The Warlock in Spite of Himself

Then steel points were jabbing up at him like saw-grass. Rod was forced back on the defensive, swatting the blades aside.

But the intended victim let loose a yell that would have shamed a banshee and waded in from the rear.

All at once the three swords fell away, their owners pelting down the alley. Rod sat a moment dazed; then he yelled, andFess sprang after the retreating figures.

But they gained the dark at the end of the alley; and when Rod caught up, the stones were empty. It was a dead end; they had gone through one of the shadowed, evil-smelling doorways.

Their would-be victim came running up behind, looked about, and panted.

"Gone, and no use to seek them further. They'll be five leagues away in as many minutes."

Rod swore and slapped his sword back into its scabbard. He winced, and touched his forearm gingerly; one of the rapier-points had slashed through his doublet and sliced his skin.

He turned to the stranger. "You all right?"

The young man nodded, sheathing his sword.

Rod looked down into an open, snub-nosed, blue-eyed face with a grin that flashed white through the fog. The cheekbones were high, and the eyes large and wide, with a look of innocence. Blond hair was cropped round in a bowl cut. It was a young, inexperienced, very handsome face—Rod felt a surge of resentment.

He swung down from his horse. The top of the youth's head was about on a level with Rod's eyes; but what the boy lacked in height, he made up in bulk. A barrel chest swelled into bull shoulders, a good six inches wider than Rod's. The arms would have looked more appropriate on a bear or gorilla; and the legs were too small tree trunks, rammed into narrow hips.

He wore a leather jerkin over a white shirt, a wide black belt, hose, and high, soft boots.

He frowned, seeing the blood on Rod's sleeve. "You're hurt."

Rod snorted. "A scratch," he said, and fumbled in Fess's saddlebag for an antiseptic bandage. He wound the bandage around his forearm, threw the youth a hard grin. "You can pay the tailor bill, though."

The boy nodded, blue eyes sober. "That will I gladly; for they would have cut my heart out, had it not been for your timely rescue. Tuan McReady stands in your debt."

Rod looked him up and down, nodding slowly. A good kid, he thought.

He held out his hand. "Rod Gallowglass, at your service; and there's no debt involved. Always glad to help one against three."

" Ah, but debt there is!" said the boy, clasping Rod's hand with a grip like a sentimental vise. "You must, at the least, let me buy you a tankard of ale!"

Rod shrugged. "Why not? I was on my way to an inn just now, anyway; come on along!"

To his surprise, Tuan hesitated. "By your leave, good Master Gallowglass… there is only one house in this town where I am welcomed. All others have known my custom of old, and"—the round face suddenly broke into a grin—"my manner of living does not please the peaceful and proper."

Rod grimaced, nodding. " Post jocundum juven-tutem . Well, one inn's as good as another, I guess."

The route to Tuan's inn was somewhat out of keep-ing with his well-bred looks. They dogged down two dark alleys, wriggled through a weathered brick wall, and came out in a wide, moonlit courtyard that had been elegant in its day. That day must have been a century or two in the past. The remains of a fountain burbled in the center of cracked flagstones, sending up a stench redolent of primitive plumbing. Weeds, themselves in a state of dire poverty, poked through the paving everywhere. The brick of the walls was cracked and split, the mortar crumbling. Heaps of garbage lay by the walls and in the corners, with stray mounds of refuse here and there about the yard.

The inn itself was a rotting granite block with tumbledown eaves. The overhanging second story was propped up with roughhewn timbers, not to be trusted due to the infirmities of age. The windows were boarded over, the boards split, moldy, and fungoid. The massive oak door was the only sound piece of wood in sight, and even it was sagging.

"Ah, they tolerate your behavior here?" Rod asked, surveying the stagnant courtyard as Tuan knocked on the door with the hilt of his dagger.

"Tolerate, yes," said Tuan, "though even their hospitality is sometimes strained."

Rod felt a chill between his shoulder blades and wondered just what kind of mild-mannered youth he'd run into.

Tuan knocked again. Rod wondered that he expected an answer; not a gleam of light showed through the sagging window boards. By the look of it, the place must be totally deserted.

But the door began to move, and groaned that it was going on strike for an oil break, till it was open just wide enough to admit the two men.

"Your host," said Tuan cheerily, "The Mocker."

A gnarled, hunched, dessicated travesty of a human being peered around the door, making gobbling sounds in its throat. One ear was cauliflower, and the other was gone; a few strands of greasy hair straggled over a scabby skull. The nose was bulbous, the smouth a slash in a mass of warts, the eye malevolent, gleaming slits. It was dressed in a collection of tatters and patches that might once have laid claim to being a doublet and hose, sagging badly on the scarecrow figure.

The troll scurried away into the foul-smelling dark of its lair. Tuan strode through the door, following. Rod took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and looked back over his shoulder to make sure Fess was still standing there, by the fountain, head lowered in a good imitation of a horse grazing. For a moment, Rod envied the robot his ability to cut off his olfactory receptors.

Then, lifting his chin, he followed Tuan into the inn.

The door ground shut behind him; there was a scurrying sound as the Mocker ran ahead to open another door.

This one opened easily, slammed back against the wall, flooding them with a blaze of torchlight and gales of coarse, bawdy laughter. Rod stared.

They stepped through the door, and Rod looked about him. It was a great common room, with four roaring open fires and score upon score of torches bracketed along the walls. Roasting meat hung over the fires; waiters wove their way through the crowd with tankards of ale and wine from two huge, flowing kegs that dominated the far side of the room.

The clientele were the lees of the city. Their clothes were crusted, patched castoffs. Their bodies bore the marks of primitive justice: this one was missing an ear, that one an eye. Their faces were disfigured and scarred by disease. Yet here in their own den they roared merrily; all of them grinned, though malice glinted in their eyes as they looked at Rod.

But the malice faded, was transmuted into something almost like worship, as they looked at young Tuan.

"It is said," and the boy smiled, "that there is no honor among thieves; but there is at least kinship here, among the beggars of Gramarye. Welcome, Rod Gal-lowglass, to the House of Clovis."

The hair at the base of Rod's skull prickled. He remembered the torchlight mob he had seen on the waterfront the night before.

His eyes widened; he stared at Tuan. He couldn't be. He couldn't be.

Oh, but he could. Yes, he could.

Tuan McReady was the young rabble-rouser who'd been haranguing the mob to march on the castle.

This apple-cheeked, wholesome youth was top rat in the local sewer.

The crowd broke into a raucous, cheering clamor, welcoming their Galahad. Tuan grinned and waved. A slight flush crept up from his collar. He seemed almost embarrassed by the reception.

He led Rod to a dark corner at the back of the hall. He hadn't said a word to the Mocker, but two steaming mugs of mulled wine thumped down on the table almost as they sat. The landlord scuttled away without pay.

Rod watched him go, one eyebrow lifted in cynicism. He turned to Tuan. "You don't use money here?"