Christopher Stasheff - The Warlock Enraged

“No wonder my head’s exploding! How many times did they hit me?”

“More than half a dozen.”

Rod shuddered. “I’m just lucky I don’t have a fracture. On the other hand…” He frowned, and lifted a hand to probe his skull, then thought better of it. “I guess I’ll have to hope. Why didn’t he want me awake?”

“He did not say; yet I would conjecture that he did not wish to chance discovery of the range of thy powers.”

Rod felt an icicle-stab. “Powers? What’re you talking about? I just happen to be invisible to any listening witches, that’s all.”

“Mayhap; yet in this, I must needs admit that, in Flaran’s place, I would have done as he did. For whether thou dost shield thy mind by chance, or by intention, truly matters not—such shielding bespeaks great witch power. Nay, thou’rt a true warlock, Master Owen, whether thou dost know it or not—and a most puissant one, to be able to hide thy mind so thoroughly.” Simon leaned back against the wall. “And there is ever, of course, the chance that thou dost know it indeed, and dost hide thy thoughts by deliberation. And if that were the case, and if I were thine enemy, I would not wish to gamble on the extent of thy powers. I, too, would not chance thy waking.”

Rod just gazed at Simon.

Then he looked away, with a sigh. “Well, I can’t fault your logic—or his wisdom. But why did he bring you along?”

Simon shrugged. “Who can say? Yet I doubt not he’ll seek to force thee to answer certain questions, whether thou dost know them or not—and if thine own pain is not enough to make thee speak, mayhap he’ll think that mine will.”

Rod shivered. “That boy’s a real charmer, isn’t he?”

“In truth. He did turn to me, jabbing with a finger. ‘Do not seek to hide thy thoughts,’ he cried, ‘nor to disguise them, or I shall bid them slay thee out of hand.’ I assured him I would not, the more so since I saw no point in such disguising. For what could he learn from my mind, that’s of any import?”

“And that he didn’t learn from traveling with the two of us.” Rod was glad that the light was too dim for Simon to see his face burning. “Or that he couldn’t find out by, let us say, more ‘orthodox’ means? For example, if he’s keeping tab on your thoughts, he knows I’m awake now.”

“Aye. I doubt me not an we’ll see him presently.”

“No doubt at all; I’m sure he’s still in charge of our case.”

“…So he was giving the orders, huh? To the soldiers, I mean.”

“Aye. There was no doubt of that.”

Rod nodded. “Then he’s probably the one who arranged the ambush.”

Simon gazed at him for a moment, then nodded slowly. “That would be likely.”

“So he’s not exactly the simple half-telepath he claimed to be.”

Simon’s lips curved with the ghost of his smile. “Nay, Master Owen. He is certainly not that.”

“He didn’t happen to let out any hints about his real self, did he?”

Simon shook his head. “The surface of his thoughts stayed ever as it had been. For aught that I could hear from him, his name was ever Flaran; yet his thoughts were all extolling Alfar, and how greatly advantaged the land was, since he’d taken power.”

Rod frowned. “Nothing about the job at hand?”

“Aye; he did think how greatly thy capture would please Alfar.”

“I should think it would.” Rod closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the wall, hoping the cold stone might cool the burning. “No matter what else we might say about our boy Flaran, we’ve got to admit he was effective.”

A key grated in the lock. Rod looked up at a slab of dungeon warder with a face that might have been carved out of granite. He didn’t say a word, just held the door open and stepped aside to admit a lord, gorgeously clad in brocade doublet and trunk-hose, burgundy tights and shoes, fine lace ruff, and cloth-of-gold mantle, with a golden coronet on his head. His chin was high in arrogance; he wore a look of stern command. Rod had to look twice before he recognized Flaran. “Clothes do make the man,” he murmured.

Flaran smiled, his lips curving with contempt. “Clothes, aye—and a knowledge of power.”

The last word echoed in Rod’s head. He held his gaze on Flaran. “So the rumor was true—Alfar was wandering around the country, disguised as a peasant.”

Flaran inclined his head in acknowledgement.

“Well, O Potentate Alfar.” Rod leaned back against the wall. “I have to admit you did a great job of disguising yourself as a peasant. Could it be you had experience to draw on?”

Alfar’s eyes sparked with anger, and Simon seemed to shrink in on himself in horror. The sorcerer snapped. “Indeed, I was numbered ‘mongst the downtrodden till a year agone.”

“But that’s all behind you now, of course.”

His voice was a little too innocent. Alfar’s gaze hardened. “Be not mistaken. Think not that I’m a peasant still—for thou dost lie within my power now, and thou wilt find it absolute.”

Rod shrugged. “So you’re a powerful peasant. Or did you honestly think you could be something more?”

“Greatly more,” Alfar grated, “as thou wilt discover.”

“Oh?” Rod tilted his head to the side. “What, may I ask?”

“A duke—Duke Alfar, of the Northern coast! And thou, slave, shalt address me as such!”

“Oh.” Rod kept his lips pursed from the word. “I’m a slave now, am I?”

“Why?” Alfar’s eyes kindled. “What else wouldst thou call thyself?”

Rod watched him for a second, then smiled. “I’m a peasant, too. Aren’t I?”

“Assuredly,” Alfar said drily. “Yet whatsoever thou art, thou art also a most excellent thought-hearer, an thou hast been able to probe ‘neath my thoughts to discover who I truly am.”

“Oh, that didn’t take mind reading. None at all. I mean, just look at it logically: Who, in all the great North Country, would be the most likely one to go wandering around disguised as a schlemazel peasant, supporting Alfar’s policies with great verve and enthusiasm, and would have authority to command his soldiers?”

“One of my lieutenants, mayhap,” Alfar said, through thinned lips.

Rod shook his head. “You never said one word about having to refer a decision to someone higher up—at least, not from Simon’s reports about what happened while I was out cold. But you did mention ‘our’ domain, which meant that you were either one of the lieutenants, viewing himself as a partner—and from what I’d heard of Alfar, I didn’t think he was the type to share power…”

“Thou didst think aright,” Flaran growled.

“See? And that left the ‘or’ to the ‘either’—and the ‘or’ was that the ‘our’ you’d used was the royal ‘our.’ And that meant that Flaran was really Alfar.” Rod spread his hands. “See? Just common sense.”

“Scarcely ‘common.’ ” Alfar frowned. “In truth, ‘tis a most strange mode of thought.”

“People keep telling me that, here,” Rod sighed. He’d found that chains of reasoning were alien to the medieval mind. “But that was the royal ‘our,’ wasn’t it? And you are planning to try for the throne, aren’t you?”

Alfar’s answer was an acid smile. “Thou hast come to the truth of it at last—though I greatly doubt thou didst find it in such a manner.”

“Don’t worry, I did.” Rod smiled sourly. “Even right now, with you right next to me, I can’t read your mind. Not a whisper.”

“Be done with thy deception!” Alfar blazed. “Only a warlock of great power could cloak his thoughts so completely that he seems not even to exist!”

Rod shrugged. “Have it your way. But would that mighty warlock be able to read minds when his own was closed off?”