The Warlock in Spite of Himself

"Sidearm." Rod eyed the robot as if doubting his sanity. "I'm supposed to wear it?"

"Certainly, Rod. At least, if you're planning to adopt one of your usual covers."

Rod gave a sign appropriate to a Christian martyr and pulled the doublet from the saddlebag. He wriggled into it and belted the rapier to his right side.

"No, no, Rod! Belt it to your left side. You have to cross-draw it."

"The things I go through for the sake of democracy…" Rod belted the rapier to his left hip. "Fess, has it ever occurred to you that I might be a fanatic?"

"Certainly, Rod. A classic case of sublimation."

"I asked for an opinion, not an analysis," the man growled. He looked down at his costume. "Hey! Not bad, not bad at all!" He threw his shoulders back, lifted his chin, and strutted. The gold and scarlet doublet fairly glowed in the moonlight. "How do you like it, Fess?"

"You cut quite a figure, Rod." There was, somehow, a tone of quiet amusement in the robot's voice.

Rod frowned. "Needs a cape to top it off, though."

"In the saddlebag, Rod."

"Think of everything, don't you?" Rod rummaged in the saddlebag, shook out a voluminous cloak of the same electric blue as his uniform tights.

"The chain passes under the left armpit and around the right-hand side of the neck, Rod."

Rod fastened the cloak in place and faced into the wind, the cloak streaming back from his broad shoulders.

"There, now! Ain't I a picture, though?"

"Like a plate from a Shakespeare text, Rod."

"Flattery will get you a double ration of oil." Rod swung into the saddle. "Head for the nearest town, Fess. I want to show off my new finery."

"You forgot to seed the crater, Rod."

"What? Oh! Yeah." Rod pulled a small bag from the right-hand saddlebag and sprinkled its content over the circle of raw earth. "There! Give it a light rainstorm and two days to grow, and you won't be able to tell it from the rest of the meadow. Let's hope nobody comes this way for two days, though…"

The horse's head jerked up, ears pricked forward.

"What's the matter, Fess?"

"Listen," the robot replied.

Rod scowled and closed his eyes.

Distant, blown on the wind, came youthful shouts and gay laughter.

"Sounds like a bunch of kids having a party."

"It's coming closer," Fess said softly.

Rod shut his eyes and listened again. The sound was growing louder…

He turned to the northeast, the direction the sound seemed to be coming from, and scanned the horizon. There were only the three moons in the sky.

A shadow drifted across one of the moons. Three more followed it.

The laughter was much louder now.

"About seventy-five miles per hour," Fess murmured.

"What?"

"Seventy-five miles per hour. That's the speed at which they seem to be approaching."

"Hmmm." Rod chewed at his lower lip. "Fess, how long since we landed?"

"Almost two hours, Rod."

Something streaked by overhead.

Rod looked up. "Ah, Fess?"

"Yes, Rod."

"They're flying, Fess."

There was a pause.

"Rod, I must ask you to be logical. A culture like this couldn't possibly have evolved air travel yet."

"They haven't. They're flying."

Another pause.

"The people themselves, Rod?"

"That's right." Rod's voice held a note of resignation. "Though I'll admit that one who just flew over us seemed to be riding a broomstick. Not too bad-looking, either. Matter of fact, she was stacked like a Las Vegas poker deck… Fess?"

The horse's legs were locked rigid, its head swinging gently between its legs.

"Oh, hell!" Rod growled. "Not again!"

He reached down under the saddlehorn and reset the circuit breaker. Slowly, the horse raised its head and shook it several times. Rod caught the reins and led the horse away.

"Whaddappend, RRRawwwd?"

"You had a seizure, Fess. Now, whatever you do, don't whinny. That airborne bacchanalia is coming our way, and there's an off chance they might be out to investigate the shooting star. Therefore, we are heading for the tall timber-and quietly , if you please."

Once under the trees at the edge of the meadow, Rod looked back to check on the flying flotilla.

The youngsters were milling about in the sky half a mile away, emitting joyful shrieks and shouts of welcome. The wind tossed Rod an intelligible phrase or two.

"Rejoice, my children! 'Tis Lady Gwen!"

"Hast thou, then, come at last to be mother to our coven, Gwendylon?"

"Thy beauty hath but waxed, sweet Gwendylon! How dost thou?"

"Not yet robbing cradles, Randal…"

"Sounds like the housemother dropping in on a party at the Witches' College," Rod grunted. "Sober, Fess?"

"Clearheaded, at least," the robot acknowledged, "and a new concept accepted in my basic programming." /

"Oh." Rod pursed his lips. "My observation is confirmed?"

"Thoroughly. They are flying."

The aerial sock-hop seemed to have rediscovered its original purpose. They swooped toward the meadows with shouts and gales of laughter, hovered over the ring of newly-turned earth, and dropped one by one to form a circle about it.

"Well, not too many doubts about what they're here for, is there?" Rod sat on the ground, tailor-fashion, and leaned back against Fess's forelegs. "Nothing to do but wait, I guess." He twisted the signet on his ring ninety degrees, pointed it at the gathering. "Relay, Fess."

The signet ring now functioned as a very powerful, very directional microphone; its signal was relayed through Fess to the earphone behind Rod's ear.

"Ought we to tell the Queen of this?"

"Nay, 'twould fash her unduly."

