"The Warlock in Spite of Himself" - читать интересную книгу автора

PART TWO THE WITCH OF LOW ESTATE

Dawn found them in the midst of hayfields, half-mown and dew-laden. Rod looked about him from the top of the rise, looking down on rolling farmland and tidy hedges, with here and there a clump of trees, dark against the rising sun.

"Big Tom!"

Tom turned in the saddle and looked back, then reined in his horse when he saw Rod had halted.

"Breakfast!" Rod called, dismounting. He ledFess off the road to a rock outcrop beneath a thicket of gorse. Tom shrugged and turned his mount.

Rod had the fire laid and kindled by the time Big Tom had hobbled his pony and turned it to graze. The big man stared in amazement as Rod unlimbered a frying pan and coffeepot, then turned away, shaking his head in wonder, and dried a place to sit on a log further down the slope. He sniffed at the scent of frying ham, sighed, and took out a pack of hardtack.

Rod looked up, frowning, and saw Big Tom sitting in wet grass with a biscuit and a skin of ale. He scowled and shouted.

"Hey!"

The shout caught Big Tom in mid-swig; he choked, spluttered, and looked up.

"Eh, master?"

"My food not good enough for you?"

Big Tom stared, open-mouthed.

"Come, on, come on!" Rod waved an arm impatiently. "And bring those biscuits with you; they'll go good fried in hamfat."

Big Tom opened and closed his mouth a few times, then nodded vaguely and stood up.

The water was boiling; Rod pried the lid off the coffeepot and threw in a handful of grounds. He looked up as Big Tom came to the fire, brow furrowed, staring.

Rod's mouth turned down at the corner. "Well, what're you looking at?Never saw a campfire before?"

"Thou bid me eat with my master!"

Rod scowled. "Is that some major miracle? Here, give a drag of that ale-skin, will you? That road gets dusty."

Tom nodded, eyes still fixed on Rod's, and held out the skin. Rod took a swig, looked up, and frowned. "What's the matter? Never saw a man take a drink? What am I, some alien monster?"

Tom's mouth closed; his eyes turned dark and brooding.

Then he grinned, laughed, and sat down on a rock. "Nay, master, nay. Thou'rt a rare good man, and that only. Nay, only that!"

Rod frowned. "Why, what's so rare about me?"

Tom threw two cakes of hardtack into the frying pan and looked up, grinning. "In this country, master, a gentleman does not take food with his servant."

"Oh, that!" Rod waved the objection away. "It's just you and me out here on the road, Big Tom. I don't have to put up with that nonsense."

"Aye," Big Tom chuckled. "A most wonderous rare man, as I said."

"And a fool, eh?" Rod served up two slices of ham on wooden saucers. "Guess we eat with our knives, Tom. Dig in."

They ate in silence, Rod scowling at his plate, Tom leaning back and looking out over the countryside.

They were at the head of a small valley, filled now with the morning mist, a trap for small sunbeams. The sun lurked over the hedges, and the mist was golden.

Tom grinned as he chewed and jerked his thumb toward the valley. " Tis the end of the rainbow, master."

"Hm?" Rod jerked his head up. He smiled sourly; it was, after all, more of a pot of gold then he'd had any right to expect.

Tom gave a rumbling belch and picked at his teeth with his dagger. "A golden mist, master, and mayhap golden girls within it."

Rod swallowed quickly and objected. "Oh, no! No tomcatting on the side of this trip, Big Tom! We've got to get down to the South and get down there fast!"

"Eh, master!" Tom wailed in shocked protest, "what harm another hour or four, eh? Besides"—he sat forward and poked Rod in the ribs, grinning—"I'll wager thou'lt outdo me. What lasses may not a warlock have, mm?… Eh, what's the matter?"

Rod wheezed and pounded his chest. "Just a piece of hardtack having an argument with my gullet. Tom, for the umpteenth penultimate unprintable time, I am not a warlock!"

"Oh, aye, master, to be sure!" Big Tom said with a broad-lipped grin. "And thou mayst be certain thou'rt as poor a liar as thou art an executioner."

Rod frowned. "I haven't killed a man the whole time I've been here!"

