The Warlock in Spite of Himself

"An' you think it possible," said Tuan, "tha'rt a greater fool than I; and I am known far and wide as a most exceptional fool."

Rod lowered the mug untasted. "Are you speaking from a general conviction, or do you have some particulars in mind?"

Tuan set one forefinger against the other. "A throne rests on two legs: primus , the noblemen, who are affronted by anything new, and therefore oppose the Queen."

"Thanks," said Rod with a bittersweet smile, "for letting me in on the secret."

"Left to themselves," said Tuan, "the nobles might abide her for love of her father; but there are the councillors."

"Yes." Rod caught his lower lip between'his teeth. "I take it the lords do whatever their councillors tell them?"

"Or what they tell the lords not to do, which comes to the same thing. And the councillors speak with one voice—Durer's."

"Durer?" Rod scowled. "Who's he?"

"Councillor to my Lord Loguire." Tuan's mouth twisted, bitter. "He hath some influence with Loguire, which is a miracle; for Loguire is a most stubborn man. Thus, while Loguire lives, Catharine may stand. But when Loguire dies, Catharine falls; for Loguire's heir hates the Queen."

"Heir?" Rod raised an eyebrow. "Loguire has a son?"

"Two," said Tuan with a tight smile. "The younger is a fool, who loves his best enemy; and the elder is a hothead, who loves Durer's flattery. Thus, what Durer will say, Anselm Loguire will do."

Rod raised his mug. "Let us wish the Loguire long life."

"Aye," said Tuan, fervently. "For Anselm hath an ancient grievance against the Queen."

Rod frowned. "What grievance?"

"I know not." Tuan's face sagged till he looked like a bloodhound with sinus trouble. "I know not."

Rdd sat back, resting one hand on the hilt of his sword. "So he and Durer both want the Queen's downfall. And the other nobles'll follow their lead—if old Loguire dies. So much for one leg of the throne. What's the other one?"

" Secundus ," said Tuan, with a Cub Scout salute, "the people: peasants, tradesmen, and merchants. They love her for this newfound easing of their sorrows; but they fear her for her witches."

"Ah. Yes. Her… witches." Rod scowled, managing to look sharp-eyed and competent while his brain reeled. Witches as a political element ?!

"For ages," said Tuan, "the witches have been put to the torture till they forswore the Devil, or have undergone the trial of water or, failing all else, been burned at the stake."

For a moment, Rod felt a stab of compassion for generations of espers.

"But the Queen harbors them now; and it is rumored by some that she is herself a witch."

Rod managed to shake off his mental fog long enough to croak, "I take it this doesn't exactly inspire the people with unflagging zeal for the Queen and her cause."

Tuan bit his lip. "Let us say that they are unsure…"

"Scared as hell," Rod translated. "But I notice you didn't include the beggars as part of the people."

Tuan shook hishead. "Nay, they are apart, frowned and spat upon by all. Yet of this flawed timber, I hope to carve a third leg for the Queen's throne."

Rod digested the words, studying Tuan's face.

He sat back in his chair, lifted his mug. "You just may have what the Queen needs, there." He drank. Lowering the mug, he said, "I suppose the councillors are doing everything they can to deepen the people's fear?"

Tuan shook his head, brow wrinkled in puzzlement. "Nay, they do nothing of the sort. Almost, one would think, they do not know the people live." He frowned into his mug, sloshing the wine about inside. "Yet there is little need to tell the people they must fear."

"They know it all too well already?"

"Aye, for they have seen that all the Queen's witches cannot keep the banshee off her roof."

Rod frowned, puzzled. "So let it wear a groove in the battlements if it wants to! It's not doing any harm, is it?"

Tuan looked up, surprised. "Dost not know the meaning of the banshee, Rod Gallowglass?"

Rod's stomach sank; nothing like displaying your ignorance of local legends when you're trying to be inconspicuous.

"When the banshee appears on the roof," said Tuan, "someone in the house will die. And each time the banshee has walked the battlements, Catharine hath escaped death by a hair."

"Oh?" Rod's eyebrows lifted. "Dagger? Falling tiles? Poison?"

"Poison."

Rod sat back, rubbing his chin. "Poison: the aristocrat's weapon; the poor can't afford it. Who among the great lords hates Catharine that much?"

"Why, none!" Tuan stared, appalled. "Not one among them would stoop to poison, Rod Gallowglass; 'twould be devoid of honor."

"Honor still counts for something here, eh?" Seeing the scandalized look on Tuan's face, Rod hurried on. "That lets out the noblemen; but someone on their side's up to tricks. Wouldn't be the councillors, would it?"

Understanding and wary anger rose in Tuan's eyes. He sat back, nodding.

"But what do they gain by her death?" Rod frowned. "Unless one of them wants to crown his lordling and be the King's Councillor…"

Tuan nodded. "Mayhap all wish that, friend Gallowglass."

Rod had a sudden vision of Gramarye carved up into twelve petty kingdoms, constantly warring against one another, each run by a warlord who was ruled by his councillor. Japanese usurpation, the man behind the throne, and anarchy.

Anarchy.

There was an outside force at work in Gramarye, agents with a higher technology and sophisticated political philosophies at work. The great nobles were slowly being divided, and the people were being set against the nobility, by means of the House of Clovis. The twelve petty kingdoms would be broken down to warring counties, and the counties to parishes, and so on until real anarchy prevailed.

The councillors were the outside force, carefully engineering a state of anarchy. But why?

