The Warlock In Spite of Himself

by Christopher Stasheff

  Tuan sat with his back against black, old stone. There were huge iron staples in the stone, and the chains that hung from them ran to manacles on Tuan's wrists and ankles. He sat in a heap of dirty, moldering straw, in the watery light of a weak sunbeam.

  Tuan smiled with irony as heavy as the rusty chains on his body, and lifted a hand in greeting, chain jangling with the movement. "Welcome."

  Rod turned his eyes away, looking about him. The old Duke sat against the next wall, chained beside his son. "Cold welcome, Rod Gallowglass," the old lord mumbled, face heavy and brooding. "It is scant safety your serving man has brought me to."

  Treachery! Rod should have known better than to trust Tom. "Big Tom, you… !"

  "Here, master."

  Rod looked, turning; Big Tom sat against the far wall, chained like the rest of them.

  Tom smiled sadly, bent a reproachful, bloodhound-eyed look on his master. "I had thought you would free us, master. Yet here art thou, chained one amongst us."

  Rod scowled, looked down at his wrist. A rusty, thick iron band circled it. It had mates on his ankle and other wrist.

  He looked up at Tom, smiled, and raised his hand, giving the chain a shake. "Ever hear tell that stone walls don't make a prison?"

  "Who spoke those words was a fool," said Tom bitterly, from the shadows.

  Rod lifted his eyes to the small, barred window set high in the wall. It was the only light in the room, a chamber perhaps ten feet wide by fifteen long, with a ten foot high ceiling, all moss-grown, rotting stone, floored with moldering straw.

  The only decoration was a skeleton, held together by mummified ligament, chained to the wall like themselves.

  Rod eyed the silent partner warily. "Not such great housekeepers, are they? They could at least have lugged the bones into the nether room."

  He turned to the window again. "Fess," he mumbled, low enough so the others couldn't make out the words. "Fess, where are you?"

  "In the most filthy, broken-down stable I've ever seen," the robot answered, "along with five of the sorriest nags outside of a glue factory. I think we're supposed to be the cavalry of the House of Clovis, Rod."

  Rod chuckled softly. "Any mice with large green eyes running around, Fess?"

  "No, Rod, but there is a wren perched on my head."

  Rod grinned. "Ask her if she has any power over cold iron."

  "How am to speak with her, Rod?"

  "Broadcast on human thought-wave frequency, of course! She's a telepath, you idiot savant!"

  "Rod, I strongly resent the derogatory connotations of references to my abilities in areas in which I am not programmed to—"

  "All right, all right, I'm sorry, I repent! You're a genius, a prodigy, an Einstein, an Urth! Just ask her, will you?"

  There was a pause; then Rod heard a faint series of chirpings in the background.

  "What's the chirping, Fess?"

  "Gwendylon, Rod. She reacted significantly to the novel experience of telepathy with a horse."

  "You mean she almost fell off her perch. But did she say anything?"

  "Of course, Rod. She says that now she is certain you're a warlock."

  Rod groaned and rolled his eyes up to the ceiling. "Look, get her back to business, will you? Can she get us out of these chains and cut the bars on our window?"

  There was another pause; then Fess answered, "She says she has no power over cold iron, Rod, nor has any witch or elf that she knows. She suggests a blacksmith, but fears it is impractical."

  "Genesis, Exodus, Leviticus … Well, tell her I'm glad she hasn't lost her sense of humor. And ask her how the hell she's going to get us out of here!"

  "She says there is no need for hard language, Rod."

  "You didn't have to transmit me literally, you bumble-brain!"

  "And she thinks that the Prince of the Elves may be able to free you. She thinks he will come, but he is some short distance away, so it may be a while."

  "I thought she said elves couldn't handle cold iron!" There was another pause; then Fess said, "She says that the Prince of the Elves is not quite an elf, Rod, being but half of the Old Blood."

  "Only half… Wait a minute!" Rod scowled. "You mean he's a half-breed between elf and mortal?"

  "Precisely, Rod."

  Rod tried to imagine how an eighteen-inch elf and a six-foot mortal could have a child; his brain reeled.

  "She departs now, Rod, to summon him, and will return as quickly as she may, but will be a while. She bids you be of stout heart."

  "If my heart were any stouter, it'd be positively obese! Give her my … No, just tell her I thank her, Fess."