"Aye, and this is my meaning."

"Oh." Rod turned and looked out over the fields. "Well, you might as well add lover to that list of things I'm not good at, Tom."

The big man sat forward, frowning, searching Rod's face. "In truth, I think he doth mean it!"

"Be sure that I doth."

Tom sat back, studying his master and tossing his dagger, catching it alternately by the hilt and the point. "Aye, thou speakest aright of thy knowledge." He sat forward, looking into Rod's eyes. "And therefore shall I dare to advise thee."

Rod grinned and gave him a hollow laugh. "All right, advise me. Tell me how it's done."

"Nay." Tom held up a palm. "That much I am sure that you knowest. But it is these farm girls against which I must caution thee, master."

"Oh?"

"Aye. They are—" Tom's face broke into a grin. "Oh, they are excellent, master, though simple. But"—he frowned again—"never give them a trace of a hope."

Rod frowned too. "Why not?"

" 'Twill be thy undoing. Thou mayst love them well, master, once—but once only. Then must thou leave them, right quickly, and never look back."

"Why? I'll be turned into a pillar of salt?"

"Nay, thou'It be turned into a husband. For once given the merest shred of hope, master, these farm girls will stick tighter than leeches, and thou' It never be rid of them."

Rod snorted. "I should have a chance to worry about it! Come on, drink up your coffee and mount up."

They doused the fire and packed up, and rode down into the red-gold mist.

They had gone perhaps three hundred yards when a long-drawn alto voice hailed them.

Rod looked up, tensed and wary.

Two big peasant girls stood with pitchforks at the base of a haystack in one of the fields, laughing and waving.

Big Tom's eyes locked on them with an almost-audible click. "Eh, master! Pretty little mopsies, are they not?"

They were pretty, Rod had to admit—though certainly anything but little. They were both full-hipped and high-breasted, wearing loose low-cut blouses and full skirts, their hair tied in kerchiefs. Their skirts were girded up to their knees, to keep them from the dew on the hay.

They beckoned, their laughter a mocking challenge. One of them set her hands on her hips and executed a slow bump-and-grind.

Big Tom sucked his breath in, his eyes fairly bulging. "Eh, now, master," he pleaded, "are we in so much of a hurry as all that?"

Rod sighed, rolling his eyes up, and shook his head. "Well, I'd hate to see them suffering from neglect, Big Tom. Go ahead."

Tom kicked his horse with a yelp of joy, leaped the ditch, and galloped full tilt into the field. He was out of the saddle before the horse slowed past a trot, catching a girl in each arm, lifting them off the ground and whirling them about.

Rod shook his head slowly, saluted Big Tom and his playmates, and turned away to find a neighboring haystack where he could catnap in peace.

"Rod," said the quiet voice behind his ear.

"Yes, Fess?"

"Your conducts disturbs me, Rod. It's not natural for a healthy young male."

"It's not the first time someone's told me that, Fess. But I'm methodical; I can't keep two girls on my mind at once."

He found another haystack just over the next hedge. Rod parked in the shadow and unbridled Fess, who began to crop at the hay, to keep up appearances. Rod remounted and jumped from the horse's back to the top of the haystack and wallowed down into the soft, fragrant hay with a blissful sigh. The pungent smell of new-mown hay filled his head, taking him back to his boyhood in the field of his father's manor, during haying time; a real Eden, without any soft, nubile problems to run around creating havoc. Just robots.

He watched the gilt-edged clouds drifting across the turquoise sky, not realizing when he dozed off.

He came wide awake and stayed very still, wondering what had wakened him. He ran through the catalog of sensations that were apt to start the alarm clock ringing in his subconscious.

Somebody was near.

His eyes snapped open, every muscle in his body tensed to fight.

He was looking into a very low-cut bodice.

He raised his eyes from the pleasant pastoral view, a task which required no small amount of willpower, and saw two large sea-green eyes looking into his. They were long-lashed, moist, and looked worried.

Their surroundings came into focus: arched eyebrows, a snub nose sprinkled with freckles, a very wide mouth with full, red lips, all set in a roundish face framed in long, flowing red hair.

