The Warlock in Spite of Himself

Loguire!

Rod stared. "Excuse me, but—uh—did you say Tuan Loguire ?"

Catharine frowned.

"I thought his name was, uh—McReady."

Catharine almost laughed. "Oh, nay! He is the second son of Milord Loguire! Did you not know?"

Second son! Then Tuan was himself the man he had been condemning for a fool!

And his big brother was the man who had "an ancient grievance 'gainst the Queen," and was a major threat to the throne.

"No," said Rod, "I did not know."

Fess' voice murmured, "Data indicate existence of excellent intelligence system."

Rod groaned mentally. Robots were a great help!

He pursed his lips, staring at Catharine. "You say you have no spies in the House of Clovis," he said, "and if I assume that you speak the truth, then that means…"

He left the sentence hanging; Fess would fill in the blank.

There was a moment of silence; then a loud hum behind Rod's ear, ended in a sharp click.

Rod cursed mentally. If Catharine had no spies, she logically couldn't have known what she did know. He'd given Fess another paradox, and the robot's circuits had overloaded. Epileptic robots could be very inconvenient.

Catharine glared at him. "Of a certainty, I speak truth!"

"Oh, I never doubted!" Rod held up a hand. "But you are a ruler, and you were reared to it; one of the first lessons you must have learned was lying with a straight face."

Catharine's face froze; then, slowly, she bent her head, looking down at her hands. When she looked up, her face was drawn; the mask had been stripped away, and her eyes were haunted. "Once again, my knowledge was true," she murmured. "You know more than soldiering, Rod Gallowglass."

Rod nodded heavily. He'd made another slip; blank-shield soldiers don't know politics.

"Then tell me," she murmured, "how you came to the House of Clovis, this night."

"My Queen," Rod said gravely, "one man was set upon by three, in an alley. I helped him out; he took me to the House of Clovis to tell me his thanks with a glass of wine. That is how I came to meet Tuan Loguire."

Her brows drew together in an anxious little frown. "If I might but credit your words with truth," she murmured.

She rose and went to the fireplace. All at once, her shoulders slumped, her head bowed forward. "I shall need all my friends in this hour that comes upon us," she murmured, voice husky, "and I think thou art the truest of my friends, though I cannot say why."

She raised her head to look at him, and he saw with a shock that her eyes swam with tears. "There are still some to guard me," she said, her voice so low he could scarcely hear; but her eyes shone through the tears, and an invisible band tightened around Rod's chest. His throat tightened, too; his eyes were burning.

She turned away, biting her clenched fist. After a moment, she spoke again, her voice trembling. "The time shall come soon when each of the Great Lords shall declare himself for or against me; and I think they will be few who ride to my standard."

She turned, came toward him again, eyes alight and a shy, trembling smile on her lips. Rod rose to meet her, staring, fascinated, heart pounding in his ears.

She stopped just before him, one hand touching the locket at her throat again, and whispered, "Will you stand by my side in that day, Rod Gallowglass?"

Rod nodded awkwardly and garbled out something affirmative. At that particular moment, his answer would probably have been the same if she'd requested his soul.

Then, suddenly, she was in his arms, lithe and squirming, and her lips were moist and full on his own.

Some timeless while later, she lowered her head and moved reluctantly away, holding to his arms as if to steady herself. "Nay, but I am a weak woman," she murmured, exultant. "Gonow,RodGallowglass, with the thanks of a queen."

She said something else, but Rod didn't quite follow it; and, somehow, he was on the other side of the door, walking down a wide, cold, torchlit corridor.

He stopped, shook himself, made a brave try at collecting his wits, and went on down the hall with a step that was none too firm.

Whatever else you might think of her political abilities, the gal sure knew how to bind a man to her service…

He stumbled and caught himself; his stumbling block shoved a hand against his hip to steady him.

"Nay, mind thy great feet," grumbled Brom O'Berin, "ere thou trip headlong and foul the paving."

The dwarf studied Rod's eyes anxiously; he found whatever he was looking for someplace between iris and cornea, and nodded, satisfied.

He reached up to grab Rod's sleeve and turned away, guiding him down the hall.

"What had you from Catharine, Rod Gallowglass?"

"Had from her?" Rod frowned, eyes unfocused. "Well, she took my pledge of loyalty…"

"Ah!" Brom nodded, as though in commiseration. "What more could you ask, Rod Gallowglass?"

Rod gave his head a quick shake, eyes opening wide. What the hell more could he ask, anyway? What in heaven's name had he expected? And what, in the seventh smile of Cerebus, was he getting moon-eyed for?

His jaw tightened, sullen anger rising in him. This bitch was nothing to him—just a pawn in the Great Game, a tool that might be used to establish a democracy. And what the hell was he getting angry about? He had no right to that, either…

Hell! He needed a little objective analysis! "Fess!"

He meant it as a mutter, but it came out as a shout. Brom O'Berin scowled up at him. "What is a fess?"

"An unreliable gear train with a slipped cam," Rod improvised. Where the hell was that damn robot, anyway?

Then he remembered. Fess had had a seizure.

But Brom had stopped, and was studying Rod's face with his ultra-suspicious look. "What are these words, Rod Gallowglass? What is a gear train? And what is a cam?"

Rod pressed his lips together and mentally recited the books of the Bible. Careful, boy, careful! You're at the brink! You'll blow the whole bit !

He met Brom's eyes. "A gear train is the pack mule a knight uses to carry his armor and weapons," he growled, "and a cam is a half-witted squire."

Brom scowled, puzzled. "Half-witted?"

"Well, some kind of an eccentric. In my case, it all adds up to a horse."

"A horse?" Brom stared, completely at sea.

"Yes. My horse, Fess. The sum and total of my worldly goods and supporting personnel. Also the only soul—well, consciousness, anyway—that I can tell my troubles to."

Brom caught at the last phrase and held to it with all the vigor of a drowning man. His eyes softened; he smiled gently. "You are of us now, Rod Gallowglass, of we few who stand by the Queen."

Rod saw the sympathy in Brom's eyes and wondered what bound the deformed little man to Catharine's service—and suddenly hated Catharine againfor being the kind of bitch that enjoyed using men.

He set off down the hall, striding long. Brom marched double-time to keep up with him.

"Unless I miss in my judgment of a man," Rod growled through his teeth, "the Queen has another friend in the House of Clovis; yet she calls him her enemy. Why is that, Brom? Is it just because he's the son of her enemy the Duke of Loguire?"

Brom stopped him with a hand on his hip and looked up into Rod's eyes with a half-smile. "Not enemy, Rod Gallowglass, but one that she loves well: her uncle, blood-kin, who gave her sanctuary and cared for her five years while her father tamed the rebel Northern lordlings."

Rod raised his head slowly, keeping his eyes on Brom O'Berin's. "She chooses strange ways to show her love."

Brom nodded. "Aye, most truly strange, yet doubt not she loves them, both the Duke and his son Tuan."

He held Rod's eyes a moment, not speaking.

He turned away, pacing slowly down the hall. Rod watched him a moment, then followed.