The Warlock in Spite of Himself

Brom tossed his head impatiently. "This is a poor time to bandy words. Call yourself what you will, cook, carpenter, or mason, thou hast still warlock's powers. But we waste time."

He rapped back-handed on the door; it swung in, and a sentry stepped out. He saluted and stood aside.

Brom smiled grimly and went through the door. "Still don't trust me behind your back, eh?"

"Nearly," said Brom.

"That's what I said."

The sentry entered behind them and closed the door.

The room was large, with four shuttered slit windows on one side. The floor was covered with fur rugs; the walls were hung with silk, velvet, and tapestries. A fire crackled on a small hearth.

Catharine sat in a huge four-poster bed, covered to the waist with quilts and furs. Her unbound hair flowed down over the shoulders of a velvet, ermine-trimmed dressing gown. She was surrounded by a gaggle of ladies-in-waiting, several serving-girls, and two pages.

Rod knelt at her bedside. "Your Majesty's pardon for my tardiness!"

She gave him a frosty glance. "I had not known you were called." She turned away.

Rod frowned, looked her over.

She sat back against eight or ten fluffy satin pillows; her eyelids drooped in languid pleasure; there was a half-smile on her lips. She was enjoying the one spot of real luxury in her day.

She might be in mortal danger, but she sure didn't know about it. Brom had been keeping secrets again.

She held out a hand to one of her ladies; the woman gave her a steaming goblet of wine. Catharine brought it to her lips with a graceful flourish.

" Whoa !" Rod jumped to his feet, intercepted the goblet on its way to her lips, and plucked it away with his left hand while his right brought out his "unicorn's horn."

Catharine stared, amazed; then her eyes narrowed, her face reddened. "Sirrah, what means this?"

But Rod was staring at the "unicorn's horn" dagger-sheath; Fess's voice spoke behind his ear: "Substance with the analysis unit is toxic to human metabolism."

But Rod hadn't poured the wine into the horn yet. There was nothing in it.

Except air.

Rod pressed the stud that turned the horn purple.

Catharine stared in horror as the violet flush crept over the surface of the dagger-sheath.

"Sirrah," she gasped, "what means this?"

"Poison air," Rod snapped. She shoved the goblet at a servant-girl and looked about the room. Something in here was emitting poison gas.

The fireplace.

Rod crossed to the hearth and held the horn upside-down over the flames; but the color of the sheath dimmed to lavender.

"Not there," Rod spun about, coming to his feet. He paced about the room, holding the horn before him like a candle. It stayed lavender.

He frowned, scratched at the base of his skull. What would be the best place to put a poison-gas cartridge?

As close to the Queen as possible, of course.

He turned, moving slowly to the four-poster. As he came to Catharine's side, the horn's color darkened to violet.

Catharine stared at the horn in fascination and horror.

Rod knelt, slowly. The horn's color darkened to purple and began to shade toward black.

Rod threw up the bedskirts and looked under the four-poster. There before him, on the stone floor, steamed a warming-pan.

Rod grabbed the long handle and yanked the pan out. He inverted the horn over one of the holes in the cover—if his memory was correct, warming-pans didn't usually have holes…

The hom turned dead black.

He looked up at Catharine. She had the knuckles of one hand jammed between her teeth, biting them to keep from screaming.

Rod turned, holding the pan out to the sentry. "Take this," he said, "and fling it into the moat."

The sentry dropped his pike, took the warming-pan, and rushed out, holding it at arm's length.

Rod turned slowly back to Catharine. "We have cheated the banshee again, my Queen."

Catharine's hand trembled as she took it away from her mouth. Then her lips clamped shut, her eyes squeezed tight, little fists clenched so hard the knuckles were white.

Then her eyes opened, slowly; there was a wild light in them, and a faint smile crept over her lips. "Master Gallowglass, stay by me. All else, remove yourselves!"

Rod swallowed and felt his joints liquefy. She was, at that moment, the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

The Guardsmen, ladies, and pages were already in motion, heading for an incipient traffic jam at the door.

Brom bawled orders, and the jam failed to develop. In thirty seconds, the room was clear, except for Rod, the Queen, and Brom O'Berin.

"Brom," Catharine snapped, eyes locked on Rod's face. Her teeth were beginning to show through her smile. "Brom O'Berin, do you leave us also."

Brom stared a moment, outraged; then his shoulders slumped, and he bowed heavily. "I will, my Queen."

The door closed quietly behind him.

Slowly, Catharine lay back against the pillows. She stretched with a luxurious, liquid grace. One hand snaked out to clasp Rod's. Her hand was very soft.

"It is twice now you have given me my life, Master Gallowglass." Her voice was a velvet purr.

"My—my privilege, my Queen." Rod cursed himself, he was gawking like an adolescent with a copy of Fanny Hill .

Catharine frowned prettily, tucking her chin in and touching a forefinger to her lips.

Then she smiled, rolled over onto her side. The velvet gown fell open. Apparently it was the custom to sleep nude.

Remember, boy , Rod told himself, you're just a traveling salesman. You'll wake up in the morning and be on your way. You're here to peddle democracy, not to court a Queen. Not fair to take advantage of her if y ou're not going to be here to take advantage of it… Did that make sense ?

Catharine was toying with a pendant that hung from her neck. Her teeth were worrying her lower lip. She looked him over like a cat sizing up a canary.