The full red lips were pouting, the eyes were troubled.

Rod smiled, yawned, and stretched. "Good morning."

The pouting lips relaxed into a half-smile. "Good morning, fine gentleman."

She was sitting beside him, propped on one hand, looking into his eyes.

"Why do you sleep here alone, sir, when nearby a woman awaits your call?"

It felt as though someone had just poured bitters into Rod's circulatory system; a thrill, and not completely a pleasant one, flooded through him.

He smiled, trying to make it warm. "I thank you, lass, but I'm not feeling gamesome today."

She smiled, but there was still a frown between her eyes. "I thank you for your gentleness, sir; but I scarce can credit your words."

"Why?" Rod frowned. "Is it so impossible that a man shouldn't want a frolic?"

The girl gave a forlorn half of a laugh. "Oh, it might be, milord, but scarce is it likely. Not even with a peasant, and even less with a lord."

"I'm not a lord."

"A gentleman, then. That, surely, thou art. And therefore, surely, thou wouldst never lack interest."

"Oh?" Rod raised an eyebrow. "Why?"

She smiled, sadly. "Why, milord, a peasant might fear forced marriage; but a lord, never."

Rod frowned again and studied the girl's face. He judged her to be a little younger than himself, about twenty-nine or thirty.

And for a peasant girl in this kind of society to be unmarried at thirty… ^

He threw out an arm. "Come here to me, lass."

There was hope, for a moment, in the girl's eyes; but it faded quickly, was replaced by resignation. She fell into the hay beside him with a sigh, rolling onto her side to pillow her head on his shoulder.

Hope, Rod mused, very conscious of her breasts and hips against the side of his body. Hope to be tumbled, and thrown away…

He shuddered; and the girl raised her head, concerned. "Art chilled, milord?"

He turned to her and smiled, a sudden wave of gratitude and tenderness surging up to clog his throat.

He clasped her tight against him, closing his eyes to better savor the touch of her body against his own. An aroma filled his head, not rose-oil or lilac, but simply the salt-sweet scent of a woman.

A pain was ebbing away inside him, he realized, faintly surprised, a pain that he had not known was there till it began to leave him.

She clung to him, fists clenched in the cloth of his doublet, face pressed into the angle of his neck and shoulder.

Then, gradually, he began to relax again, his embrace loosening. He lay very still, letting the focus of his mind widen, open him again to the world around him; faint in the distance he heard birdsong, and the gossip of the wind through the hedges and trees. Somewhere near his head, a cricket chirped in the hay.

Her embrace had loosened with his; her arms and head lay leaden on him now.

He kept his eyes closed, the sun beating down on the lids; he lay in crimson light, "seeing" the world with his ears.

There was a rustle, and her body rose away from his; she had sat up now. She would be looking down at him, hurt aching in her eyes, lower lip trembling, a tear on her cheek.

Pity welled up in him, pity for her and, close behind it, anger at himself; it wasn't her fault that all he wanted just now was peace, not romance.

He opened his eyes, rolling onto his side and frowning up at her.

But there was no hurt in her eyes—only a grave, deep acceptance, and concern.

She raised her fingertips to his cheek, shyly, not quite touching the skin. He caught it, nestling the palm against the line of his jaw, and was amazed at how small her hand was in his own.

He closed his eyes, pressing her hand tighter.

A cow lowed far away; the wind chuckled in the grain.

Her voice was low, and very gentle. "Milord, use me as you will. I ask no more."

I ask no more… . Love, she must have love, if only for a minute, even if desertion came hard on its heels; even if looking back, she must know that it was lust, and not love. Even if it brought only sorrow and pain, she must have love.

He looked into her eyes; they held tears.

He closed his eyes again, and Catharine's face was before him, andTuan's face next to hers. A part of him stood back, aloof, and contemplated the faces; it remarked on how well they looked together, the beautiful princess and the gallant young knight.

Then his own face came up next to Tuan's, and, compare, the aloof part of him murmured, compare.

Rod's hands tightened, and he heard the peasant girl give a little cry of startled pain.

He let go his grip, and looked up at her; and Catharine's face swam next to hers.

