The Warlock in Spite of Himself

But that look couldn't mean the same thing when applied to himself—unless the occupation of minstrel carried a great deal more prestige than he'd thought.

So, all in all, he was even more confused but not too surprised when one of the servant girls intercepted him with a cup of wine.

"Salve for a parched throat, Master Minstrel," she murmured, her eyes shining as she held the cup out to him.

He looked at her out of the corner of his eye and reluctantly accepted the cup; no call for bad manners, was there?

"And," she murmured as she drank, "warmth for your bed, if you will."

Rod choked and spluttered, lowered the cup, glaring at her; then he looked her up and down quickly. She was full-bodied and high-breasted, with a wide- full-lipped mouth—very like Gwendylon, in some ways.

Suddenly suspicious, Rod looked more sharply; but no, this girl's eyes were tilted upward at the outer corners, and her nose was long and straight, not snub. Besides, her hair and eyes were black.

He smiled wryly and drank off the rest of the cup and returned it to her. "Thank you, lass, right deeply."

It was indicative, he thought, that she had come to him instead of Big Tom. Tom was certainly the more appealing chunk of man; but Rod was obviously the one who had the status. A bitch like any of them, he thought: she doesn't give a damn for who the man is, just as long as what he is is a station higher than hers.

"I thank you," he said again, "but I have.been long on the road, and am like to swoon from my weariness." A very pretty speech, he thought; and go ahead, let her think less of my manhood for it. At least she'll leave me alone.

The serving maid lowered her eyes, biting her lip.

"As you will, good master." And she turned away, leaving Rod staring after her.

Well, that hadn't taken much refusing. Come to think of it, he was a little indignant… but had there been just a hint of triumph in her eyes, a shard of rejoicing?

Rod went on his way, wondering if perhaps he hadn't inadvertently stepped into the pages of a Machiavellian textbook.

The door to the loft was closed, as Rod had guessed; a muffled feminine squeal, followed by Tom's bass laugh, further confirmed his guess.

So he shrugged philosophically, settled his harp over his shoulder, and turned back down the long, winding staircase. He could put the time to good use, anyway. The castle had so obviously been built by a paranoid that he was certain there had to be secret passages.

He sauntered down the main corridor, whistling. The granite walls were painted ocher, ornamented with standing suits of armor and here and there a tapestry. Some of the tapestries were huge, reaching from floor to ceiling; Rod noted their locations carefully in his mind. They could very easily conceal the mouths of passageways.

Twelve sub-corridors intersected the main hall at right angles. As he came near the seventh, he noticed that his footsteps seemed to have acquired an echo—a very curious echo, that took two steps for each one of his. He stopped to look at a tapestry; the echo took two more steps and stopped. Looking out of the corner of his eye, Rod caught a glimpse of one of the wizened, richly-dressed scarecrows; he thought he recognized Durer, but it was hard to tell by peripheral vision.

He turned away and swaggered on down the hall, humming "Me and My Shadow." The echo started again.

Now, Rod was mildly gregarious; he didn't really mind company. But it was a safe bet that he wasn't going to learn very much with Durer on his tail with a saltshaker. Ergo, he had to figure some way to lose his emaciated companion. This would not be easy, since Durer almost surely knew the castle very thoroughly, while Rod knew it not at all.

But the ninth cross-corridor seemed as though it would do nicely for the purpose—it was unlit. Strange, Rod mused; the other halls had all had a torch every several paces. But this was as dark as Carlsbad before the tourists came; it also had a thick carpet of dust, with not a single footprint in evidence. Cobwebs hung thick from the ceiling; trickles of moisture ran down the walls, watering patches of moss.

But the darkness was the main feature. He would leave a nice trail in the dust, but the darkness offered a chance of ducking into a room or side-hall; also, Durer couldn't very well pretend he just happened to be going the same way.

Rod turned into the corridor, sneezing in the cloud of dust he kicked up, and heard a sudden scurrying behind him. A claw grabbed his shoulder; he turned to face the little man, ready to swing.

Yes, it was Durer, glaring at Rod with his usual look of hate and suspicion. "What seek you in there?" he croaked.

Rod brushed the bony hand off his shoulder and leaned back against the wall. "Nothing in particular; just looking around. I don't have much of anything to do at the moment, unless you'd like a song?"

"Damn your caterwauling!" Durer snapped. "And you may leave off your pretense of minstrelsy; I know you for what you are."

"Oh?" Rod raised an eyebrow. "How'd you know I'm not really a minstrel?"

"I heard you sing. Now off to your chamber, if you've no business elsewhere!"

Rod scratched his nose. "Ah—about that chamber," he said delicately. "My companion seems to have found, uh, a better use for it than sleeping. So I'm, ah, sort of locked out, if you follow me."

"Corruption!" the councillor hissed.

"No, I suspect Big Tom goes about it in a very healthy manner. And since I have no place to stay at the moment, I thought none would mind my wandering about."

Durer glared at him, a look like a laser beam. Then, very reluctantly, he backed off a pace or two.

"True," he said. "There are no secrets here for you to pry out."

Rod managed to limit his laughter to a mild convulsion in the depths of his belly.

