The Warlock in Spite of Himself

Catharine tilted her chin a little higher.

Loguire's eyes hardened; the grief was swept from his face by cold pride.

He spun on his heel, stalking down the length of the great hall. A lane through the crowd opened before him. The Guardsmen at either side of the great central door snapped to attention and threw the portals open.

The Duke stopped short under the lintel and pivoted to look back over the throng at Catharine. His heavy old voice filled the hall one last time.

And his voice was somehow gentle, almost kindly.

"Yet take this of me, Catharine, whom once I called my niece—thou shalt not fear the armies of Loguire while I live."

He stood motionless a moment, holding Catharine's eyes.

Then he swung about, cape swirling, and was gone.

The court was silent for the space of three breaths; then, as a man, the eleven remaining Great Lords rose and filed down the lane to the great central door, and followed Loguire into exile.

"So how did she decide the case of the two peasants?" Fess asked.

Rod was riding the robot horse on the slope outside the castle, "for exercise," or so he had told the stab-leboy. Actually, he neededFess's advice as to What It All Meant.

"Oh," he answered, "she upheld the parish priest's decisions: the fitting punishment for the kid was marriage. The old man didn't like that too well, but Catharine had an ace up her sleeve—the kid would have to support his father-in-law in his old age. The old man grinned at that, and the kid walked out looking like he wasn't quite so sure he'd come out on top after all."

"An excellent decision," Fess murmured. "Perhaps the young lady should seek a career in jurisprudence."

"Anything, so long as it keeps her out of politics… Glorious sunsets on this planet."

They were riding into the setting sun; the dying globe painted the sky russet and gold halfway around the horizon and nearly to the zenith.

"Yes," the robot supplied, "the excellence of the sunsets is due to the density of the atmosphere, which is nearly one point five Terra-normal. At this latitude, however, due to the inclination of the planet's axis, which is—"

"Yes, yes, I wrote it all down in the logbook when we landed. Have the grace to let it rest in peace… I notice the sun's rays turn almost blood-red…"

"Appropriate," Fess murmured.

"Hmm, yes. That brings us back to the point, doesn't it? What's this about another assassination coming up?"

"Not an assassination, Rod—an attempt."

"All right, an attempt. Pardon my denotations, and get on with it."

Fess paused a moment to set up the readout for a pre-fabricated report.

"The political situation on the island of Gramarye is comprised of three definite factions, one Royalist and two Anti-Royalist. The Royalist faction consists of the Queen, her chief councillor—one Brom O'Berin—the clergy, theRoyal Army, the Queen's Bodyguard, and a group of espers known by the local term 'witches.' "

"How about the judges?"

"As I was about to say, the civil servants may also be included in the Royalist faction, with the exception of those officials whose corruption leaves them opposed to the Queen's reforms."

"Hmm, yes. I'd forgotten that hitch. Anybody else on the Plantagenet side?"

"Yes, a subspecies of Homo sapiens characterized by extreme dwarfism and referred to by the local term 'elves.' "

"Well, they sure don't seem to be against her, anyway," Rod murmured.

"The Anti-Royalist factions are significantly not united by their common opposition to the Throne. The first of these factions is the aristocracy, led by twelve dukes and earls, who are in turn led by the Duke Loguire. It is worth noting that the aristocrats are unanimous in their opposition to the Queen. Such unanimity among the aristocrats of a feudal culture is totally without precedent, and must therefore be regarded as an anomaly."

"And just where did this strange united front come from?"

"The unanimity may be attributed to the presence of a group termed the councillors, each member of which serves in an advisory capacity to one of th twelve great lords. The physical coherence of this group indicates—"

Rod jerked his head around, staring at the robot horse's ears. "How's that again?"

"Each of the councillors is physically characterized by a stooped posture, extreme leanness, sparse cranial hair, pale skin, and a general apperance of advanced age."

Rod pursed his lips. "Ve-ry interesting! I hadn't caught any significance in that."

"Such a physical appearance is characteristic of an extremely advanced technological society, in which the problems of longevity, metabolic adjustment, and exposure to ultraviolet have been controlled."

"Modern medicine and a barroom pallor." Rod nodded. "But how do you account for the hunched-over posture?"

"We may assume that is a part of the obsequious manner employed by this group. The extremeness of this behavior would seem to indicate that it is not natural to the men in question."

"Finagle's Law of Reversal." Rod nodded. "Go on."

"The goal of the Royalist faction is to increase the power of the central authority. The goal of the councillors seems to be the elimination of the central authority, which will result in that form of political organization known as warlordism."

"Which," said Rod, "is a kind of anarchy."

"Precisely; and we must therefore entertain the possibility that the councillors may pursue the pattern of political breakdown from warlordism through parochialism to the possible goal of total anarchy."

"And that's why they're out to kill Catharine."

"An accurate observation; any chance to eliminate the central authority will be taken."

"Which means she's in danger. Let's get back to the castle."

He pulled on the reins, butFess refused to turn. "She is not in danger, Rod, not yet. The mythos of this culture requires that preliminary to a death, an apparition known as a banshee must be seen on the roof of the dwelling. And the banshee cannot appear until nightfall."

