The Warlock in Spite of Himself - Warlock 01 (4 page)

'Usurpation derives its support from the upper classes, Rod. No, this is a proletarian revolution - a prelude to a totalitarian government.'

Rod pursed his lips. 'Would you say there was evidence of outside intervention from a more advanced society? I mean, proletarian revolutions aren't usually found in this kind of culture, are they?'

'Rarely, Rod, and the propaganda is rudimentary when they do occur. Persuasion in a medieval society never refers to basic rights; the concept is alien to the culture. The probability of intervention is quite strong.. ..'

Rod's lips pulled back in a savage grin. 'Well, old mechanism, it looks like we've come to the right place to set up shop.'

At the uphill edge of the town, they came on a rambling, two-storied structure built around three sides of a torch lit courtyard. A timber palisade with a gate closed the fourth side. A party of laughing, welldressed young men sauntered out of the gate; Rod caught a snatch of drunken song. Tableware rattled, and voices called for meat and ale.

'I take it we've found one of the better inns.'

'I would say that was a warranted assumption, Rod.' Rod leaned back in the saddle. 'Looks like a good place to spend the night. Is garlic sausage possible in this culture, Fess?'

The robot shuddered. 'Rod, you have the most unearthly tastes!'

'Make way, make way!' a voice trumpeted behind him. Turning, Rod saw a party of soldiers, cavalry, trotting toward him. Behind them rolled a gilded, richly-carved carriage.

A herald rode in front of the soldiers. 'Stand aside from the road, fellow I' he called. 'The Queen's coach passes!'

'Queen!' Rod's eyebrows shot up. 'Yes, yes! By all means, let's stand aside!'

He nudged Fess with his knee. The horse whirled off the road and jockeyed for a position on the shoulder that would give Rod a good look at the royal party.

The curtains on the coach were half drawn, but there was looking space. A lantern cast a warm yellow glow inside the coach, affording Rod a brief glimpse as the coach spun by.

A slender, frail form wrapped in a dark, hooded traveling cloak; a pale, small-boned face framed with blonde, almost platinum hair; large, dark eyes; and small, very red lips drawn up in a pout. And young, very young - scarcely past childhood, Rod thought. She sat ramrod straight, looking very fragile but also very determined

- and, somehow, forlorn, with the hostile, chip-on-the-shoulder attitude that so often goes with fear and loneliness. Rod stared after the retreating party.

'Rod.'

Rod started, shook his head, and realized that the coach had been out of sight for a while.

He glowered at the back of the horse's head. 'What is it, Fess?'

'I wondered if you'd fallen asleep.' The black head turned to Rod, the great eyes laughing gently.

'No.' Rod twisted, looking back at the turn where the coach had disappeared.

Fess schooled his voice to patience. 'The Dream again, Rod?'

Rod scowled. 'I thought robots didn't have emotions.'

'No. But we do have an innate dislike of a lack of that quality which has often been termed common sense.'

Rod threw him a sour smile. 'And, of course, an appreciation for that quality called irony, since it's basically logical. And irony implies-'

'-a sense of humor, yes. And you must admit, Rod, that there is something innately humorous in a man's chasing an object of his own invention over half a galaxy.'

'Oh yeah, it's a million yuks, sure. But isn't that the difference between a man and a robot, Fess?'

'What? The ability to form imaginary constructions?'

'No, the ability to get hung up on them. Well, let's see if we can't find you a quiet stall where you can chew your data in peace.'

Fess turned and trotted through the inn-yard gate. A hostler came running from the stables as Rod dismounted. Rod tossed him the reins, said, 'Don't give him too much water,' and strolled into the big common room.

Rod hadn't known that rooms could be smoky without tobacco. Obviously, chimney-building was numbered among the underdeveloped sciences on this planet.

The customers didn't seem to mind, though. The room was filled with laughter, coarse jokes, and coarser voices in loud conversation. The great room was taken up by twenty or so large, round tables; there were several smaller tables, occupied by people whose dress marked them above the common (but not high enough to be staying at the castle). Lighting consisted of pine torches, which added to the atmosphere; tallow candles, dripping nicely on the guests; and a huge fireplace, fit to roast an ox, which was exactly what it was doing at the moment. A small horde of boys and stocky peasant girls kept a steady stream of food and drink passing between the tables and the kitchen; many of them displayed considerable skill at broken-field running. A large balding man with an apron tied around his ample middle burst out of the kitchen with a great smoking platter - the landlord, at a guess. Business was good tonight.

