The Warlock in Spite of Himself

To Rod's amazement, the crowd remained silent. Streams of people began to pour down the twisted alleys. There was no panic, no crush.

Rod shrank into a doorway and watched as the torches were grounded. Score upon score of beggars ran past him, light-footed and silent, to be swallowed up by the dark mouths of the byways.

The square emptied; the light sounds of scampering faded away. In the sudden quiet, Rod heard the drum of approaching hooves—the soldiers, coming to check up on the Queen's loyal subjects.

Rod stepped out onto the cobbles, running on the balls of his feet, around the corner where Fess stood waiting.

He was into the saddle without breaking stride. "The good part of town," he whispered, "fast and quiet."

Fess could extrude inch-thick rubber pads from his hooves when silence was called for; he had also memorized a photo-map of the city from their aerial survey. There are advantages to a robot horse.

They fled through the town; the ground rose beneath them, building into the hill crowned by the royal castle. The quality of the buildings improved gradually; they were coming to the more affluent districts.

"What do you make of all that, Fess?"

"A totalitarian movement, beyond question," the robot replied. "A rabble-rouser, no doubt power-hungry, who will lead the people to make demands on the government, demands which cannot be met. The crown's refusals will be used to incite the mob to violence, and you have your revolution made."

"Couldn't be just an ambitious nobleman trying to usurp the crown?"

"Usurpation derives its support from the upper classes, Rod. No, this is a proletarian revolution— a prelude to a totalitarian government."

Rod pursed his lips. "Would you say there was evidence of outside intervention from a more advanced society? I mean, proletarian revolutions aren't usually found in this kind of culture, are they?"

"Rarely, Rod, and the propaganda is rudimentary when they do occur. Persuasion in a medieval society never refers to the basic rights; the concept is alien to the culture. The probability of intervention is quite strong…"

Rod's lips pulled back in a savage grin. "Well, old mechanism, it looks like we've come to the right place to set up shop."

At the uphill edge of the town, they came on a rambling, two-storied structure built around three sides of a torchlit courtyard. A timber palisade with a gate closed the fourth side. A party of laughing, well-dressed young men sauntered out of the gate; Rod caught a snatch of drunken song. Tableware rattled, and voices called for meat and ale.

"I take it we've found one of the better inns."

"I would say that was a warranted assumption, Rod."

Rod leaned back in the saddle. "Looks like a good place to spend the night. Is garlic sausage possible in this culture, Fess?"

The robot shuddered. "Rod, you have the most unearthly tastes!"

"Make way, make way!" a voice trumpeted behind him.

Turning, Rod saw a party of soldiers, cavalry, trotting toward him. Behind them rolled a gilded, richly-carved carriage.

A herald rode in front of the soldiers. "Stand aside from the road, fellow!" he called. "TheQueen's coach passes!"

"Queen!" Rod's eyebrows shot up. "Yes, yes! By all means, let's stand aside!"

He nudgedFess with his knee. The horse whirled off the road and jockeyed for a position on the shoulder that would give Rod a good look at the royal party.

The curtains on the coach were half drawn, but there was looking space. A lantern cast a warm yellow glow inside the coach, affording Rod a brief glimpse as the coach spun by.

A slender, frail form wrapped in a dark, hooded traveling cloak; a pale, small-bone face framed with blond, almost platinum hair, large, dark eyes; and small, very red lips drawn up in a pout.

And young, very young—scarcely past childhood, Rod thought.

She sat ramrod straight, looking very fragile but also very determined—and, somehow, forlorn, with the hostile, chip-on-the-shoulder attitude that so often goes with fear and loneliness.

Rod stared after the retreating party.

"Rod."

Rod started, shook his head, and realized that the coach had been out of sight for a while.

He glowered at the back of the horse's head. "What is it, Fess?"

"I wondered if you'd fallen asleep." The black head turned to Rod, the great eyes laughing gently.

"No." Rod twisted, looking back at the turn where the coach had disappeared.

Fess schooled his voice to patience. "The Dream again, Rod?"

Rod scowled. "I thought robots didn't have emotions."

"No. But we do have an innate dislike of a lack of that quality which has often been termed common sense."

Rod threw him a sour smile. "And, of course, an appreciation for that quality called irony, since it's basically logical. And irony implies—"

"—a sense of humor, yes. And you must admit, Rod, that there is something innately humorous in a man's chasing an object of his own invention over half a galaxy."

"Oh yeah, it's a million yuks, sure. But isn't that the difference between a man and a robot, Fess?"

"What? The ability to form imaginary constructions?"

"No, the ability to get hung up on them. Well, let's see if we can't find you a quiet stall where you can chew your data in peace."

Fess turned and trotted through the inn-yard gate.

A hostler came running from the stables as Rod dismounted. Rod tossed him the reins, said, "Don't give him too much water," and strolled into the big common room.

Rod hadn't known that rooms could be smoky without tobacco. Obviously, chimney-building was numbered among the underdeveloped sciences on this planet.

The customers didn't seem to mind, though. The room was filled with laughter, coarse jokes, and coarser voices in loud conversation. The great room was taken up by twenty or so large, round tables; there were several smaller tables, occupied by people whose dress marked them above the common (but not high enough to be staying at the castle). Lighting consisted of pine torches, which added to the atmosphere; tallow candles, dripping nicely on the guests; and a huge fireplace, fit to roast an ox, which was exactly what it was doing at the moment.

A small horde of boys and stocky peasant girls kept a steady stream of food and drink passing between the tables and the kitchen; many of them displayed considerable skill at broken-field running.

A large balding man with an apron tied around his ample middle burst out of the kitchen with a great smoking platter—the landlord, at a guess. Business was good tonight.

The man looked up, saw Rod, took in the gold and scarlet doublet, sword and dagger, the general air of authority, the well-filled purse—most especially the purse—and shoved the platter at the nearest serving girl. He bustled up to Rod, rubbing his hands on his apron.

"And how may I serve you, good master?"

"With a tankard of ale, a steak as thick as both your thumbs, and a table alone." Rod smiled as he said it.

The innkeeper stared, his lips forming a round O— Rod had apparently done something out of the ordinary.

Then the old man's eyes took on a calculating look, one that Rod had seen before; it was usually accompanied by a remark to the waiter, sot to voce , "Soft touch. Soak him for all he's worth."

Rod had smiled.

He should have known better.

Some things can be undone, though. Rod let his smile droop into a scowl.

"Well, what are you waiting for?" he barked. "Be quick about it, or I'll dine on a slice off your backside!"

The landlord jumped, then cringed, bowing rapidly.

"But of course, m'lord, of course! Quickly it will be, good master; yes, quickly indeed!" He turned away.

Rod's hand clamped onto his shoulder. "The table," he reminded.