Rod looked up at the sky. It was twilight; there was still some of the sunset's glow around the horizon.

"All right, Fess. You've got fifteen minutes, maybe a half-hour."

"The evidence of the councillor's origin in a high-technology society," the robot droned on, "indicates that the group derives from off-planet, since the only culture on the planet is that of Catharine's realm, which is characterized by a medieval technology. The other Anti-Royalist faction also bears indications of off-planet origin."

"I think I've heard that before," Rod nursed. "Run through it again, will you?"

"Certainly. The second Anti-Royalist faction is known as the House of Clovis, a name deriving from the supposedly elective process of choosing ancient kings. The rank and file of the House of Clovis consists of beggars, thieves, and other criminals and outcasts. The titular leader is a banished nobleman, Tuan Loguire."

"Hold it a moment," said Rod. " Titular leader?"

"Yes," saidFess. "The superficial structure of the House of Clovis would seem to verge on the mob; bur further analysis discloses a tightly-knit sub-organization, one function of which is the procurement of nourishment and clothing for the members of the House."

"But that's what Tuan's doing!"

"Is it? Who supplies the necessities of life at the House of Clovis, Rod?"

"Well, Tuan gives the money to the innkeeper, that twisted little monkey they call the Mocker."

"Precisely."

"So you're saying," Rod said slowly, "that the Mocker is using Tuan as a fund-raiser and figurehead, while the Mocker is the real boss."

"That," saidFess, "is what the data would seem to indicate. What is the Mocker's physical appearance, Rod?"

"Repulsive."

"And how did he earn his nickname of 'the Mocker'?"

"Well, he's supposed to be a sort of Man of a Thousand Faces…"

"But what is his basic physical appearance, Rod?"

"Uh…" Rod threw his head back, eyes shut, visualizing the Mocker. "I'd say about five foot ten, hunched over all the time like he had curvature of the spine, slight build—very slight, looks like he eats maybe two hundred calories a day—not much hair…" His eyes snapped open. "Hey! He looks like one of the councillors!"

"And is therefore presumably from a high-technology society," Fess agreed, "and therefore also from off-planet. This contention is reinforced by his political philosphy, as indicated in Tuan Loguire's speeches to the rabble…"

"So Tuan is also the mouthpiece," Rod mused. "But of course; he never could have thought up proletarian totalitarianism by himself."

"It is also worth noting that the Mocker is the only member of the House of Clovis of this particular physical type."

"Ye-e-e-s!" Rod nodded, rubbing his chin. "He's playing a lone game. All his staff are locals trained to back him up."

"His long-range goal," saidFess, "maybeassumed to be the establishment of a dictatorship. Consequently, he would wish someone on the throne whom he could control."

"Tuan."

"Precisely. But he must first eliminate Catharine."

"So the councillors and House of Clovis are both out for Catharine's blood."

"True; yet there is no indication that they have joined forces. If anything, they would seem to be mutually opposed."

"Duplication of effort—very inefficient. But, Fess, what're they doing here?"

"We may assume that they derive from two opposed societies, both of which wish to control some commodity which may be found on Gramarye."

Rod frowned. "I haven't heard of any rare minerals aroundabout…"

"I had in mind human resources, Rod."

Rod's eyes widened. "The espers! Of course! They're here because of the witches!"

"Or the elves," Fess reminded.

Rod frowned. "What would they want with the elves?"

"I have no hypothesis available; yet the logical possibility must be entertained."

Rod snorted, "All right, you stick with the logical possibility, and I'll stand by the witches. Anyone who could corner the market on telepaths could control the galaxy. Hey!" He stared, appalled. "They probably could control the galaxy."

"The stakes," Fess murmured, "are high."

"I'll have mine…" Rod began; but he was cut off by a ululating, soaring wail that grated like nails on glass.

Fess swung about; Rod looked back at the castle.

A dim shape glowed on the battlements, just below the east tower. Like a fox fire or a will o' the wisp. It must have been huge; Rod could make out detail even at this distance. It was dressed in the rags and tatters of a shroud, through which Rod could see the body of a voluptuous woman; but the head was a rabbit's, and the muzzle held pointed teeth.

The banshee began to wail again, a low moan that rose to a keening cry, then stabbed up the scale to a shriek, a shriek that held, and held, and held till Rod's ears were ready to break.

"Fess," he gasped, "what do you see?"

"A banshee, Rod."

Rod rode down, ran into, through and over five pairs of sentries en route to theQueen's chambers. But there, at her doors, he met an insurmountable roadblock about two feet high—Brom O'Berin, standing with feet set wide and arms akimbo.

"Thou hast been long in coming," the little man growled. His face was beet-red with anger, but fear haunted the backs of his eyes.

"I came as fast as I could," Rod panted. "Is she in danger?"

Brom grunted. "Aye, in danger, though there is as yet no sign of it. Thou must stand watch at her bedside this night, warlock."

Rod stiffened. "I," he said, "am not a warlock. I am a simple soldier-of-fortune who happens to know a little science."