The Warlock in Spite of Himself

Big Tom hunched his shoulders and scratched at the base of his skull. "Eh, master," he complained, "you made a bit of a fool of me back a while."

"Oh?" Rod lifted an eyebrow. "Do tell!"

"I do," the big man admitted, "and… well…" He pulled off his cap and twisted it in his great hands. "It do seem like… well, master, you've finished me here, and that's gospel."

Rod felt his back lifting. "And I'm supposed to make it up to you, is that it? Pay you damages, I suppose!"

"Eh, no, master!" Big Tom shied away. " Tisn't that, master, not that at all! It's just… well… I was a wonderin', I was, if you might… that is…

He twisted the hat through some gyrations that would have astounded a topolgist; then the words came out in a rush.

"I was wonderin' if you might be needin' a servin'-man, you know—a sort of groom and lackey, and…" His voice trailed off. He eyed Rod sidewise, fearful and hopeful.

Rod stood frozen for a moment or two. He searched the big man's open, almost worshipful face.

He crossed his arms and leaned back against the jamb again. "Why, how's this, Big Tom? Not half an hour agone, you sought to rob me! And now I am supposed to trust you for a squire?"

Big Tom caught his nether lip between his teeth, frowning. " 'Tain't right-seeming, master, that I know, but—" His hands gestured vaguely. "Well, the fact of it is, you're the only man what I ever raised hand against, could beat me, and…"

His voice ran out again. Rod nodded slowly, his eyes on Big Tom's.

"And therefore you must serve me."

Tom's lower lip thrust out, pouting. "Not must, my master—only that I wants to."

"A robber," said Rod. "A cutpurse. And I'm to trust you."

Big Tom's hat twisted again.

"You've got an open face," Rod mused, "not the kind of face that hides its feelings."

Big Tom smiled widely, nodding.

"Of course, that doesn't mean anything," Rod went on. "I've known quite a few gentle-seeming girls that turned out to be first-class bitches."

Tom's face fell.

"So you might be honest—or you might be a thorough rogue. It's a F ess-cinating puzzle."

The voice behind his ear murmured, "Preliminary interpretation of available data indicates basically simplistic personality structure. Probability of individual serving as reliable source of information on local social variables exceeds probability of individual practicing serious duplicity."

Rod nodded slowly. He would have settled for an even chance.

He fished a scrap of silver from his purse—it smelt slightly of garlic—and slapped it into the big man's hand.

Tom stared at the silver in his palm, then at Rod, then back at the metal.

Abruptly, hs hand closed into a fist, trembling slightly. His staring eyes came up to Rod again.

"You've accepted my coin," saidRod. "You'remy man."

Big Tom's face split from ear to ear in a grin. He ducked his head. "Yes, master! I thanks you, master! Forever I thanks you, master! I—"

"I get the message." Rod hated to see a grown man grovel. "You go on duty right now. Tell me, what are the chances of getting a job with the Queen's army?"

"Oh, most excellent, master!" Big Tom grinned. "They're always needing new sojers."

A bad omen, Rod decided.

"Okay," he said. "Duck back inside, find out which room we've been assigned, and check it to make sure there isn't a cutthroat in the closet."

"Yes, master! Right away!" Big Tom bustled back into the inn.

Rod smiled, closed his eyes, and let his head fall back against the jamb. He rolled his head from side to side, laughing silently. He would never cease to be amazed at the bully psychology; how a man could go from arrogance to servility in less than ten minutes, he would never understand.

A low, quavering wail cut the night air, soaring into a shriek.

Rod's eyes snapped open. Sirens? In this culture?

The sound was coming from the left; he looked up, and saw the castle, there on its hilltop.

And there, at the base of the tower, something glowed, and keened like a paddy wagon lamenting the death of some squad cars.

The guests tumbled out of the inn to stand in the courtyard, staring and pointing.

" Tis the banshee!"

"Again!"

"Nay, all will be well. Hath it not appeared thrice before? And yet the Queen lives!"

"Fess," Rod said carefully.

"Yes, Rod."

"Fess, there's a banshee. On the castle battlements. A banshee, Fess."

There was no answer.

Then a raucous buzz snarled behind Rod's ear, swelled till it threatened to shake his head apart, and cut off.

Rod shook his head and pounded his temple with the heel of his hand.

"F in going to have to have that boy overhauled," he muttered. "He used to have quiet seizures."

It would have been unwise for Rod to go to the stables to reset Fess while the inn-yard was full of gawkers; he would have been thoroughly conspicuous.

So he went up to his room, to lie down till things had quieted down a bit; and, of course, by the time the courtyard was clear, Rod was too comfortable to take the trouble of going down to the stables. No real reason to reset the robot, anyway; it would be a quiet night.

The room was dark, except for a long swathe of light streaming in the window from the largest moon. There was a subdued murmur and clatter from the common room—nightowl guests drinking late. Rod's chamber was very peaceful.

Not quiet, though. Big Tom, curled up on a pallet at the foot of the bed, snored like a bulldozer on idle, making more noise asleep than he did awake.

Now there was a riddle—Big Tom. Rod had never before been in a fight where he hadn't been hit at least once. Big Tom had left himself wide open, every time; and sure, he was big, but he didn't have to be that clumsy. Big men can be quick…

But why would Big Tom have thrown the fight?

So Rod would take him on as a serving-man?

And what about Adam and One-Ear? Their talk would seem to indicate they'd been at the pep rally down by the wharf, which would mean they were members of the proletarian party. What had the young rabble-rouser called it? The House of Clovis, yes.

But if Adam and One-Ear were a representative sample, the House of Clovis was a house divided against itself. There seemed to be two factions, one backing the Loguire—the juvenile orator?—and one led by the Mocker, whoever that might be. The usual two factions, nonviolent and violent, tongue and sword.

Now, why would Big Tom have wanted a butler job ? Social climber, maybe? No, he wasn't the fawning type. Better wages? But he'd seemed to be moderately prosperous as the neighborhood heavy.

To keep an eye on Rod?

Rod rolled over on his side. Tom just might be a member in good standing of the House of Clovis. But why would the House want to keep tabs on Rod? They couldn't suspect anything, could they?

If Fess's guess was right, and the House was backed by an off-planet power, they definitely might suspect something—never mind how.

But wasn't Rod letting his paranoia show again?

He was wide awake, every muscle tense. He sighed and rolled out of bed; he couldn't sleep now. Better reset Fess and have a talk. Rod needed the robot's electronic objectivity; he had very little of his own.

Big Tom stirred and wakened as Rod lifted the rusty door latch.

"Master? Where dost thou go?"

"Just got a little worried about my horse, Big Tom. Think I'll run down to the stables and make sure the hostler's treating him right. Go back to sleep."

Big Tom stared a moment.

"Certes," he said, "thou'rta most caring one, master."

He rolled over and burrowed his head into the folded cloak he used for a pillow. "To be so much concerned for a horse," he muttered, and snored again.