The Warlock in Spite of Himself

"That," Puck agreed, "and also that you are sure enough of your own power that you dare be merciful. And there is proof that you are white, but greater proof that you are a warlock."

Rod squeezed his eyes shut. With exaggerated patience, he said, "Of course, it might just be that I'm a trained fighter."

"It might," Puck agreed, "but it was by sorcery that you overcame him."

Rod took a deep breath. "Look," he said carefully, "I am not a warlock. I have never been a warlock. I never want to be a warlock. I'm just a mercenary soldier who happens to know a few tricks."

"Assuredly, Master Warlock," said Puck cheerfully. "Will you come back to the cavern? We shall guide you forth to your inn."

"Oh, all right," Rod grumbled.

But he turned to look at the miserable collection of bone and sinew that was the sleeping werewolf, lying in the center of the glade.

"Master Gallowglass?" Puck's voice was puzzled, disturbed. "What troubles you?"

Rod shook his head, coming out of his reverie. "Nothing," he said, turning away. "Just wondering."

"What of, warlock?"

"They used to call me a lone wolf when I was a schoolboy… Never mind. Which way did you say the cavern was?"

The stars wheeled toward dawn as Rod stumbled, footsore and weary, across the inn-yard and into the stable.

A single candle-lantern lit the row of stalls, serving only to deepen the shadows.

Rod flung an arm across Fess's back to steady himself, his other hand groping across the robot's withers till he found the enlarged vertebra that was the reset switch. He pressed; the steel body stirred under its horsehair camouflage. The velvet black head lifted, shook twice, turned to look back over its shoulder, great brown eyes focusing on Rod. The robot was silent a moment; then the voice behind Rod's ear spoke with a touch of reproach:

"You have left me inactive a long time, Rod. I have no aftereffects from the seizure."

"Sorry, old iron." Rod kept his arms across the horse's back; his legs felt a trifle wobbly. "I was on my way to reset you when I got clobbered."

"Clobbered!" Fess's voice writhed with shame. "While I slept! May my casing lie forever corroding on the junkpile! May my germanium be consigned to the Converter for reclamation! May my—"

"Oh, stow it!" Rod growled. "It wasn't your fault." He stepped away from the horse, straightening his shoulders. "I wasn't in any real danger, anyway. Just a busy night, that's all."

"How so, Rod?"

Rod started to answer, then changed his mind. "I'll tell you in the morning, Fess."

"I have reoriented my circuits to accept the discrepancies between accepted theory and actual occurrence, Rod. You may confide in me without fear of overload."

Rod shook his head and turned to stumble out of the stall. "In the morning, Fess. You might be able to believe it right now, but I'm not sure I could."

Rod sat down to a whopping breakfast, but he was on a starvation diet compared to Big Tom. The man was surrounded by unbelievable stacks of food.

Some of it was familiar to Rod—the eggs, pancakes, and ham. The 'cakes had a subtly alien flavor, though, and the eggs had three inch yolks. There was some sort of grain on any human-inhabited planet, usually a descendant of Terran cereals; but the soil of another planet sometimes produced weird variations in the grain. There was always some sort of domesticated fowl; but more often than not it was a local life-form. Hogs, of course, were ubiquitous; they were found on Terran planets even more consistently than dogs. Rod sometimes wondered about his species.

The food was all digestible, of course, and probably nourishing: genetic drift couldn't change human metabolism all that much. But trace elements were another matter; Rod swallowed an all-pupose pill just to be on the safe side.

Big Tom noticed it. "What was that, master?"

Rod forced a smile. "Just a minor spell. Don't let it worry you, Big Tom."

Tom stared, then looked down at his plate, muttering a quick prayer under his breath. He attacked the pancakes with a shaking fork.

The big man started to speak, but his voice cracked. He cleared his throat and tried again.

"What doth the new day bring, good master?"

"A trip to the castle," said Rod. "We'll see if the Queen's in the market for a new soldier."

Tom wailed a protest. "A Queen's sojer! Nay, master, that's no trade for a honest man!"

Rod cocked an eyebrow. "Are you trying to tell me that one of us might be honest?"

Big Tom shut up.

The landlord had a spare horse, or so he suddenly remembered when Rod rested a hand on the hilt of his dagger. It was an old, swaybacked gray gelding with a slightly longer neck and smaller ears than the Terran-standard animal. That was bad, since it would call a certain amount of attention to Fess; but then, the great black horse wasn't exactly inconspicuous anyway.

The church bells were ringing as they rode out of the inn-yard, Rod on Fess and Tom on the equine antique. The sound of the bells reminded Tom of the early hour; he began to grumble at masters who kept unreasonable hours.

But his gripes trailed off as they mounted the slope above the town, where they could look out to the horizon and see the east pregnant with the morning sun.

Tom took a deep breath of the dawn and grinned back over his shoulder at Rod. "Eh, master! 'Twill be a fine day!"

"And a chill one," said Rod, turning up his collar, for the wind was at his back.

"Aye, aye! Did I not say 'twould be fine?"

"I don't quite share your enthusiasm for low thermometer readings," Rod growled. "Look alive, Tom; we're almost to the castle."

"Stand and declare yourselves!" cried the sentry on the drawbridge.

"Oh, ye gods!" Rod rolled his eyes upward.

"Your name and your concern at the Queen's castle."

"Overdoing it a bit, aren't you?" Rod eyed the sentry sidewise.

The footman's mouth turned down sharply at the corners. "None of your mouthings," he barked. "I'm a Queen's man, and you'll speak with respect."

"Not likely," said Rod, smiling benignly. "My name is Rod Gallowglass."

"Gallowglass?" The sentry frowned. "Your time is wasted; the Queen already has a fool."

"From the look of you, I'd say she has many." Rod grunted. "My trade is soldier, and my manservant's, too. Call the master-at-arms, and let him enroll me."

The sentry glowered. "Enlisting in the Queen's army is not so easily done as that."

"Why, how now! "Rod scowled. "Must I prove I'm a soldier?" He dismounted, swinging out of the saddle to land just a yard from the sentry.

"If you're a soldier, you're a poor one," the sentry said with a sneer, "or you'd not leave your horse untethered."

Rod threw him a saccharine smile and called out,

"Fess, back up four feet, take a half step to the left, come forward four and a half feet, then stand till I call you."

The sentry stared, mouth gaping open, as Fess executed the maneuver with machine-like precision.

"I'm a soldier," said Rod, "and a good one."

The sentry's mouth opened and closed like a fish's. His eyes bulged slightly as they flicked over Rod's lean frame, the black-gloved hand on the pommel of the sword.

"You see," Rod explained, "I might have need of my horse. It's easier to let him come to me."

His right hand jumped out in a feint. The soldier grunted with surprise and stepped back as Rod's foot snaked out to catch him behind the ankle. The sentry went down in a clatter of tinware.

Rod twisted the pike from the sentry's hands as he fell and threw it back under the portcullis.

"Now," he said, "let's try it again, shall we?"

"Well done, oh! Well done, my master!" Big Tom pounded his nag's withers, grinning from ear to ear.

The sentry staggered to his feet, shouting, "A rescue! A rescue!"