"But did you not know," the scarecrow continued, "that this is the haunted quarter?"

Rod's eyebrows shot up. "You don't say." He tugged at his lower lip, eyeing Durer judiciously. "You seem to know the castle pretty well."

Durer's eyes snapped like a high-voltage arc. "Any in this castle could tell you that. But I am Durer, councilor to the Duke of Loguire! It is my place to know the castle well—as it is not yours!"

But Rod had turned away, looking down the dark hallway. "You know," he mused, "I've never seen a ghost before…"

"None have, and lived to tell of it! To enter there is the act of a fool!"

Rod turned, smiling cheerfully. "Well, I'm qualified. Besides, a meeting with a ghost would make a good ballad."

The little man stared; then a contemptuous smile twisted into his face. He began to chuckle, sounding strangely like ball bearings rolling over corrugated iron. "Go then, fool! I should have seen 'twould be no matter whether you went there or not."

Rod grinned, shrugged, and stepped into the black corridor.

"A moment!" Durer called.

Rod sighed and turned. "What do you want now?"

"Before you go to your death," said Durer, his eyes feverishly bright, "tell me: what are you?"

A chill ran down Rod's back. The little man had seen through his cover.

He leaned against the wall, radiating boredom. "A minstrel, of course. What else would I be?

"Nay, fool! Do you think me so blind? You are a spy!"

Rod's hand crept to his dagger-hilt. It was balanced for throwing.

"A spy from the House of Clovis!" Durer howled.

Rod's hand relaxed; he let out a breath that he hadn't known he'd been holding. "Guess again, little man."

Durer scowled. "Not from the House? But then… Nay, you are their spy! Even now you will not admit to it!"

A synapse spat in Rod's brain.

He leaned back against the wall, folding his arms, grinning. "Why, what interest have you in the House of Clovis, good councillor? And why would Clovis wish to know of your doings here?"

"Nay!" Durer hissed, his eyes widening. "Fool, do you think I would answer such… Aie! Curse my old mind, not to have thought it! You are a spy from the Queen!"

Rod stepped away from the wall, loosening the dagger in its sheath. He didn't particularly care if Durer knew Catharine had sent him; but he did want an answer. "I asked you a question," he said mildly.

Terror welled up in the little man's eyes. He leaped back against the far wall. "Hold! At my call a score of soldiers come!"

Rod gave him a look that was somewhere between a sneer and a smile. "That won't do you much good if you're dead by the time they get here." He gestured toward the dark corridor. "Also, I'd probably be gone by the time they arrive."

The little man stared, horrified, and began to tremble.

But the little bastard had guts, Rod had to give him that. His voice broke like a cicada in autumn, but he kept talking.

"It might be…it just might be that it is even as you say, that you are not of Clovis! And if you come from the Queen, why, then, you are welcome among us!"

Rod half-turned his head, giving the little man a measuring, sidewise look.

"I will tell all that you wish to know!" The councillor's hands came up in pathetic eagerness. A strange light came into his eyes. "Aye, all will I tell you, even to the day that we march on the Queen's capital! Then you may tell her, and she can march south to meet us halfway! Even this will I tell you!"

He leaped forward, hands clawing. "Only come out from the hallway! If you come from the Queen, I would not have you die!"

Rod's face turned to stone. "No. You've got something hidden in there, and I've got a strange notion it might be more important than the date set for your rebellion. I think I'll just have a look." He turned back into the dusty hallway.

Durer ran after him a few steps, almost wailing. "No, no! You must carry word North! Come away, you fool!"

Rod kept walking.

Behind him, the little man screeched in anger. "Go, then, to your death! There is no need for you! I will take word to the North myself! Die, like the fool that you are!"

His shrill, hysterical laughter echoed and slapped from the walls, beating into Rod's ears as he strode into the moldering, lightless depths of the Castle Loguire.

He turned a corner, and the laugh died away. The faint torchlight from the main hall died with it; here the darkness was complete.

Rod walked through it, chewing at the inside of his cheek. Obviously, the little man really expected him to die… which was strange, since he had tried to keep Rod from going in. Which meant he'd really wanted Rod to carry word of the rebellion back to Catharine. But why did he want to doublecross the rebels?

Unless it was a triple-cross, somehow…

Then, too, he obviously had something hidden back in these corridors, and might be afraid Rod would find it and somehow manage to come out alive.

However, he expected Rod to die, which meant automated defenses surrounding Durer's Big Secret…

Unless, of course…

Rod stopped, suddenly realizing he didn't know the way out. He had a hazy recollection of having turned several corners while he'd been pondering; but he couldn't remember which corners, or how many, or which way he'd turned.

He noticed that his voice shook just a trifle when he murmured "Fess."

"Yes, Rod," the calm voice behind his ear answered instantly. It was vastly reassuring.

"Fess, I'm in the haunted part of the castle."

"Haunted?"

"It has that reputation, yes."

There was a pause; then the robot said, "Rod, an analysis of your voice patterns indicates mild fear. Surely you do not believe in ghosts."

"No, I don't. But I just remembered, Fess—I didn't believe in elves, either. Or banshees. Or—"

"Elves," Fess replied evenly, "are a myth."