  He seemed to hear a faint sigh behind his ear, and the robot said, with a touch of resignation, "I'll tell her, Rod."

  "Thanks; Fess. Stay lively."

  Rod turned back to his prison. The Loguires were both plastered against the wall, looking at him strangely.

  "He speaks to thin air," murmured Tuan. "Certes, the man is possessed!"

  "Seems to me I've heard that before," Rod mused, "and the air in here is anything but thin."

  "Still," muttered Loguire, " 'Tis the act of one crazed!"

  Big Tom rumbled a laugh. "Not so, my lords. This man speaks with spirits."

  Rod smiled bleakly. "How come so cheerful all of a sudden, Big Tom?"

  The big man stretched, chains clashing. "I had thought for a moment they had beaten you, master. Now I know 'twas fool thinking."

  "Don't be so sure, Tom. Cold iron is a tough spell to break."

  "Nay, master." Tom's eyelids drooped lazily. "Thou'lt find a way to it, I warrant."

  He clasped his hands over his belly, leaned his head back against the wall.

  Rod smiled as Tom began snoring. He looked at the Loguires and jerked his head toward Tom. "There's confidence for you. While I work things out, he takes a nap."

  "Let us hope " 'Tis a faith warranted," said Tuan. He eyed Rod dubiously.

  "Let's," Rod echoed grimly.

  He nodded at the Duke. "Been renewing acquaintance?"

  Loguire smiled. "I rejoice to see my son again, though I had life it were more open welcome."

  Tuan frowned at his hands. "It is sad news he hath brought me, Rod Gallowglass, most sad and sorrowful." He looked at Rod, bright anger in his face. "I had known my brother hateful and ambitious, but I had not thought he would sink into treason."

  "Oh, don't be too hard on the poor boy." Rod leaned back against the wall, closing his eyes wearily. "Durer's got him spellbound. And if his magic came so close on the father, how could it fail on the son?"

  "Aye," Tuan agreed darkly. "Myself had fallen like prey to the Mocker."

  "Oh?" Rod opened one eye. "You've realized that, have you?"

  "Oh, aye! A most excellent villain is that! He will bow him most humbly before you, while his henchman is slitting your purse — and thus hath he served me!"

  Rod pursed his lips. "He's the one who gave you the idea for organizing the beggars?"

  "Aye." Tuan nodded heavily. "I had first thought only to provide them relief from hunger and chill; but his word in my ear made me think of an army, for defense of the Queen. And I had seen and heard in the South that which led me to think such an army might well be needed."

  The old Duke made a choking sound.

  "Pardon, my father," said Tuan, bowing his head, "but I knew even thou couldst not check them forever. But I had not thought" — and his voice hardened — " 'twould be treason from Anselm."

  Rod twisted, feeling decidedly uncomfortable. "Well, as I said, you shouldn't blame him too much. After all, he did try to keep Durer from killing your father."

  He stretched his legs and crossed them. "So when the Mocker learned that the South was up in arms, he decided it was time to assert his rightful authority and overthrow the Queen. Right?"

  "Aye." Tuan's lips tightened as though he had his first taste of straight vermouth. "When I spoke against, saying that 'twas our time to defend the Queen, he called m
e traitor, and" — he frowned, words coming very hard — "one of the beggars would ha' slain me. But the Mocker would not hear of it; no, he threw me here without -food or fire."

  He looked up at Rod frowning. "Which is most truly strange, Rod Gallowglass. Would not you ha' thought he would ha' killed me himself?"

  "No." Rod closed his eyes, shaking his head. "He needs somebody to be figurehead king after they've pulled down Catharine."

  "Nay, not a king," Tuan said, brooding. "He cries that we shall ne'er have a king more, but only a sort of chieftain, raised by acclaim of the people."

  ""A sort of chieftain."" Rod scowled. "What name does he call this chieftain by?"

  "Dictator." Tuan chewed at the inside of his cheek. "A most strange title. There shall be no nobles or king, only the dictator. In all truth, most strange."

  Rod's mouth tightened with sourness. "Not so strange as all that. But you don't mean to say the beggars think they can take the castle?"

  "Nay, but it is known that the South is in arms, and Catharine was never one to be waiting till the battle was brought to her."

  "Oh." Rod chewed that one over. "You mean the Mocker's pretty sure she'll march south to meet them?"