Rod frowned. "Can you make anything out of it, Fess?"

"Only that it's Elizabethan English, Rod."

"That," said Rod, "is why SCENT always sends a man with a robot. All right, let's start with the obvious: the language confirms that this is the Emigre's colony."

"Well, of course," Fess muttered, somewhat piqued.

"Now, now, old symbiote, no griping. I know you don't consider the obvious worth reporting; but overlooking obvious facts does sometimes lead to overlooking secrets hidden right out in plain sight, doesn't it?"

"Well…"

"Right. So. They mentioned a Queen. Therefore, the government is a monarchy, as we suspected. This teenage in-group referred to themselves as a coven; therefore they consider themselves witches… Considering their form of locomotion, I'm inclined to agree. But…"

He left the but hanging for a few minutes. Fess picked up his ears.

"They also spoke of telling the Queen. Therefore, they must have access to the royal ear. What's this, Fess? Royal approval of witchcraft?"

"Not necessarily," said Fess judiciously. "An applicable precedent would be the case of King Saul and the Witch of Endor…"

"But chances are they've got an in at court."

"Rod, you are jumping to conclusions."

"No, just coming up with a brilliant flash of insight."

"That," saidFess, "is why SCENT always sends a robot with a human."

"Touche. But they also said that telling the Queen would 'fash her unduly.' What's fash mean, Fess?"

"To cause anxiety, Rod."

"Urn. This Queen just might be the excitable type, then."

" Might be, yes."

Music struck up in the field—Scottish bagpipes playing the accompaniment to an old Gypsy tune. The young folk were dancing on the cleared earth, and several feet above it.

"Bavarian peasant dance," Fess murmured.

" 'Where the ends of the earth all meet,' " Rod quoted, stretching his legs out straight. "An agglomerate culture, carefully combining all the worst Old Earth had to offer."

"An unfair judment, Rod."

Rod raised an eyebrow. "You like bagpipes?"

He folded his arms and let his chin rest on his sternum, leaving Fess the sleepless to watch for anything significant.

The robot watched for a couple of hours, patiently chewing his data. When the music faded and died, Fess planted a hoof on Rod's hip.

"Gnorf!" said Rod, and was instantly wide awake, as is the wont of secret agents.

"The party's over, Rod."

The young folk were leaping into the air, banking away to the northeast.

One broomstick shot off at right angles to the main body; a boyish figure shot out after it.

"Do thou not be so long estranged from us again, Gwendylon."

"Randal, if thou wert a mouse, thou wouldst woo oliphants! Farewell, and see to it from now thou payest court to wenches only six years thy elder!"

The broomstick streaked straight toward Rod, climbed over the trees and was gone.

"Mram, yes!" Rod licked his lips. "Definitely a great build on that girl. And the way she talks, she's a wee bit older than these birdbrains…"

"I had thought you were above petty conquest by now, Rod."

"Which is a nice way of saying she wouldn't have anything to do with me. Well, even if I haven't got the buying power, I can still window-shop."

The junior coven sailed over the horizon; their laughter faded away.

"Well, that's that." Rod gathered his feet under him. "The party's over, and we're none the wiser." He rose to his feet. "Well, at least we're still a secret; nobody knows there's a spaceship under that circle of earth."

"Nay, not so," chuckled a pixie voice.

Rod froze, turned his head, stared.

There, among the roots of an old oak, stood a man, broad-shouldered, grinning, and all of twelve inches tall. He was clad in doublet and hose in varying shades of brown, and had very white teeth and a general air of mischief.

"The King of the Elves shall be apprised of your presence, Lord Warlock," said the apparition, chuckling.

Rod lunged.

But the little man was gone, leaving only a chortle behind him.

Rod stood staring, listening to the wind commenting to the oak leaves and the last faint snicker dying away among the oak roots.

"Fess," he said. "Fess, did you see that?"

There was no answer.

Rod frowned, turning. "Fess? Fess!"

The robot's head swung gently between its fetlocks.

"Oh, hell!"

A deep-toned bell was proclaiming the advent of nine o'clock somewhere in the large, ramshackle town that was, as near as Rod and Fess could figure from speed and bearing, the juvenile witches' home base. In view of their remark about the Queen, Rod had hopes the town would turn out to be the capital of the island.

"Only a guess, of course," he added hurriedly.

"Of course," Fess murmured. The robot voice gave the distinct impression of a patient sigh.

"On a more immediate level, what name should I go by in this culture?"

"Why not Rodney d'Armand VII? This is one of the few cases where your natural name is appropriate."

Rod shook his head. "Too pretentious. My forebears never did get over their aristocratic aspirations."

"They were aristocrats, Rod."

"Yeah, but so was everybody else in the planet, Fess, except the robots. And they'd been in the family so long they had a right to claim some of the honors."

"It was honor enough to—"

"Later," Rod cut him off. Fess had a standardized sermon on the noblesse oblige tradition of the Maxima robots, which he would gladly deliver at the drop of anything resembling a cue. "There's a small problem of a name, remember?"

"If you insist." Fess was disgruntled. "Mercenary soldier, again?"

"Yes. It gives me an excuse to travel."

Fess winced. "You could pose as a wandering minstrel…"

Rod shook his head. "Minstrels are supposed to be up on the current news. Might not be a bad idea to pick up a harp, though—especially if the ruler's a woman. Songs can get you places where swords can't…"