The man looked up, saw Rod, took in the gold and scarlet doublet, sword and dagger, the general air of authority, the well-filled purse - most especially the purse - and shoved the platter at the nearest serving girl. He bustled up to Rod, rubbing his hands on his apron.

'And how may I serve you, good master?'

'With a tankard of ale, a steak as thick as both your thumbs, and a table alone.' Rod smiled as he said it.

The innkeeper stared, his lips forming a round 0 - Rod had apparently done something out of the ordinary.

Then the old man's eyes took on a calculating look, one that Rod had seen before; it was usually accompanied by a remark to the waiter, sotto voce, 'Soft touch. Soak him for all he's worth.'

Rod had smiled.

He should have known better.

Some things can be undone, though. Rod let his smile droop into a scowl.

'Well, what are you waiting for?' he barked. 'Be quick about it, or I'll dine on a slice off your backside!'

The landlord jumped, then cringed, bowing rapidly. 'But of course, m'lord, of course! Quickly it will be, good master; yes, quickly indeed!' He turned away.

Rod's hand clamped onto his shoulder. 'The table,' he reminded. The landlord gulped and bobbed his head, led Rod to a table beside an upright log that served as a pillar, and scurried away - cursing under his breath, no doubt.

Rod returned the courtesy, but enlarged the object to include all that the landlord stood for, namely the mercenary ways of mankind. And, of course, wound up cursing himself for having catered to Mammon by getting tough.

But what could he do? SCENT agents were supposed to remain inconspicuous, and a softhearted medieval bourgeois was a contradiction in terms.

But when the landlord said quickly, he meant it. The steak and ale appeared almost before Rod had sat down. The landlord stood by rubbing his hands on his apron and looking very worried. Waiting for Rod to accept the cooking, probably.

Rod opened his mouth to reassure the man, and stopped with a word not quite past his larynx. His nose twitched; a slow grin spread over his face. He looked up at the landlord.

'Do I smell garlic sausage?'

'Oh yes, your worship!' The landlord started bobbing again. 'Garlic sausage it is, your worship, and very fine garlic sausage too, if I may say so. If your worship would care for some. . .?'

'My worship would,' said Rod, 'and presto allegro, sirrah.' The landlord shied, reminding Rod of Fess regarding a syllogism, and ran. Now, what was that all about? Rod wondered. Must have been something he said. And he'd been rather proud of that sirrah. ... He sampled the steak, and had just washed it down when a plate of sausage thunked! onto the table.

'Very good,' said Rod, 'and the steak is acceptable.'

The landlord's face broke into a grin of relief; he turned to go, then turned back.

'Well, what is it?' Rod asked around a mouthful of sausage. The landlord was twisting his hands in his apron again. 'Beg pardon, my master, but. . .' His lips twisted too, then the words burst out. 'Art a warlock, m'master?'

'Who, me? A warlock? Ridiculous!' For emphasis, Rod jabbed his table knife in the landlord's general direction. The huge belly shrank in amazingly; then it bolted, taking its owner along. Now where did he get the idea I was a warlock? Rod mused as he chewed a mouthful of steak.

Never had a better steak, he decided. Must be the smoke. Wonder what wood they're using?

Must have been the presto allegro bit. Thought they were magic words, probably....

Well, they had worked wonders.

Rod took a bite of sausage and a swig of ale.

Him, a warlock? Never! He might be a second son of a second son, but he wasn't that desperate.

Besides, being a warlock involved signing a contract in blood, and Rod bad no blood to spare. He kept losing it in the oddest places.. He drained his tankard, set it down with a thump. The landlord materialized with a jug and poured him a refill. Rod started a smile of thanks, remembered his station, and changed the smile to a sneer. He fumbled in his purse, felt the irregular shape of a gold nugget - acceptable currency in a medieval society - remembered the quickness of the house to gyp the generous, and passed over the' nugget in favor of a sliver of silver.

The landlord stared at the small white bar in the palm of his hand, his eyes making a valiant attempt to turn into hemispheres. He made a gargling sound, stuttered elaborate thanks, and scurried away. Rod bit his lip in annoyance. Apparently even so small a chunk of silver was enough to excite comment here.

The touch of anger dissipated quickly, though; a pound or two of beef in the belly did tend to make the world look better. Rod threw his legs out in the aisle, stretched, and slumped backward in the chair, picking his teeth with the table knife.