  "Most assuredly. And the Mocker will march south behind her."

  Rod nodded. "So when the armies join battle, the beggars will attack the royal forces from the rear."

  "Ever their way," rumbled Loguire.

  Tuan nodded agreement. "And caught between two forces, her armies will last scarce half an hour."

  "And what does the Mocker propose to do about the councillors and noblemen after the battle's over? Durer means to make your brother king."

  "So it would seem," Tuan agreed, "but the Mocker hath an answer to that, and to all the noblemen."

  "Oh?" Rod raised an eyebrow.

  "Aye. " 'Tis a tube of metal fitted into a crossbow stock, nothing more; but it throws a ball of lead which can pierce the stoutest armor."

  "And he means to put one of these into the hands of every man in the army?"

  "Oh, nay." Tuan frowned. "He hath but the five of them, one for himself, one for each of his three lieutenants, and one for his fourth lieutenant." Tuan jerked his head toward Tom's recumbent mountain form. "But that one hath lately fallen into disfavor. He assures us the five tubes shall answer for the full force of noblemen and councillors."

  But Rod was staring at Tom. "Big Tom?" He gulped. "A lieutenant?"

  "Aye." Tuan frowned. "Did you not know he was of Clovis?"

  Tom opened one hound's eye and looked back at Rod.

  Rod looked away, cleared his throat, and pursed his lips. "Well, ah, that does explain a few things."

  He switched his eyes back to Tom. "So you're part of the Inner Circle?"

  Big Tom smiled sourly and held up one lumber forearm. The chain clashed and rattled. "Was," he said.

  "He stood against them," rumbled Loguire, "stood against his fellows and this — how do you name him? The Mocker — stood against the Mocker and his three jackals when they commanded I be "prisoned with my son. "Nay," quoth your man Tom, "I must needs take him back to my master, where he will be aid to your plans." "The plans are changed," quoth they, and would not hear of enlarging me; and then your man Tom, here, fought cheek by jowl at my side, and accounted for a most goodly number of them." This last was said in a tone of surprised respect.

  Tom grinned, and Rod saw with a shock that one tooth was missing from the big man's smile. "Thou art braw brawler tha'self," Tom chuckled. "I ha' not thought gentlemen could fight so well without armor or sword."

  Rod peered into the shadows at Tom's end of the room and saw that the big man's eye was swollen and purple; also, there was a slash with a new scab across one lumpy cheek.

  He sat back, smiling on one side of his face. "How many heads did you bash in, Big Tom?"

  "Scarce a round score," Tom replied with disgust. "I had but this one stalwart gentleman to guard my back, and there were too many for us."

  Rod grinned, wondering if Loguire knew just how deeply he had been complimented.

  He stretched, yawned. "Well, that pretty well brings us up to date. Anybody got a poker deck?"

  The two Loguires frowned, puzzled; but a flicker of recognition passed in Big Tom's eyes.

  Rod smiled sourly at the big peasant, and Tom's face turned wooden. He stared back at Rod.

  "Oh, come on now, Tom!" Rod snapped. "Your secret's official knowledge now. No more point to playing games, is there?"

  Tom glowered at him; then slowly, his face livened again, to a brooding, meditative look.

  He leaned back against the wall, half closing his eyes. "Aye, tha hast the right of it, as when hast thou not?"

  With a sinking feeling, Rod began to realize that Big Tom saw him as more than just an employer, or a piece in the game.

  "My lot is cast with thee now," said Tom, "whether I would have it or no; so wherefore should I dissemble?"

  "Dissemble?" Rod cocked an eyebrow at his serving man. "Pretty high-falutin" vocabulary for a simple peasant, Big Tom."

  Tom waved a hand impatiently. "Be done with your games! I am unmasked; do me the courtesy to take off your own."

  Rod froze.

  Then, slowly, he smiled. "You're quicker than the average ursine, Big Tom. How long have you known?"

  The Loguires stared, totally lost.

  Big Tom gave a short bark of laughter. "Why, master, since first you used judo on me!"

  "Ah." Rod's eyebrows lifted. "From the first, then? So that's why you wangled the barman job."

  Tom smiled lazily.

  "Under orders?"

  Tom nodded.

  Rod lowered his eyes, studying the chain on his wrist.

