The Warlock in Spite of Himself wisoh-2 Read online

  Rod would have liked to say that it was a strong face, but it tended to soften remarkably when/if a girl smiled at it. Dogs and children had the same effect, with a great deal more frequency.

  He was a man with a Dream (There had been a Dream Girl once, but she was now one with his callow youth.)—Dream of one unified Galactic government (democratic, of course). Interstellar communications were still too slow for a true democratic federation; the DDT was actually a loose confederation of worlds, more of a debating society and service organization than anything else.

  But adequate communication methods would come along some day, Rod was sure of that, and when they did, the stars would be ready. He would see to that.

  "Well, let's be about our business, Fess. No telling when someone might wander by and spot us." Rod swung up and into the air lock, through and into the cabin again. He went to the plate in the wall, released the catches. Inside was a control panel; above this was a white metal sphere with a dull finish, about the size of a basketball. A massive cable grew out of the top of the sphere and connected to the wall of the shop.

  Rod unscrewed the connection, released the friction clamp that held the sphere in place, and carefully lifted it out.

  "Easy," Fess's voice said from the earphone implanted in the bone behind Rod's right ear. "I'm fragile, you know."

  "A little confidence, please," Rod muttered. The microphone in his jawbone carried his words to Fess. "I haven't dropped you yet, have I?"

  "Yet," echoed the robot.

  Rod cradled the robot "brain" in the crook of one arm, leaving one arm free to negotiate the air lock. Outside again, he pressed a stud in the side of the ship. A large door lifted from the side of the pseudo-asteroid. Inside, a great black horse hung from shock webbing, head between its forelegs, eyes closed.

  Rod pressed a button; a crane extended from the cargo space. The horse swung out on the crane, was lowered till its hooves touched the ground. Rod twisted the saddlehorn, and a panel in the horse's side slid open.

  Rod placed the brain inside the panel, tightened the clamp and the connections, then twisted the saddlehorn back; the panel slid shut. Slowly the horse raised its head, wiggled its ears, blinked twice, gave a tentative whinny.

  "All as it should be," said the voice behind Rod's ear. The horse champed at the bit. "If you'll let me out of this cat's cradle, I'll check the motor circuits."

  Rod grinned and freed the webbing. The horse reared up, pawing the air, then sprang into a gallop. Rod watched the robot run, taking a good look at his surroundings in the process.

  The asteroid-ship had landed in the center of a meadow, shaggy with summer grass, ringed by oak, hickory, maple, and ash. It was night, but the meadow was flooded with the light of three moons.

  The robot cantered back toward Rod, reared to a halt before him. Forehooves thudded on the ground; the great indigo eyes turned to look at Rod, the ears pricked forward.

  "I'm fit," Fess reported.

  Rod grinned again. "No sight like a running horse."

  "What, none?"

  "Well, almost none. C'mon, let's get the ship buried."

  Rod pressed studs on the side of the ship; the cargo hatch closed, the air lock sealed itself. The ship began to revolve, slowly at first, then faster and faster as it sank into the ground. Soon there was only a crater surrounded by a ring-wall of loam, and the roof of the asteroid curving three feet below.

  Rod pulled a camp shovel from Fess's saddlebags, unfolded it, and bent to his task. The horse joined in, flashing out with its heels at the ring-wall. In ten minutes the wall had been reduced to six inch height; there was a large mound of earth in the center, twenty feet across and two feet high.

  "Stand back." Rod drew his dagger, twisted the hilt 180 degrees, pointed the haft at the earth-mound. A red light lanced out; the loam glowed cherry red, melted, and flowed.

  Rod fanned the beam in a slow arc over the whole of the filled-in crater till the soil had melted down a foot below ground level. He shoveled the rest of the ring-wall into the hole, making a slight mound, but the next rain would take care of that.

  "Well, that's it." Rod wiped his brow.

  "Not quite."

  Rod hunched his shoulders; there was a sinking feeling in his belly.

  "You have still to assume clothing appropriate to this society and period, Rod."

  Rod squeezed his eyes shut.

  "I took the precaution of packing a doublet in my lefthand saddlebag while you were testing the grass, Rod."

  "Look," Rod argued, "my uniform will do well enough, won't it?"

  "Skintight trousers and military boots will pass, yes. But a pilot's jacket could not possibly be mistaken for a doublet. Need I say more?"

  "No, I suppose not." Rod sighed. He went to the saddlebag. "The success of the mission comes first, above and before any considerations of personal comfort, dignity, or—hey!" He stared at something long and slender, hanging from the saddle.

  "Hey what, Rod?"

  Rod took the strange object from the saddle—it had a handle on one end, he noticed, and it rattled—and held it up where Fess could see it.

  "What is this?"

  "An Elizabethan rapier, Rod. An antique sidearm, a sort of long knife, designed for both cutting and thrusting."

  "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 followe
d 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, R
od 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…"

  "We go through this every time… Would 'Gal-lowglass' suit you, Rod? It was the Irish term for a mercenary soldier."

  "Gallowglass…" Rod rolled the word over his tongue. "Not bad. That's got some dash to it."

  "Like yourself."

  "Do I detect a touch of irony there? But it is a good, solid word… and it's not exactly what you'd call pretty…"

  "Definitely like yourself," the robot murmured.

  "I daresay it'll do. Rod Gallowglass it is. Whoa!"

  Rod sawed back on the reins, frowning. From someplace ahead of them came the low mutter of a mob.

  Rod frowned. "What's all the commotion?"

  "Rod, may I recommend caution…"

  "Not a bad idea. Gee-up again, but lightly with the hooves, please."

  Fess went at a walk through the narrow moonlit street, sidling up against the weathered wall of a building. He stopped at the corner, thrust his horse's head around the angle.