The Warlock in Spite of Himself

"A woman cannot rule wisely," murmured Di Medici's councillor, and Di Medici took it up: "My good and gentle cousin, God did not make Woman wise in ruling."

Bourbon took his cue. "Aye, good Uncle. Why will she give us not a king? Let her marry, if she doth wish this land well-governed."

Rod wondered if Bourbon was a disappointed suitor. There was something vaguely lecherous about him, and nothing at all romantic.

"The rule is hers by right!" Loguire rumbled. "Hers is the blood Plantagenet, the Crown of this land since its birth! What, good nephew, have you so easily forgotten the oath you swore in fealty to that good name?"

"Dynasties grow corrupt," muttered Bourbon's councillor, eyes gleaming.

"Aye!" Bourbon bellowed. "The blood Plantagenet has thinned and soured, good my lord!"

Ah, so ! Rod thought. He's not an uncle any more …

"Weakened sore, my lord!" Bourbon ranted. "Weakened till it can no longer sire a man, but only a woman, slip of a girl, with a woman's moods and whims, to reign! The bloodline of Plantagenet is worn and spent; we must have new blood now for our kings!"

"The blood of Bourbon?" Loguire lifted an eyebrow, his smile contemptuous.

Bourbon's face swelled red, eyes bulging. He had begun to splutter when Di Medici's voice interposed itself smoothly.

"Nay, good cousin, not the blood of Bourbon. What throneblood should we have but the noblest in all the South?"

Loguire stared, the blood draining out of his face in shock and horror. "I will not!" he hissed.

"Nay, my lord, and this we knew." Di Medici went oily on. "Yet must we have good blood, and a man of courage and decision, a man of youth who knows what must be done and will not hesitate to do it."

His voice rose. "What king should we have but Anselm, Loguire's son?"

Loguire's head jerked as though he had been slapped. He stared, his face paling to a waxen texture, taking on a grayish hue.

He reached behind him with a palsied hand, groping for his chair, and age draped heavy on his shoulders.

He lowered himself to the edge of the seat, leaning heavily on the arm. His vacant eyes sought out his son, then turned slowly from side to side.

"Villains!" he whispered. "Bloody, bawdy villains! And thus you steal my son…"

Anselm's chin was lifted in defiance, but guilt and fear had hollowed his eyes. "Nay, my lord, I was with them from the first."

Loguire's empty eyes sought him out again. "But thou, even thou…"

His voice strengthened. "But it is, thou more than any. Above all, it is thou!"

Durer now stepped forward, away from Loguire, to take his place by Anselm's side, his smile split into a grin of triumph.

Loguire's eyes gradually focused on him. Their eyes met, and held.

A slight rustle passed through the hall as all the councillors craned for a better view.

"Nay," Loguire whispered, "it was thou …"

He straightened slowly. Then, deliberately and slowly, he looked each Great Lord in the eyes once more. His eyes turned back to Durer.

"You are all of one mind." His voice had gained strength; but it was the strength of bitterness and contempt . "The debate has been before this, has it not? For you are all agreed; each man among you has quarreled with his conscience and won over it."

His voice hardened even more. "What wasp has flown among you, to sting your souls to such accord?"

Durer's eyes snapped fire. His mouth broke open for retort; but Loguire cut him off.

"Thou! Thou from the star! Thou earnest to me five years ago, and I, aged fool, thought 'Well and good'; and as thy bastard, cringing servants crept one by one into our households, still I rejoiced—poor, aged, doddering fool!"

He lifted his eyes to seek out Anselm's. "Anselm, who once I called my son, awake and hear! Beware the man who tastes thy meat, for he it is who best may poison it."

Rod suddenly realized how the meeting would end. The councillors couldn't risk leaving Loguire alive; the old man was still strong and vital, still indomitable. He just might be able to sway the lords to loyalty again. The chance was slight, but definite, and Durer couldn't afford it.

Anselm straightened his shoulders, his face set with rebellion. He clapped a hand to Durer's shoulder, not noticing that the little man's teeth grated as his jaws clamped shut.

"This man I trust," he stated in what might have been intended to be ringing tones. "He was with me from the first, and I welcome his wisdom—as I will welcome yours, if you are with us."

Loguire's eyes narrowed. "Nay," he spat. "Away with you, false child, and your tongue of treachery! I had sooner die than join you."

"You shall have your preference," Durer snapped. "Name the manner of your dying." • Loguire glared, then threw himself to his full height in one lurching motion.

Anselm stared, then reddened. "Be—be still, Durer! He is—is a fool, aye, and a traitor to the land. But he is my father, and none shall touch him!"

Durer's eyebrow shot up. "You would harbor snakes within your bed, my lord? Naetheless, it is the wish of all the nobles, not yours alone, that must be done."

He raised his voice, shouting, "What say you, lords? Shall this man die?"

There was a moment's pause. Rod rested his hand on the door-lever; he had to get Loguire out of there. He could open the door and pull Loguire into the passage before anybody realized what was happening…

But could he close it before they came running? Probably not; there were just too many too close. And Durer, at least, would react very quickly.

If only the hinges and springs were in decent shape! But he had a notion they hadn't been too well maintained in the last few centuries.

A chorus of reluctant "Ayes" rolled through the great hall.

Durer turned to Loguire, bowing his head politely. "The verdict, my lord, is death."

He drew his poniard and started forward.

And the light went out.

Rod stood a moment in the total blackness, stunned. How…?

Then he threw his weight on the lever. He jerked out his dagger as the stone slab groaned open. Act now, understand later.

The grating of the stone door broke the instant of shocked silence. Pandemonium struck as every voice in the hall started shouting—some in anger, some in distress, some calling for a porter to bring a torch.

The noise would be a good cover. Rod lunged out of the passage, groping blindly till he slammed into somebody's rib cage. The Somebody roared and lashed out at him. Rod ducked on general principles, felt the blow skim his hair. He flicked the button on the handle of his dagger and identified Somebody as the Duke Loguire in the flicker of light that stabbed up from the hilt.

A kindling-wood, twisting body struck into Rod with a howl of rage. Rod gasped and stumbled as steel bit into his shoulder. Apparently Durer had seen the flicker of light, too.

The dagger wrenched itself out of Rod's shoulder, he felt the warm welling flow out of the blood, and rolled away.

But the scarecrow was on him again. Rod groped, and by great good luck caught the man's knife-wrist.

But the little man was unbelievably strong. He forced Rod's arm down, down, and Rod felt the dagger's ppint prick his throat.

He tried to force his other hand up to help push the needle-point away. His shoulder screamed pain, but the hand wouldn't budge.

The dagger pricked a fraction of an inch deeper. Rod felt blood rise on his throat, and fear clawed its way up from his guts.

Total, numbing, paralyzing fear—and Rod heard a booming moan.

Durer gasped; the poniard clattered to the floor, and the weight rose off Rod's body.

The whole hall rang with a triple, very low moan, counterpointed with shrieks of terror.

Three huge white forms towered high in the black-ness. At the tops were skeletal faces, their mouths rounded into O's: Horatio and two other erstwhile Lords Loguire, having the time of their afterlives.