The Warlock in Spite of Himself

"So extrapolate from available data, already!"

He heard La Traviata , as it might have been sung by a wistful audio generator; thenFess said, "The irregularity of the figure 2,385 would seem to indicate the number of a year, Rod, due to its juxtaposition with the figure ten thousand."

"Uh, how's that again?"

"The figure ten thousand," Fess lectured, "has many probable referents, one of which is the period of recorded human history."

"Now, wait a minute,Fess. Written history doesn't go back beyond 2000 B.C.; even I know that."

"And a miracle it is, Rod, considering your resistance to instruction from your earliest ages."

"All right, all right! I was a bad little boy who didn't do his homework! I'm sorry! I repent! Just get on with the extrapolation, will ya?"

He heard the burring of serially closing relays that always reminded him of a chuckle; then Fess said, "Human history prior to the development of written language may be said to have been recorded in the legends and mythology of the vocal tradition, in works such as The Epic of Gilgamesh . The period included by such works may be estimated as having begun nearly four thousand years B.C. This figure, added to the present date, gives us the figure 9,432, which is a sufficiently close approximation to the figure ten thousand to be included as a referent."

"Hmm." Rod gnawed his upper lip. "Well, when you look at it that way, I suppose 2,385 could be a date. But what does that mean?"

"Why, the inference is obvious, Rod."

"So I'm a microcephalic idiot. Spell it out."

The robot hesitated. "Theaccuracy of the inference has a very low probability rating…"

"I asked for guesswork, didn't I? Come on, out with it."

"The artifact, Rod, would by this theory be a vehicle for chronical travel."

Rod stared at the strip-meter. "You mean it's a time machine?"

The slider was shoved all the way to the right, resting over the figure 2,385.

"Rod, you must bear in mind that the theory's probability index—"

"A time machine!" Rod's brain whirled. "Then the little bastards came out of the future!"

"Rod, I have cautioned you before about your tendency to accord an unproved hypothesis the weight of a conviction."

Rod gave his head a quick shake. "Oh, don't worry, Fess. It's just a guess, probably wrong. I'm keeping that in mind."

He turned away from the control panel, eyes glowing. "A time machine! Whaddaya know!"

He became aware of the faint glow to his left again. Horatio Loguire towered over him, brooding.

"What witchcraft is it, Man?"

Rod frowned, turning back toward the machine. "Strange, my lord, both dark and strange. I have some knowledge of the various, ah, magics; but this is one with which I have no acquaintance."

"What then will you do?"

Rod scowled at the floor, looked up with' a bleak smile. "Sleep. And ponder what I have seen."

"And when will you destroy this plaything of Satan?"

"When I am sure," murmured Rod, turning back to look at the machine again; "sure that this is the plague, and not the cure, of this benighted world."

Loguire's eyebrows drew together as his scowl deepened. He seemed almost to swell, looming taller and wider, dwarfing the man before him. Rod had the insane feeling that an ancient locomotive was roaring down on him.

The voice was distant thunder. "I charge you, then, with the exorcising of this demon altar and the rending of its ragtag priests."

The old boy, Rod decided, had definitely slipped a cog.

The ghost's sword flashed out of its scabbard; involuntarily, Rod fell back into defense stance. Then he straightened, cursing himself; a spectral sword could scarcely hurt him.

The sword floated before him, point downward, a glittering cruciform ghost-light.

"Swear now upon the hilt of this my sword, that you shall not rest until you have purged this land of corruption in the seats of power, that you shall exorcise this dark altar and all its minions, and more: that you shall never till you die desert this Isle of Gramarye in the hour of its peril."

Awe slacked Rod's jaw; he stared wide-eyed at the sudden power and majesty of the ghost. An alien, formless dread crept into his belly. The hairs at the nape of his neck lifted with a chill of nameless apprehension.

He shrank back. "My lord, this scarce is necessary. I love the Isle of Gramarye; I would never—"

"Lay your hand upon this hilt and swear!" The words were terse and stern.

Rod fairly cowered, well aware that the oath would bind him to the planet for life. "My lord, are you asking me to take a loyalty oath? I am insulted that you should doubt my—"

"Swear!" the ghost thundered. "Swear! Swear!"

"Art there, old mole?" Rod muttered under his breath, but it didn't work; he had never felt less funny.

He stared at the glowing hilt and the stern face beyond it, fascinated. Almost against his will, he took one step forward, then another; he watched his hand as it closed itself around the hilt. His palm felt nothing within it, no pressure of solid metal; but the air within his fist was so cold it paralyzed the knuckles.

"Now swear to me and mine!" Horatio rumbled.

" Oh, well , Rod thought, it's only words. Besides, I'm an agnostic, aren't I ?

"I… swear," he said reluctantly, fairly forcing out the words. Then inspiration glimmered in his brain, and he added easily, "And I further swear that I will not rest until the Queen and all her subjects with one voice shall rule again."

He took his hand from the sword, rather pleased with himself. That additional clause gave him a clear track to the goal of his mission, whether or not Horatio counted democracy among the perils of Gramarye.

The ghost frowned. "Strange," he grumbled, "a most strange oath. Yet from the heart, I cannot doubt, and binding to you."

Of course, Rod admitted to himself, the oath still bound him to Gramarye; but he would bridge that gulf when he came to it.

The sword glided back to its scabbard. The ghost turned away, his voice trailing over his shoulder. "Follow now, and I shall show you to the halls within these halls."

Rod followed until they came to the wall. The ghost pointed a long, bony finger. "Grope until you find a stone that yields to your hand."

Rod reached for the stone the ghost pointed to, and pushed, leaning all his weight against it. The stone groaned and grudgingly gave way, sliding back into the wall. As it fell back, a door ground open with the protest of hinges that were long overdue for an oil break. Cold, dank air fanned Rod's cheek.

"Leave me now," said the ghost, tall and regal beside him, "and go to your duty. Yet remember, Man, your oath; and be assured that if ever you should lay it aside, the first Duke Loguire shall ever stand beside your bed until at last you yield to fear."

"Definitely a comforting thought," Rod mused. He groped his way down the moss-grown steps, humming "You'll Never Walk Alone."

This time, the door to the loft was open, and Tom's deep earthquake snores echoed in the rocky chamber.

Rod paused in the doorway, chewing at his lip. He went back into the hall, pulled a torch from its bracket, and thrust it ahead of him into the room, peering in cautiously, just to be sure there was no one trying to rearouse Tom with a paternity suit in mind.

The wavering light of the torch disclosed the stocky peasant's slumbering form, his cape thrown over his body from the rib cage down. One ursine arm was curled comfortably about the soft, rounded body of a blonde, covered (or uncovered) to the same degree by the cape. Her small, firm breasts were pressed against Tom's side; her head rested on his shoulder, long hair flung in a glorious disarray over her shoulders. One sun-browned arm was flung possessively across the big man's beer-keg chest.