  "What are you, master?"

  "A warlock." Rod winced inside; but it was the best answer under the circumstances.

  Big Tom spat. "Games, master, games! 'Twas yourself said to be done with "em! You are not of the councillors, else you would not ha' stolen the Lord Loguire away from them; and you are not of the House, or I would ha' known you of old. What are you, then?"

  "A warlock," Rod repeated. "A new player in the game, Big Tom, and one who stands squarely behind the Queen. X, the unknown factor in the councillors" and Clovis" equations, here by pure happenstance and coincidence."

  "Warruh!" Big, Tom spat again. "I ha' small faith in happenstance, master. I ha' known that you back the Queen; may I ask who stands behind you?"

  "Strange manner of talk," growled Loguire, angering, "for a footman to his lord."

  Rod smiled bleakly. "A most strange footman, my lord."

  "Aye, and a most strange lord," Tom snarled. "Who backs you, Rod Gallowglass?"

  Rod studied the big man, then shrugged. The word would mean nothing to the Loguires, and Tom was on his side now anyway.

  "SCENT," he answered.

  Tom stared; then, almost whispering, he said, "I ha' thought the last of them were dead." He swallowed, bit his lip. "Eh, but tha'rt alive. Tha might be a ghost, but nay; tha'rt alive, or the witch would scarce be so fond of thee. I ha' heard ye were dispersed, after ye won; but nay, I ought to ha' known. 'Twas secret, and secret from all, mayhap; but thou lived."

  "Won?" Rod frowned.

  And was answered by a frown of even deeper perplexity from Tom.

  Then the big man's face cleared. He grinned, rocking back against the wall, and roared with laughter.

  The Loguires stared from him to Rod, who spread his hands, shaking his head. They looked back at Tom, wiping his eyes and eking the remains of his laugh into chuckles. "Eh, eh, now I see it, aye, now, and fool that I was not to see it before. What age art thou, master?"

  "Age?" Rod scowled. "Thirty-two. Why?"

  "Nay, nay!" Tom shook his head impatiently. "What age art thou from?"

  Rod's mouth formed a round, silent 0 as the light dawned. "It was a time machine!"

  Big Tom's face froze as he realized the implications of Rod's answer.

  "
And," Rod pressed, "there's another one hidden in this building isn't there?"

  "Enough!" Big Tom snapped, and his eyes were very cold. "You know too much already, Rod Gallowglass."

  Fear gathered in Rod's belly and crawled up his spine as he saw chill, amoral murder come into the man's eyes.

  "Big Tom." He cleared his throat, spoke in a swift, driving monotone. "Big Tom, your own kind have turned against you now. You owe them no allegiance; and the wrongs they said they'd fix, I can fix, too. Go back to them, and they'll kill you. I won't, you know that."

  The annihilation ebbed from Tom's eyes, the huge body relaxed.

  "Nay," Tom growled, "thou hast right again, though not in the way tha knowest. They ha' but bottled me up for now, till the great deeds are done; but they will hale me forth again, for I am too costly a man to discard so lightly. But tha'rt right they will slay me — in a year, two years, or five, when my office is done. And I do wish to live."

  Rod raised an eyebrow skeptically. "They don't doubt your loyalty?"

  Big Tom chuckled deeply. "They ha' no need to, master. I disagree only on means, not on goals. But I disagree, and for that, soon or late, they will slay me."

  "Rod," said a quiet voice that only he could hear.

  Rod held up a hand. "Hold it! Late news on the Rialto!"

  "Rod, the Prince of the Elves has arrived. He is leading a squad of elves toward your cell." There was a touch of laughter to the robot's voice.

  "All right, what's so funny?" Rod muttered.

  "You have a surprise in store. Rod."

  Two gnarled, bent, white-bearded figures scurried up to the window. Rod frowned.

  "Fess, those are gnomes, not elves."

  "Gnomes? Oh, yes, metal-working elves. Purely semantics, Rod. They are still incapable of dealing with iron."

  The gnomes pulled out a hammer and cold chisel with a faint bronze sheen, then stepped back and handed them to a larger, darker figure that blocked out the sunlight.

  The Loguires, chained under the window, craned their necks backwards to try to see as the first blow sounded.

  Big Tom frowned. "There be something that pricks at my memory about that form at the window. Ah, for light, to see his face!"