The Warlock in Spite of Himself

"I had thought you were above petty conquest by now, Rod."

"Which is a nice way of saying she wouldn't have anything to do with me. Well, even if I haven't got the buying power, I can still window-shop."

The junior coven sailed over the horizon; their laughter faded away.

"Well, that's that." Rod gathered his feet under him. "The party's over, and we're none the wiser." He rose to his feet. "Well, at least we're still a secret; nobody knows there's a spaceship under that circle of earth."

"Nay, not so," chuckled a pixie voice.

Rod froze, turned his head, stared.

There, among the roots of an old oak, stood a man, broad-shouldered, grinning, and all of twelve inches tall. He was clad in doublet and hose in varying shades of brown, and had very white teeth and a general air of mischief.

"The King of the Elves shall be apprised of your presence, Lord Warlock," said the apparition, chuckling.

Rod lunged.

But the little man was gone, leaving only a chortle behind him.

Rod stood staring, listening to the wind commenting to the oak leaves and the last faint snicker dying away among the oak roots.

"Fess," he said. "Fess, did you see that?"

There was no answer.

Rod frowned, turning. "Fess? Fess!"

The robot's head swung gently between its fetlocks.

"Oh, hell!"

A deep-toned bell was proclaiming the advent of nine o'clock somewhere in the large, ramshackle town that was, as near as Rod and Fess could figure from speed and bearing, the juvenile witches' home base. In view of their remark about the Queen, Rod had hopes the town would turn out to be the capital of the island.

"Only a guess, of course," he added hurriedly.

"Of course," Fess murmured. The robot voice gave the distinct impression of a patient sigh.

"On a more immediate level, what name should I go by in this culture?"

"Why not Rodney d'Armand VII? This is one of the few cases where your natural name is appropriate."

Rod shook his head. "Too pretentious. My forebears never did get over their aristocratic aspirations."

"They were aristocrats, Rod."

"Yeah, but so was everybody else in the planet, Fess, except the robots. And they'd been in the family so long they had a right to claim some of the honors."

"It was honor enough to—"

"Later," Rod cut him off. Fess had a standardized sermon on the noblesse oblige tradition of the Maxima robots, which he would gladly deliver at the drop of anything resembling a cue. "There's a small problem of a name, remember?"

"If you insist." Fess was disgruntled. "Mercenary soldier, again?"

"Yes. It gives me an excuse to travel."

Fess winced. "You could pose as a wandering minstrel…"

Rod shook his head. "Minstrels are supposed to be up on the current news. Might not be a bad idea to pick up a harp, though—especially if the ruler's a woman. Songs can get you places where swords can't…"

"We go through this every time… Would 'Gal-lowglass' suit you, Rod? It was the Irish term for a mercenary soldier."

"Gallowglass…" Rod rolled the word over his tongue. "Not bad. That's got some dash to it."

"Like yourself."

"Do I detect a touch of irony there? But it is a good, solid word… and it's not exactly what you'd call pretty…"

"Definitely like yourself," the robot murmured.

"I daresay it'll do. Rod Gallowglass it is. Whoa !"

Rod sawed back on the reins, frowning. From someplace ahead of them came the low mutter of a mob.

Rod frowned. "What's all the commotion?"

"Rod, may I recommend caution…"

"Not a bad idea. Gee-up again, but lightly with the hooves, please."

Fess went at a walk through the narrow moonlit street, sidling up against the weathered wall of a building. He stopped at the corner, thrust his horse's head around the angle.

"What do you see, Sister Ann?"

"A mob," said Fess..

"Astute observation, Watson. Anything else?"

"Torchlight, and a young man climbing up on a platform. If you'll pardon the analogy, Rod, it closely resembles a pep rally at your alma mater."

"Just might be what it is." Rod swung out of the saddle. "Well, you stay here, big fella. I'll scout the terrain."

He rounded the corner and let himself fall into a soldierly swagger, one hand on the pommel of his sword.

Not a bad idea, from the look of the crowd. Must be a meeting of the local Vagabond's Union. Not an un-patched doublet among them. He wrinkled his nose; a washed body seemed to be even more rare. Definitely a seedy lot.

The meeting-place was a large, open square, bordered by a wide river on one side; there were wharves with wooden ships riding at their moorings. On the other three sides of the square were cheap, decaying lodging-houses; sea-tackle stores and other cheap shops, and warehouses. The warehouses, at least, were in good repair. All the buildings were half-timbered, with the characteristic overhanging second story.

The shouting, jostling mob filled the whole square. Flaming pine knots lent a demonic light.

A closer look at the crowd revealed patched eyes, shriveled limbs, heads minus ears—an odd contrast to the figure that stood on the jury-rigged platform.

He was young, broad-shouldered and blond-headed. His face was clean and unscarred, snub-nosed and blue-eyed. It was a round, almost innocent face, open and honest, filled with the eerie light of a Man with a Mission. His doublet and hose were clean, for a wonder, and well-tailored from good cloth. A sword hung at his hip.

"A kid from the right side of the tracks," Rod mused. "What in the Seventh Hell is he doing in this rathole?"

The youth threw up his hands; the crowd roared, pine-knot torches surged forward to light him.

"Whose shoulders have borne up the weightiest burdens?" the boy shouted.

"Ours!" roared the crowd.

"Whose hands are worn hard and scarred with rough toil?"

"Ours!"

"Who is it have built all the wealth that the noblemen squander?"

"We!"

"Who is it have reared up their lofty castles of granite?"

"We!"

"Shall you not have a share in these riches and luxuries?"

"We shall!"

"Why," roared the young spokesman, "there is wealth enough in even one of these castles to make each one of you a king!"

The crowd went wild.

"You catching this, Fess?"

"I am, Rod. It sounds like a mixture of Karl Marx and Huey Long."

"Strange synthesis," Rod muttered. "And yet, maybe not so strange, when you come to think of it."

"This is your wealth!" shouted the youth. "You have a right to it!"

The crowd went wild again.

"Will they give you your due?"

The crowd went suddenly quiet. An ugly murmur began.

"No!" the young man bellowed. "You must therefore demand it, as is your right!"

He threw up his arms. "The Queen has given you bread and wine when the famine was upon you! The Queen has given meat and good wine to the witches whom she harbors!"

The crowd fell deathly still. A whisper ran through the ranks: 'The witches! The witches!"

"Aye," roared the spokesman, "even the witches, the outcast and spurned. How much more, then, will she give to you, who have borne the heat of the day?

"She will give you your due!"

The crowd echoed his roar.

"Where do you go?" yelled the young Demosthenes.

"To the castle!" someone shouted, and other voices took up the cry. "To the castle! To the castle!" It became a rhythmic chant. "To the castle! To the castle! To the castle!"

A high, keening wail cut across the chant. The crowd fell silent. A narrow, twisted figure hobbled to the edge of a warehouse roof and called out over the square:

"Soldiers, a company or more!"

"Out through the alleys and wharves!" bellowed the young man. "At the House of Clovis we shall meet, within the hour!"