Something was strangely wrong in this common room. The happy were a little too professional about it - voices a shade too loud, laughter a trifle strained, with a dark echo. The glum, on the other hand, were really glum; their brown studies were paneled in walnut. Fear.

Take that pair at three o'clock on the third table from the right, now

- they were awfully earnest about whatever it was they were bashing over. Rod gave his ring a surreptitious nudge and pointed it at the twosome.

'But such meetings do no good if the Queen is continually sending her soldiers against us!'

''Tis true, Adam, 'tis true; she won't hear us, for, when all's said and done, she won't let us close enough to speak.'

'Why, then, she must be forced to listen!'

'Aye, but what good would that do? Her nobles would not let her give what we demand.'

Adam slammed his open hand on the table. 'But we've a right to be free without being thieves and beggars! The debtors' prisons must end, and the taxes with them!'

'Aye, and so must the cutting off of an ear for the theft of a loaf of bread.' He rubbed the side of his head, with a hangdog look on his face. 'Yet she hath contrived to do summat for us...

'Aye, this setting-up of her own judges now! The great lords will no longer give each their justice, by style and taste.'

'The nobles will not bear it, and that thou knowest. The judges will not stand long.' One-Ear's face was grim; he traced circles on the wet tabletop.

'Nay, the noblemen will stand for naught that the Queen designs!' Adam plunged his knife into the tabletop. 'Will not the Loguire see that?'

'Nay, speak not against the Loguire!' One-Ear's face darkened. 'If

'twere not for him, we would still be a ragtag horde, with no common purpose! Speak not against Loguire, Adam, for without him, we would not have the brass to sit in this inn, where the Queen's soldiers are but guests!'

'Oh, aye, aye, he pulled us together and made men of us thieves. Yet now he holds our new manhood in check; he seeks to keep us from fighting for that which is ours!'

One-Ear's mouth turned down tight at the corners. 'Thou hast hearkened too much to the idle and envious chatter of the Mocker, Adam!'

'Yet fight we must, mark my words!' Adam cried, clenching his fist.

'Blood must be shed ere we come to our own. Blood must answer for blood, and 'tis blood the nobles have ta'en from-'

Something huge slammed into Rod, knocking him back against the table, filling his head with the smell of sweat and onions and cheap wine. Rod braced an arm against the table and shoved with his shoulder. The heavy form swayed away with a whuff! of breath. Rod drew his dagger and thumbed the signet ring to off.

The man loomed over him, looking eight feet tall and wide as a wagon.

'Here now!' he growled. 'Why doncha look where I'm going at?'

Rod's knife twisted, gleaming light into the man's eyes. 'Stand away, friend,' he said softly. 'Leave an honest man to his ale.'

'An honest man, is it!' The big peasant guffawed. 'A sojer, callin'

hisself an honest man!' His roaring laughter was echoed from the tables. On an off bet, Rod decided, strangers weren't popular here. The laughter stopped quite suddenly. 'Nay, put down your plaything,' said the big man, suddenly sober, 'and I'll show you an honest villager can outfight a sojer.'

A prickle ran down Rod's spine as be realized it was a put-up job. The landlord had advised the big ox of the whereabouts of a heavy purse....

'I've no quarrel with you,' Rod muttered. He realized it was the worst thing he could have said almost before the words were off his tongue. The big man leered, gloating. 'No quarrel, he says now. He throws hisself in the path of a poor staggering man so's he can't help but ran into him. But, "No quarrel," sez he, when he's had a look at Big Tom!'

A huge, meaty hand buried itself in the cloth at Rod's throat, pulling him to his feet. 'Nay, I'll show you a quarrel,' Big Tom snarled. Rod's right hand lashed out, chopping into the man's elbow, then bouncing away. The big man's hand loosened and fell, temporarily numbed. Big Tom stared at his hand, a look of betrayal. Rod pressed his lips together, tucked his knife into the sheath. He stepped back, knees flexed, rubbed his right fist in his left palm. The peasant was big, but he probably knew nothing of boxing. Life came back into Tom's hand, and with it, pain. The huge man bellowed in anger, his hand balling into a fist, swinging at Rod in a vast roundhouse swipe that would have annihilated anything it struck. But Rod ducked under and to the side and, as the fist went by him, reached up behind Tom's shoulder and gave a solid push to add to the momentum of the swing.