Why could wait for later. What mattered now was that skulduggery was afoot, and it sat next to the Lord Loguire; its name was Durer.

And his top-priority goal was Catharine's death.

The castle loomed up black against the sky as Rod rode back, but the drawbridge and portcullis were a blaze of torchlight. Fess's hooves thudded hollow on the drawbridge. A blob of shadow detached itself from the larger shadow of the gate, a shadow that reached up to clamp a hand on Rod's shin.

"Hold, Rod Gallowglass!"

Rod looked down and smiled, nodding. "Well met, Brom O'Berin."

"Mayhap," said the dwarf, searching Rod's face. 'Thou must come before the Queen for this night's work, Rod Gallowglass."

Rod was still wondering how Brom could have known where he'd been as they came to the Queen's audience chamber. Brom had a spy in the House of Clovis, of course; but how could the word have gotten back to Brom so fast?

The door was massive, oak, iron-studded, and draped with velvet, the green and gold of the Queen's house. Brom ran a practiced eye over the two sentries, checking to see that all leather was polished and all metal gleaming. Rod gave them a nod; their faces turned to wood. Was he under suspicion of high treason?

At Brom's nod, one Guardsman struck the door backhanded, three slow heavy knocks, then threw it wide. Rod followed Brom into the room. The door boomed shut behind them.

The room was small but high-ceilinged, paneled in dark wood, lit only by four great candles that stood on a velvet-draped table in the center of the room, and by a small fire on the tiled hearth. A rich carpet covered the stone floor; tapestries hung on the walls. A huge bookcase filled the wall at the far end of th room.

Two heavy carved armchairs stood at either side of the fireplace; two more were drawn up at the table. Catharine sat in one of these, head bent over a large old leather-bound book. Five or six more lay open on the table about her. Her blond hair fell unbound about her shoulders, contrasting with the dark russet of her gown.

She lifted her head; her eyes met Rod's. "Welcome." Her voice was a gentle, slightly husky contralto, so different from the crisp soprano of the council chamber that Rod wondered, for a moment, if it could be the same woman.

But the eyes were wary, arrogant. It was Catharine, all right.

But the heavy crown lay on the table beside her, and she seemed smaller, somehow.

"Hast been to the House of Clovis?" she demanded. Her eyes read like a subpoena.

Rod showed his teeth in a mock-grin and inclined his head in a nod.

" 'Tis even as you said, my Queen." Brom's voice had a grim overtone. "Though how you knew—"

"—is not your affair, Brom O'Berin." She threw the dwarf a glare; Brom smiled gently, bowed his head. "How?" Rod snorted. "Why, spies of course. A very excellent spy service, to get the word back to her so fast."

"Nay." Brom frowned, puzzled. "Our spies are few enough, for loyalty is rare in this dark age; and we keep no spies at all at the House of Clovis."

"No spies," Catharine agreed, "and yet I know that thou hast had words with Tuan of the beggars this day."

Her voice softened; her eyes were almost gentle as she looked at the dwarf. "Brom… ?"

The dwarf smiled, bowed his head, and turned to the door. He struck the wood with the heel of his hand. The door swung open; Brom turned with one foot on the threshold, and a malevolent glare stabbed at Rod from under the bushy eyebrows; then the door slammed behind him.

Catharine rose, glided to the fireplace. She stood staring at the flames, hands clasped at her waist. Her shoulders sagged; and for a moment, she looked so small and forlorn—and so beautiful, with the firelight streaming up like a mist about her face and shoulders—that Rod's throat tightened inan old, familiar way.

Then her shoulders straightened, and her head snapped around toward him. "You are not what you seem, Rod Gallowglass."

Rod stared.

Catharine's hand strayed to her neck, playing with a locket at her throat.

Rod cleared his throat, a trifle nervously..-*'Here I am, just a simple blank-shield soldier, just carrying out my orders and taking my pay, and three times in thirty hours I get accused of being something mysterious."

"Then I must needs think that it is true." Catharine's mouth twisted in a mocking smile.

She sat in one of the great oaken chairs, grasping the arms tightly, and studied Rod for a few moments.

"What are you, Rod Gallowglass?"

Rod spread his arms in a shrug, trying to look the picture of offended innocence. "A blank shield, my Queen! A soldier of fortune, no more!"

" 'No more,' " Catharine mimicked, malice in her eyes. "What is your profession, Rod Gallowglass?"

Rod scowled, beginning to feel like the rodent half of a game of cat-and-mouse. "A soldier, my Queen."

"This is your avocation," she said, "your pleasure and your game. Tell me now your profession."

The woman was a) uncanny; and b) a bitch, Rod decided. Trouble was, she was a beautiful bitch, and Rod had a weakness.

His brain raced; he discarded several lies and chose the most obvious and least plausible.

"My profession is the preserving of your Majesty's life."

"Indeed!" Catharine mocked him with her eyes. "And who hath trained you to that profession? Who is so loyal to me that he would send you?"

Suddenly, Rod saw through the mocking and the belligerence. It was all a mask, a shield; behind it lay a very frightened, very lonely little girl, one who wanted someone to trust, craved someone to trust. But there had been too many betrayals; she couldn't let herself trust any more.

He looked into her eyes, giving her his gentlest, most sincere gaze, and said in his best couch-side manner," I call no man master, my Queen. It is myself who has sent me, out of love for Catharine the Queen and loyalty to the nation of Gramarye."