He looked on the two of them, the one bent on using him, the other bent on being used by him, and anger suddenly burned in a band across his chest, anger at Catharine for her self-righteousness and determination to bend her world to her will; and at the peasant girl for her mute acceptance and deep resignation, for the depth of her warmth and her gentleness. The band of anger across his chest tightened and tightened, anger at himself for the animal in him, as his fingers bit into her shoulders, and he drew her down in the hay. She gasped with the pain, crying out softly till his lips struck hers, crushing and biting and bruising, his fingers clamped on the points of her jaw, forcing her mouth open and his tongue stabbed hard under hers. His hand groped over her body, fingers jabbing deep into the flesh, lower and lower, gnawing and mauling.

Then her nails dug into his back as her whole body knotted in one spasm of pain. Then she went loose, and her chest heaved under him in one great sob.

Half his anger sublimed into nothingness; the other half turned about and lanced into him, piercing something within him that loosed a tide of remorse.

He rolled to the side, taking his weight off her. His lips were suddenly gentle, warm and pleading; his hands were gentle, caressing slowly, soothingly.

She drew in breath, her body tensing again. Fool, the detached voice within him sneered, Fool! You only hurt her the more!

Ready to turn away from her in shame, he looked up into her eyes… and saw the longing burning naked there, craving and demanding, pulling him down into the maelstrom within her. Her lips parted, moist and full and warm, tugging and yielding, pulling him down and down, into blind, light-flooded depths where there was no sight nor hearing, but only touch upon touch.

Rod levered himself up on one elbow and looked down at the girl, lying naked beside him with only his cloak for a rather inadequate coverlet. It clung to her contours, and Rod let his eyes wander over them, drinking in the sight of her, fixing every feature of her body in his mind. It was a picture he did not want to lose.

He caressed her, gently, very tenderly. She smiled, murmured, closing her eyes and letting her head roll to the side.

Then her eyes opened again; she looked at him sidelong, her lips heavy and languid.

"You have emerald eyes," Rod whispered.

She stretched luxuriously, her smile a little smug, wrapped her arms around his neck, and hauled him down to her, her kisses slow, almost drowsy, and lasting.

Rod looked into her eyes, feeling enormously contented and very much at peace with the world. Hell, the world could go hang!

He raised himself up again, his eyes upon her; then, slowly, he looked away and about them, and the blue of the sky arching overhead… and a mound of clothing to each side.

He looked down again; there was nothing in his world now except her, and he found, vaguely surprised , that he rather liked it that way. The peace within him was vast; he felt completely filled, completely satisfied with the world, with life, at one with them and with God—and with her most of all.

He let his hand linger over the cloaked curve of her breast. She closed her eyes, murmuring; then, as his hand stilled, she looked up at him again. Her smile faded to a ghost; concern stole into her eyes.

She started to say something, stopped, and said instead, almost warily, "Are you well, lord?"

He smiled, his eyes very sober; then he closed them and nodded, slowly.

"Yes. I am very well."

He bent to kiss her again—slowly, almost carefully—then lifted away. "Yes, I am well, most strangely well, more than I have ever been."

The smile lit her face again, briefly; then she turned her eyes away, looking down at her body, then up at him again, her eyes touched with fear.

He clasped her in his arms and rolled onto his back. Her body stiffened a moment, then relaxed; she gave a little cry, half sob and half sigh, and burrowed her head into the hollow of his shoulder and was still.

He looked down at the glory of her hair spread out over his chest. He smiled lazily and let his eyes drift shut.

"Rod." Fess's voice whispered behind his ear, and the world came flooding in again.

Rod tensed, and clicked his teeth once in acknowledgment.

"Big Tom is dressed again, and coming toward your haystack."

Rod sat bolt upright, squinted up at the sun; it was almost to the meridian. Time and distance nagged him again.

"Well, back to the world of the living," he growled, and reached out for his clothes.

"Milord?"

She was smiling regretfully, but her eyes were tight with hurt—a hurt which faded into the deep acceptance and resignation even as he watched.

"The memory of this time will be dear to me, lord," she whispered, clasping the cloak to her breast, her eyes widening.

