The Warlock in Spite of Himself

"Thus we must make the Queen's shilling something other than a gift."

"And you found a way to do it."

"Not I," Tuan confessed, "but the Mocker. "When is a gift not a gift?' he riddled me, and answered, 'Why, when 'tis a right.' "

Tuan leaned back, spreading his hands. "And there you have it, so easily done. The beggars shall march to the castle and cry to the Queen that she owes them bread and meat, because it is their right. And she will give it to them, and they will be grateful."

Rod smiled, rubbing his chin. "Very shrewd," he said, nodding, but to himself he added: If it works. But it won't; people who have money enjoy giving for charity, but they won't give a cent if you tell them they must. And how grateful will the beggars be when she refuses them, and calls out the army to drive them away ?

And even if she did yield to their demands, what then? What about the sense of power it would give them? Beggars, forcing a Queen's hand! They wouldn't stop at bread and meat; no, they'd be back with more demands in a week, with or without Tuan.

Oh, yes, it was a very shrewd plan; and Tuan had been sucked into it beautifully. The Mocker couldn't lose; and neither could the off-planet totalitarians who were behind him.

But Tuan meant well. His intentions fairly gleamed. He was a little weak on political theory; but his intentions were fine.

Rod raised his mug for a deep draught, then stared into it, watching the swirl of the heated wine. "Yet some say that the House of Clovis would pull Catharine off her throne."

"Nay, nay!" Tuan stared, appalled. "I love the Queen!"

Rod studied the boy's sincere, open face and made his own interpretation of the statement.

He looked back into his mug. "So do I," he said, with more truth than he liked. "But even so, I'd have to admit she's, shall we say, not acting wisely."

Tuan heaved a great sigh and clasped his hands.

"That is true, most true. She means so well, but she does so badly."

Have you looked in a mirror lately, Mr. Kettle ? Rod wondered. Aloud, he said, "Why, how is that?"

Tuan smiled sadly. "She seeks to undo in a day what ages of her grandsires have wrought. There is much evil in this kingdom, that I will gladly admit. But a pile of manure is not moved with one swing of a shovel."

"True," Rod admitted, "and the saltpeter under it can be explosive."

"The great lords do not see that she is casting out devils," Tuan went on. "They see only that she seeks to fill this land with one voice, and only one—and that hers."

"Well"—Rod lifted his mug, face bleak with resignation—"here's to her; let's hope she makes it."

"An' you think it possible," said Tuan, "tha'rt a greater fool than I; and I am known far and wide as a most exceptional fool."

Rod lowered the mug untasted. "Are you speaking from a general conviction, or do you have some particulars in mind?"

Tuan set one forefinger against the other. "A throne rests on two legs: primus , the noblemen, who are affronted by anything new, and therefore oppose the Queen."

"Thanks," said Rod with a bittersweet smile, "for letting me in on the secret."

"Left to themselves," said Tuan, "the nobles might abide her for love of her father; but there are the councillors."

"Yes." Rod caught his lower lip between'his teeth. "I take it the lords do whatever their councillors tell them?"

"Or what they tell the lords not to do, which comes to the same thing. And the councillors speak with one voice—Durer's."

"Durer?" Rod scowled. "Who's he?"

"Councillor to my Lord Loguire." Tuan's mouth twisted, bitter. "He hath some influence with Loguire, which is a miracle; for Loguire is a most stubborn man. Thus, while Loguire lives, Catharine may stand. But when Loguire dies, Catharine falls; for Loguire's heir hates the Queen."

"Heir?" Rod raised an eyebrow. "Loguire has a son?"

"Two," said Tuan with a tight smile. "The younger is a fool, who loves his best enemy; and the elder is a hothead, who loves Durer's flattery. Thus, what Durer will say, Anselm Loguire will do."

Rod raised his mug. "Let us wish the Loguire long life."

"Aye," said Tuan, fervently. "For Anselm hath an ancient grievance against the Queen."

Rod frowned. "What grievance?"

"I know not." Tuan's face sagged till he looked like a bloodhound with sinus trouble. "I know not."

Rdd sat back, resting one hand on the hilt of his sword. "So he and Durer both want the Queen's downfall. And the other nobles'll follow their lead—if old Loguire dies. So much for one leg of the throne. What's the other one?"

" Secundus ," said Tuan, with a Cub Scout salute, "the people: peasants, tradesmen, and merchants. They love her for this newfound easing of their sorrows; but they fear her for her witches."

"Ah. Yes. Her… witches." Rod scowled, managing to look sharp-eyed and competent while his brain reeled. Witches as a political element ?!

"For ages," said Tuan, "the witches have been put to the torture till they forswore the Devil, or have undergone the trial of water or, failing all else, been burned at the stake."

For a moment, Rod felt a stab of compassion for generations of espers.

"But the Queen harbors them now; and it is rumored by some that she is herself a witch."

Rod managed to shake off his mental fog long enough to croak, "I take it this doesn't exactly inspire the people with unflagging zeal for the Queen and her cause."

Tuan bit his lip. "Let us say that they are unsure…"

"Scared as hell," Rod translated. "But I notice you didn't include the beggars as part of the people."

Tuan shook hishead. "Nay, they are apart, frowned and spat upon by all. Yet of this flawed timber, I hope to carve a third leg for the Queen's throne."

Rod digested the words, studying Tuan's face.

He sat back in his chair, lifted his mug. "You just may have what the Queen needs, there." He drank. Lowering the mug, he said, "I suppose the councillors are doing everything they can to deepen the people's fear?"

Tuan shook his head, brow wrinkled in puzzlement. "Nay, they do nothing of the sort. Almost, one would think, they do not know the people live." He frowned into his mug, sloshing the wine about inside. "Yet there is little need to tell the people they must fear."

"They know it all too well already?"

"Aye, for they have seen that all the Queen's witches cannot keep the banshee off her roof."

Rod frowned, puzzled. "So let it wear a groove in the battlements if it wants to! It's not doing any harm, is it?"

Tuan looked up, surprised. "Dost not know the meaning of the banshee, Rod Gallowglass?"

Rod's stomach sank; nothing like displaying your ignorance of local legends when you're trying to be inconspicuous.

"When the banshee appears on the roof," said Tuan, "someone in the house will die. And each time the banshee has walked the battlements, Catharine hath escaped death by a hair."

"Oh?" Rod's eyebrows lifted. "Dagger? Falling tiles? Poison?"

"Poison."

Rod sat back, rubbing his chin. "Poison: the aristocrat's weapon; the poor can't afford it. Who among the great lords hates Catharine that much?"

"Why, none!" Tuan stared, appalled. "Not one among them would stoop to poison, Rod Gallowglass; 'twould be devoid of honor."

"Honor still counts for something here, eh?" Seeing the scandalized look on Tuan's face, Rod hurried on. "That lets out the noblemen; but someone on their side's up to tricks. Wouldn't be the councillors, would it?"

Understanding and wary anger rose in Tuan's eyes. He sat back, nodding.

"But what do they gain by her death?" Rod frowned. "Unless one of them wants to crown his lordling and be the King's Councillor…"