The Warlock in Spite of Himself

"Which," said Rod, "is a kind of anarchy."

"Precisely; and we must therefore entertain the possibility that the councillors may pursue the pattern of political breakdown from warlordism through parochialism to the possible goal of total anarchy."

"And that's why they're out to kill Catharine."

"An accurate observation; any chance to eliminate the central authority will be taken."

"Which means she's in danger. Let's get back to the castle."

He pulled on the reins, butFess refused to turn. "She is not in danger, Rod, not yet. The mythos of this culture requires that preliminary to a death, an apparition known as a banshee must be seen on the roof of the dwelling. And the banshee cannot appear until nightfall."

Rod looked up at the sky. It was twilight; there was still some of the sunset's glow around the horizon.

"All right, Fess. You've got fifteen minutes, maybe a half-hour."

"The evidence of the councillor's origin in a high-technology society," the robot droned on, "indicates that the group derives from off-planet, since the only culture on the planet is that of Catharine's realm, which is characterized by a medieval technology. The other Anti-Royalist faction also bears indications of off-planet origin."

"I think I've heard that before," Rod nursed. "Run through it again, will you?"

"Certainly. The second Anti-Royalist faction is known as the House of Clovis, a name deriving from the supposedly elective process of choosing ancient kings. The rank and file of the House of Clovis consists of beggars, thieves, and other criminals and outcasts. The titular leader is a banished nobleman, Tuan Loguire."

"Hold it a moment," said Rod. " Titular leader?"

"Yes," saidFess. "The superficial structure of the House of Clovis would seem to verge on the mob; bur further analysis discloses a tightly-knit sub-organization, one function of which is the procurement of nourishment and clothing for the members of the House."

"But that's what Tuan's doing!"

"Is it? Who supplies the necessities of life at the House of Clovis, Rod?"

"Well, Tuan gives the money to the innkeeper, that twisted little monkey they call the Mocker."

"Precisely."

"So you're saying," Rod said slowly, "that the Mocker is using Tuan as a fund-raiser and figurehead, while the Mocker is the real boss."

"That," saidFess, "is what the data would seem to indicate. What is the Mocker's physical appearance, Rod?"

"Repulsive."

"And how did he earn his nickname of 'the Mocker'?"

"Well, he's supposed to be a sort of Man of a Thousand Faces…"

"But what is his basic physical appearance, Rod?"

"Uh…" Rod threw his head back, eyes shut, visualizing the Mocker. "I'd say about five foot ten, hunched over all the time like he had curvature of the spine, slight build—very slight, looks like he eats maybe two hundred calories a day—not much hair…" His eyes snapped open. "Hey! He looks like one of the councillors!"

"And is therefore presumably from a high-technology society," Fess agreed, "and therefore also from off-planet. This contention is reinforced by his political philosphy, as indicated in Tuan Loguire's speeches to the rabble…"

"So Tuan is also the mouthpiece," Rod mused. "But of course; he never could have thought up proletarian totalitarianism by himself."

"It is also worth noting that the Mocker is the only member of the House of Clovis of this particular physical type."

"Ye-e-e-s!" Rod nodded, rubbing his chin. "He's playing a lone game. All his staff are locals trained to back him up."

"His long-range goal," saidFess, "maybeassumed to be the establishment of a dictatorship. Consequently, he would wish someone on the throne whom he could control."

"Tuan."

"Precisely. But he must first eliminate Catharine."

"So the councillors and House of Clovis are both out for Catharine's blood."

"True; yet there is no indication that they have joined forces. If anything, they would seem to be mutually opposed."

"Duplication of effort—very inefficient. But, Fess, what're they doing here?"

"We may assume that they derive from two opposed societies, both of which wish to control some commodity which may be found on Gramarye."

Rod frowned. "I haven't heard of any rare minerals aroundabout…"

"I had in mind human resources, Rod."

Rod's eyes widened. "The espers! Of course! They're here because of the witches!"

"Or the elves," Fess reminded.

Rod frowned. "What would they want with the elves?"

"I have no hypothesis available; yet the logical possibility must be entertained."

Rod snorted, "All right, you stick with the logical possibility, and I'll stand by the witches. Anyone who could corner the market on telepaths could control the galaxy. Hey!" He stared, appalled. "They probably could control the galaxy."

"The stakes," Fess murmured, "are high."

"I'll have mine…" Rod began; but he was cut off by a ululating, soaring wail that grated like nails on glass.

Fess swung about; Rod looked back at the castle.

A dim shape glowed on the battlements, just below the east tower. Like a fox fire or a will o' the wisp. It must have been huge; Rod could make out detail even at this distance. It was dressed in the rags and tatters of a shroud, through which Rod could see the body of a voluptuous woman; but the head was a rabbit's, and the muzzle held pointed teeth.

The banshee began to wail again, a low moan that rose to a keening cry, then stabbed up the scale to a shriek, a shriek that held, and held, and held till Rod's ears were ready to break.

"Fess," he gasped, "what do you see?"

"A banshee, Rod."

Rod rode down, ran into, through and over five pairs of sentries en route to theQueen's chambers. But there, at her doors, he met an insurmountable roadblock about two feet high—Brom O'Berin, standing with feet set wide and arms akimbo.

"Thou hast been long in coming," the little man growled. His face was beet-red with anger, but fear haunted the backs of his eyes.

"I came as fast as I could," Rod panted. "Is she in danger?"

Brom grunted. "Aye, in danger, though there is as yet no sign of it. Thou must stand watch at her bedside this night, warlock."

Rod stiffened. "I," he said, "am not a warlock. I am a simple soldier-of-fortune who happens to know a little science."

Brom tossed his head impatiently. "This is a poor time to bandy words. Call yourself what you will, cook, carpenter, or mason, thou hast still warlock's powers. But we waste time."

He rapped back-handed on the door; it swung in, and a sentry stepped out. He saluted and stood aside.

Brom smiled grimly and went through the door. "Still don't trust me behind your back, eh?"

"Nearly," said Brom.

"That's what I said."

The sentry entered behind them and closed the door.

The room was large, with four shuttered slit windows on one side. The floor was covered with fur rugs; the walls were hung with silk, velvet, and tapestries. A fire crackled on a small hearth.

Catharine sat in a huge four-poster bed, covered to the waist with quilts and furs. Her unbound hair flowed down over the shoulders of a velvet, ermine-trimmed dressing gown. She was surrounded by a gaggle of ladies-in-waiting, several serving-girls, and two pages.

Rod knelt at her bedside. "Your Majesty's pardon for my tardiness!"

She gave him a frosty glance. "I had not known you were called." She turned away.

Rod frowned, looked her over.

She sat back against eight or ten fluffy satin pillows; her eyelids drooped in languid pleasure; there was a half-smile on her lips. She was enjoying the one spot of real luxury in her day.

She might be in mortal danger, but she sure didn't know about it. Brom had been keeping secrets again.