frowned down at his desktop. “A letter that’s been lying in the vaults for a thousand years acquires a certain amount of credibility—especially when its sender has managed to accurately predict the reign-name of the Pope. If McAran could be right about that, might he not be right about this ‘wizard?’ And whether the man is really a wizard or not, he could do great damage to the Faith; it has never proven terribly difficult to subvert religion with superstition.”

  “It’s so tempting to believe that you can control the Universe by mumbling a few words,” Father Al agreed.

  “And too many of those who are tempted, might fall.” The Holy Father’s frown darkened. “And, too, there is always the infinitesimal chance of actually invoking supernatural powers…”

  “Yes.” Father Al felt a shadow of the Pope’s apprehension. “Personally, I’d rather play with a fusion bomb.”

  “It would do less damage to fewer people.” The Pope nodded.

  Pope John XXIV stood up slowly, with the dignity of a thundercloud. “So. Take this with you.” He held out a folded parchment. “It is a letter in my hand, directing whoever among the clergy may read it, to render you whatever help you require. That and a draft for a thousand Therms, are al
l the help I can send with you. Go to this planet, and find this man Gallowglass, wherever he is, and guide him to the path of the Lord as he discovers his wizardry, or the illusion of it.”

  “I’ll do my best, Your Holiness.” Father Uwell stood, smiling. “At least we know why this man McAran sent his letter to the Vatican.”

  “But of course.” The Pope smiled, too. “Who else would’ve taken him seriously?”

  CHAPTER ONE

  There was a crash, and the tinkle of broken glass.

  “Geoffrey!” Gwen cried in exasperation, “if I have told thee once, I have told thee twenty times—thou must not practice swordplay in the house!”

  Rod looked up from Gerbrensis’s Historie of Gramarye to see his smaller son trying to hide a willow-wand sword behind his back, looking frightened and guilty. Rod sighed, and came to his feet. “Be patient with him, dear—he’s only three.”

  “ ‘Tis thy fault as much as his,” Gwen accused. “What business has so small a lad to be learning o’ swordplay?”

  “True, dear, true,” Rod admitted. “I shouldn’t have been drilling Magnus where Geoff could watch. But we only did it once.”

  “Aye, but thou knowest how quickly he seizes on any arts of war. Here, do thou speak with him, the whilst I see to the mending of this vase.”

  “Well, I didn’t know it then—but I do now. Here, son.” Rod knelt and took Geoff by the shoulders, as Gwen knelt to begin picking up pieces, fitting them together and staring at the crack till the glass flowed, and the break disappeared.

  “You know that was your mother’s favorite vase?” Rod asked gently. “It’s the only glass one she has—and glass is very expensive, here. It took Magnus a long time to learn how to make it.”

  The little boy gulped and nodded.

  “She can mend it,” Rod went on, “but it’ll never be quite as good as it was before. So your Mommy won’t ever have it looking as nice as it did before. You’ve deprived her of something that made her very happy.”

  The little boy swallowed again, very hard, and his face screwed up; then he let loose a bawl, and buried his face in his father’s shoulder, sobbing his heart out.