Christopher Stasheff - The Warlock Unlocked

Alain glared at it accusingly, but accepted it. “Soon?”

“As soon as we are done with the Lord Abbot,” Catharine promised. “There, now, go with thy nurse, and we’ll be with thee presently.” She gave him a kiss on the forehead, turned him around, and gave him a pat on his bottom to speed him. He plodded off after Nurse, looking back over his shoulder.

His parents stood, gazing fondly after him.

“Fine boy,” Rod said into the silence.

“He is that,” Catharine agreed. She turned to Tuan. “But thou dost spoil him atrociously!”

Tuan shrugged. “True; yet what are nurses for? Still, Madame, remember—he has not yet come under my tutelage.”

“That, I want to see,” Rod said, nodding. “Papa as swordmaster.”

Tuan shrugged. “My father managed it. Stern he was—yet I never doubted his love.”

“Your father’s a grand man.” Rod knew old Duke Loguire quite well. “What does he think of your appointing priests for his parishes?”

Tuan’s face darkened as he was wrenched back to the topic. He started toward the audience chamber again. “He is not overly joyous about it, but sees the need. Why will not the Lord Abbot?”

“Because it encroaches on his authority,” Rod said promptly. “But isn’t the appointment just a matter of form? I mean, who do the priests take their orders from after they’re appointed?”

Tuan stopped dead, and Catharine whirled about, both staring at Rod. “Why, that is so,” Tuan said slowly. “Barons ruled priests, when barons appointed them—yet since Catharine began that function, our judges have watched to be sure the lords give no orders to clergy.” He turned to Catharine, frowning. “Hast thou given commands to priests?”

“I had not thought of it,” Catharine admitted. “It seemed it were best to leave God to the godly.”

“Sounds like a good policy,” Rod agreed. “See any reason to change it?”

Tuan beamed. “I would not want to, save when a priest breaks the law—and I must own the Lord Abbot deals more harshly with a soiled cassock than I ever would, save in matters of death.”

“Point of conflict?”

“Never,” Catharine stated, and Tuan shook his head. “For any offense great enough to be capital, the Abbot’s punishment is to strip the cleric of office, and cast him out of the Order—whereupon, of course, our officers seize him. Nay, I catch thy drift—we’ve let the Abbot rule all the parish priests, have we not?”

“ ‘Twas a grievous omission,” Catharine grated.

“Not really,” Rod grinned. “It put the clergy solidly on your side, against the barons—and their flocks with them. But now…”

“Aye, now.” Tuan’s face darkened again; then he shrugged. “Well, no matter; for a priest, there’s small choice between Abbot and King, in any event. Aye, if ‘twere only a matter of granting him power of appointment, the form, why, let him have it! Since he hath already the substance.”

“If ‘twere all,” Catharine echoed.

“There’s more?” Rod could almost feel his ears prick up. “You’ve got my attention, I conFESS.”

“The traditional conflict between Church and Crown,” Fess’s voice murmured behind his ear, “revolved over two issues: secular justice versus ecclesiastical, specifically in the matter of sanctuary; and Church holding of vast tracts of tax-exempt land.”

“Aye, and more difficult,” Tuan said somberly. “He thinks we take too little care of the poor.”

Well, it was reassuring to know that even a computer could miss. “I’d scarcely call that a disaster.”

“Would you not?” Catharine challenged. “He wishes us to cede all administration of charitable funds unto himself!”

Rod halted. Now, that was a Shetland of a different shade! “Oh. He only wants to take over a major portion of the national administration!”

“Only that.” Tuan’s irony was back. “And one that yields great support from the people.”

“Possible beginnings of a move toward theocracy,” Fess’s voice murmured behind Rod’s ear.

Rod ground his teeth, and hoped Fess would get the message. Some things, he didn’t need to have explained to him! With a theocracy in the saddle, what chance was there for the growth of a democracy? “That point, I don’t think you can yield on.”

“I think not.” Tuan looked relieved, and strengthened—and Catharine glowed.

Which was not necessarily a good thing.

“We are come.” Tuan stopped before two huge, brass-bound, oaken doors. “Gird thy loins, Lord High Warlock.”

A nice touch, Rod thought—reminding him that he ranked equally with the man they were about to confront.

The doors swung open, revealing an octagonal, carpeted room lit by great clerestory windows, hung with rich tapestries, with a tall bookcase filled with huge leather-bound volumes…

… and a stocky, brown-robed man whose gleaming bald pate was surrounded by a fringe of brown hair running around the back of his head from ear to ear. His face was round and rosy-cheeked, and shone as though it were varnished. It was a kind face, a face made to smile, which made it something of a shock to see it set in a truculent frown.

Tuan stepped into the room; Catharine and Rod followed. “Lord Abbot,” the King declaimed, “may I present Rod Gallowglass, Lord High Warlock.” The Abbot didn’t get up—after all, he was the First Estate, and Rod was the Second. His frown deepened, though he bobbed his head and muttered, “My lord. I know thee by repute.”

“My lord.” Rod bobbed his head in return, and kept his tone neutral. “Take my reputation with a grain of salt, if you will; my magic is white.”

“I hear thy words,” the Abbot acknowledged, “but every man must judge his fellows for himself.”

“Of course.” Determined to be a hard case, wasn’t he? But that was it, of course—“determined.” He had to work at it; it didn’t come naturally.

“Majesties,” the Abbot was saying, “I had thought my audience was with thy selves.”

“As it is,” Tuan said quickly. “But I trust thou wilt not object to Lord Gallowglass’s presence; I find him a moderating influence.”

The Abbot slipped for a second; relief washed over his face. Then it was gone, and the stern mask back in place; but Rod warmed to the man on the instant. Apparently he didn’t mind being made more moderate, as long as their Majesties were, too. It meant he was looking for a solution, not a surrender. Rod kept his eyes on the Abbot’s chest.

The monk noticed. “Why starest thou at mine emblem?”

Rod started, then smiled as warmly as he could. “Your indulgence, Lord Abbot. It’s simply that I’ve noticed that badge on every priest on Gramarye, but have never understood it. In fact, I find it unusual for a cassock to have a breast pocket; it’s certainly not pictured so, in the histories.”

The Abbot’s eyes widened—he was concealing surprise. At what? Rod filed it, and went on. “But I can’t imagine why a priest would wear a screwdriver in the breast pocket—that is what that little yellow handle is, isn’t it?”

“Indeed so.” The Abbot smiled as he slipped the tiny tool out of his pocket, and held it out for Rod to inspect—but his eyes were wary. “ ‘Tis only the badge of the Order of St. Vidicon of Cathode, nothing more.”

“Yes, I see.” Rod peered at the screwdriver, then sat down at Tuan’s left. “But I can’t understand why a monk would wear it.”

The Abbot’s smile warmed a little. “On a day when no grave matters await us, Lord Warlock, I will rejoice to tell thee the tale of our founder, St. Vidicon.”

Rod cocked a forefinger at him. “It’s a date.”