"Blank-shield soldiers," she murmured, "have a certain repute…"

Her lips were moist, and very full.

Rod felt his lips moving, heard his own voice stammering, "As—as my Queen seeks to reform the ills of her land, I… hope to reform the reputation of soldiers. I would do… only good to your Majesty."

For a moment, it seemed Catherine's very blood must have stopped, so still she lay.

Then her eyes hardened, and the silence in the room stretched very, very thin.

She sat up, gathering her dressing gown about her. "Thou art much to be commended, Master Gal-lowglass. I am indeed fortunate to have such loyal servitors about me."

It was much to her credit, under the circumstances, Rod thought, that there was only a faint tone of mockery to her voice.

Her eyes met his again. "Accept the Queen's thanks for the saving of her life."

Rod dropped to one knee.

"I am indeed fortunate," Catharine went on, "to be so loyally served. You have given me my life; and I think that few soldiers would have given me safe deliverance, as you have done."

Rod flinched.

She smiled, her eyes glittering malice and satisfaction for just a moment.

Then her eyes dropped to her hands. "Leave me now, for I shall have a trying day tomorrow, and must make good use of the night, for sleeping."

"As the Queen wishes," Rod answered, poker-faced. He rose and turned away, his belly boiling with anger—at himself. It wasn't her fault he was a fool.

He closed the door behind him, then spun and slammed his fist against the rough stone of the entry-way wall. The nerves in his fist screamed agony.

He turned back to the hall, forearm laced with pain—and there stood Brom O'Berin, face beet-red, trembling.

"Well, shall I kneel to thee? Art thou our next king?"

The anger in Rod's belly shot up, heading for Brom O'Berin. Rod clamped his jaws shut to hold it back. He glared at Brom, eyes narrowing. "I have better use for my time, Brom O'Berin, than to rob the royal cradle."

Brom stared at him, the blood and fury draining out of his face. " 'Tis true," he murmured, nodding. "By all the saints, I do believe 'tis true! For I can see in thy face that thou art filled with Furies, screaming madness at thy manhood!"

Rod squeezed his eyes shut. His jaw tightened till it felt as if a molar must break.

Something had to break. Something had to give, somewhere.

Somewhere, far away, he heard Brom O'Berin saying, "This one hath a message for thee, from the witches in the tower…"

Rod forced his eyes open, stared down at Brom.

Brom was looking down and to his left. Following his gaze Rod saw an elf sitting tailor-fashion by Brom's foot. Puck.

Rod straightened his shoulders. Smother the anger; vent it later. If the witches had sent word, it was probably vital.

"Well, spill it," he said. "What word from the witches?"

But Puck only shook his head and murmured, "Lord, what fools these mortals be!"

He skipped aside a split second before Rod's fist slammed into the wall where he'd been sitting.

Rod howled with pain, and spun. He saw Puck and lunged again.

But "Softly" said Puck, and a huge chartreuse-and-shock-pink filled the hall, a full-size, regulation, fire-breathing dragon, rearing back on its hind feet and bellowing flame at Rod.

Rod goggled. Then he grinned, baring his teeth in savage joy.

The dragon belched fire as it struck. Rod ducked under the flames and came up under the monster's head. His fingers closed on the scaly neck, thumbs probing for the carotid arteries.

The dragon flung its head up and snapped its neck like a whip. Rod held on grimly, held on and held on while the dragon battered him against the granite walls. His head slapped stone and he yelled with pain, stars and darkness before his eyes, but he tightened his grip.

The great neck bowed, and the huge talons of the hind feet raked at Rod's belly, splitting him from collarbone to thigh. Blood fountained out, and Rod felt himself reeling into blackness; but he held on, determined to take the dragon with him into death.

Yeah, death , he thought, amazed, and was outraged that he should die over a puny fit of anger, anger over a slip of a bitch of a girl.

Well, at least he'd have a mount in the land of the dead. As darkness sucked him down, he felt the great head drooping, bobbing lower and lower, following him down to death…

His feet felt solid ground and, for a miracle, his legs held him up. Light misted through the dark around him, misted and gathered and grew, and he saw the beast lying dead at his feet.

The darkness ebbed away from the dragon; light showed Rod granite walls and brocade hangings; and the castle hall swam about him, reeled, and steadied.

At his feet, the dragon's colors faded. Its outlines blurred and shimmered, and the beast was gone; there was only clean gray stone beneath Rod's feet.

He looked down at his chest and belly; his doublet was whole, not even wrinkled. Not a trace of blood, not a scratch on him.

He squeezed an elbow, expecting the pain of bruises; there was none.

His head was clear, without the ghost of even an ache.

Slowly, he raised his eyes to Puck.

The elf looked back, eyes wide and mournful. Amazingly, he wasn't smiling.

Rod covered his face with his hands, then looked up again. "Enchantment?"

Puck nodded.

Rod looked away. "Thanks."

"Thou hadst need of it," Puck answered.

Rod squared his shoulders and breathed deeply. "You had a message for me?"

Puck nodded again. "Thou art summoned to a meeting of the Coven."

Rod frowned, shaking his head. "But I'm not a member."

Brom O'Berin chuckled like a diesel turning over. "Nay, thou art of them, for thou art a warlock."