The Warlock in Spite of Himself

The probing point found something; the machine clicked and began to hum, almost subsonic.

"Away, master!" Big Tom shouted. " 'Tis accursed!"

But Rod stayed where he was, hand frozen for fear the knife-point would lose whatever contact it had closed.

Smoke billowed out of the transparent circle, shooting ten feet into the air, then falling back. In less than a minute, a small localized cloud had formed.

A second machine clicked, somewhere in front of Rod, and a shaft of light stabbed upward from the outer wall, toward Rod but over his head, shooting into the smoke-cloud. The shaft of light spread into a fan.

Big Tom wailed in terror. "The banshee! Flee, master, for your life!"

Looking up, Rod saw the banshee towering ten feet above him. It seemed he could almost smell the rotting, tattered shrouds that covered the voluptuous woman's body.

The rabbit mouth opened, showing long, pointed teeth. A hidden loudspeaker hummed into life; the apparition was about to start its wailing.

Rod lifted his dagger a quarter of an inch; the fan of light blacked out, the hiss of the mechanical smoke-pot died.

The wind murmured over the battlements, dispelling the last of the smoke-cloud.

Rod knelt immobile, still staring upward; then, shaking himself, he picked up the front of the box and forced it back into place.

"Master," whispered Big Tom, "what was it?"

"A spell," Rod answered, "and the banshee it called up was a sham."

He stood, drumming his fingers on the stone.

He struck his fist against the wall. "No help for it. Come on, Big Tom, hold my ankles."

He lay face-downward between the two great granite blocks, his knees above the smoke-pot machine.

"What, master?"

"Hold my ankles," Rod snapped. "I've got to take a look at the outside of the wall. And you've got to keep me from falling into the moat."

Tom didn't answer.

"Come on, come on!" Rod looked back over his shoulder. "We haven't got all night."

Big Tom came forward slowly, a huge, hulking shape in the shadow. His great hands clamped on Rod's ankles.

Rod inched forward until his head was clear of the stone.

There, just under his chin, was a small, square box with a short snout: a miniaturized projecter, shooting a prerecorded banshee into the cloud of smoke, giving the illusion of three dimensions—a very compact projector and removable screen, all susceptible to remote control.

From where?

Rod craned his neck. All he could see was gray stone.

"Hold tight, Big Tom." He inched forward, hoping he'd guessed right about the big peasant.

He stopped crawling when he felt the granite lip of the battlements pressing his belt buckle. His upper body jutted free beyond the castle wall, with nothing underneath but air, and, a long way down, the moat.

He looked down.

Mm, yes, that was a long way, wasn't it? Now, just what would happen if he'd judged Big Tom wrong? If, contrary to expectation, the big lug let go of Rod's ankles?

Well, if that happened, Fess would sent a report back to SCENT headquarters, and they'd send out another agent. No need to worry.

Tom's hoarse, labored breathing sounded very loud behind him.

Get it over with quick, boy . Rod scanned the wall under him.

There it was, just under the projector, a deep, silver-lined cup recessed into the wall—a hyperbolic antenna.

Why a hyperbolic ? he wondered.

So that the radio impulse that turned the projection machines on could be very, very small, impossible to detect outside the straight line between the transmitting and receiving antennas.

So, if you want to find the transmitting antenna, just sight along the axis of the receiving dish.

And, looking along that line and allowing for parallax, he found himself staring straight at the rotting basalt pile of the House of Clovis.

For a moment, he just stared, dumbfounded. So it hadn't been the councillors after all.

Then he remembered Durer's poison attempt at breakfast, and amended his earlier guess: it hadn't been the councillors all the time.

And, come to think of it, that warming-pan trick would have been much easier for a servant to pull than for a councillor.

He was jarred out of his musing rather abruptly; Big Tom's hands were trembling on his ankles.

Hell, I don't weigh that much , he thought; but he wriggled backward while he thought.

He thought he hard a sigh of relief as Big Tom hauled him in.

Rod rose and turned. Sweat streamed down Big Tom's face; his complexion looked very much like dirty dishwater, and his lower lip still trembled as he sucked in a noisy deep breath.

Rod looked into the big man's eyes for a long moment, without saying anything.

Then he murmured, "Thanks."

Tom held Rod's eyes a moment longer, then turned away.

Rod fell into step beside him.

They were halfway back to the stairwell before Big Tom said, "And dost thou know who hath sent this enchantment, master?"

Rod nodded. "The House of Clovis."

Thei* boots echoed hollow on the stone.

"Why hast thou not destroyed it?"

Rod shrugged. "It's a good warning that the Queen's in danger."

"Then who wilt thou tell of it?"

Rod looked up at the stars. "My horse," he said slowly.

"Horse?" Big Tom frowned.

"Yes, my horse. And no one else, until I've figured out just where Tuan Loguire stands—for the Queen or against her."

"Ah." Big Tom seemed to think that was explanation enough.

Rod boosted his estimate of Big Tom's status. Appa-rently the man knew what was going on, more thoroughly than Rod did.

Big Tom was silent till they came to the stairwell.

"Thou wast not a hair's breadth from Death this night, master."

"Oh, I don't think so." Rod folded his arms and leaned against the wall. "That was just a fake banshee; it couldn't have hurt us. And even as it was, I knew the spell that got rid of it."

"I was not speaking of the banshee, master."

"I know." Rod looked straight into Tom's eyes.

Then he turned and started down the stairs.

He'd gone six steps before he realized Big Tom hadn't followed.

He looked back over his shoulder. Tom was staring at him, mouth slack with shock.

Then the mouth closed, the face froze. "Thou didst know thy danger, master?"

"I did."

Tom nodded, very slowly. Then he looked down to the stairs and came down.

"Master," he said after the first landing, "thou'rt either the bravest man or the greatest fool that ever I met."

"Probably both," saidRod, keeping his eyes on the torchlit steps.

"Thou shouldst have slain me when first thou guessed." Tom's voice had an edge.

Rod shook his head, wordless.

"Why not?" Tom barked.

Rod let his head loll back. He sighed. "Long ago, Tom, and far away—Lord, how far away!"

" Tis no time for fairy tales!"

"This isn't a fairy tale. It's a legend—who knows? Maybe true. A king named Hideyoshi ruled a land called Japan; and the greatest duke in the land was named Ieyayasu."

"And the duke wished to be king."

"I see you know the basic techniques. But Hideyoshi did not want to kill Ieyayasu."

"He was a fool," Tom growled.

"No, he needed Ieyayasu's support. So he invited Ieyayasu to take a walk in the garden with him, just the two of them, alone."

Tom stopped, turned to look down at Rod. His eyes glittered in the torchlight. "And they fought."

Rod shook his head. "Hideyoshi said he was getting old and weak, and asked Ieyayasu to carry his sword for him."

Tom stared.

Then his tongue flicked out over his lips. He swallowed and nodded. "Aye. What happened?"

"Nothing. They talked a while, and then Ieyayasu gave Hideyoshi his sword again, and they went back to the castle."