It was a forlorn plea for reassurance, a reassurance he could not honestly give, for he would never see her again.

It came to him then that she was expecting refusal of any reassurance, expecting him to lash out at her for her temerity in implying that she had some worth, that she was worthy of thanks.

She knew her plea would bring hurt, yet she pled; for a woman lives on love, and this was a woman near thirty in a land where girls married at fifteen. She had already accepted that there was to be no lasting love in her life; she must subsist on the few crumb's she could gather.

His heart went out to her, somewhat impelled by the jab of self-reproach.

So, of course, he told her one of the lies that men tell women only to comfort them, and later realize to be very true.

He kissed her and said, "This was not Life, lass, it was what living is for."

And later, when he mounted his horse and turned back to look at her, with Big Tom beside him waving a cheery farewell to his wench, Rod looked into the girl's eyes again and saw the desperation, the touch of panic at his leaving, the silent, frantic plea for a shred of hope.

A shred, Tom had said, would be too much, but Rod would probably never see this girl again. Not even a spark of hope—just a glimmer. Could that do any hurt?

"Tell me your name, lass."

Only a spark, but it flared in her eyes to a bonfire. "Gwendylon am I called, lord."

And when they had rounded a turn in the road and the girls were lost to sight beyond the hill behind them, Tom sighed and said, "Thou hast done too much, master. Thou shalt never be rid of her now."

There was this to be said for a roll in the hay: it had sapped enough of Big Tom's vitality so that he wasn't singing any more. Probably still humming, to be sure; but he was riding far enough ahead so Rod couldn't hear him.

Rod rode in silence, unable to rid his mind of flaming hair and emerald eyes. So he cursed at the vision, under his breath; but it seemed to his aloof self that the cursing lacked something—vehemence, perhaps. Certainly sincerity. It was, his aloof self accused, a very halfhearted attempt at malediction.

Rod had to admit it was. He was still feeling very much at one with creation. At the moment, he couldn't have been angry with his executioner… And that worried him.

"Fess."

"Yes, Rod?" The voice seemed a little more inside his head than usual.

"Fess, I don't feel right."

The robot paused; then, "How do you feel, Rod?"

There was something about the way Fess had said that… Rod glanced sharply at the pseudo-horse head. "Fess, are you laughing at me?"

"Laughing?"

"Yes, laughing. You heard me. Chuckling in your beard."

"This body is not equipped with a beard."

"Cut the comedy and answer the question."

With something like a sigh, the robot said, "Rod, I must remind you that I am only a machine. I am incapable of emotions… I was merely noting discrepancies, Rod."

"Oh, were you!" Rod growled. "What discrepancies, may I ask?"

"In this instance, the discrepancy between what a man really is and what he wishes to believe of himself."

Rod's upper lip turned under and pressed against his teeth. "Just what do I wish to believe?"

"That you are not emotionally dependent upon this peasant woman."

"Her name is Gwendylon."

"With Gwendylon. With any woman, for that matter. You wish to believe that you are emotionally independent, that you no longer enjoy what you call 'being in love.' "

"I enjoy love very much, thank you!"

"That is a very different thing," the robot murmured, "than being in love."

"Damn it, I wasn't taking about making love!"

"Neither was I."

Rod's lips pressed into a thin white line. "You're talking about emotional intoxication. And if that's what you mean—no, I am not in love. I have no desire to be in love. And if I have any say in the matter, I will never be in love again!"

"Precisely what I said you wished to believe," mused the robot.

Rod ground his teeth and waited for the surge of anger to pass. "Now what's the truth about me?"

"That you are in love."

"Damn it, a man's either in love, or he's not, and he damn well knows which."

"Agreed; but he may not be willing to admit it."

"Look," Rod snapped, "I've been in love before, and I know what it's like. It's… well…"

"Go on," the robot prodded.

"Well, it's like"—Rod lifted his head and looked out at the countryside—"you know the world's there, and you know it's real; but you don't give a damn, 'cause you know for a certainty that you're the center of the world, the most important thing in it."

"Have you felt that way recently?" Fess murmured.

"Well… yes, damn it." Rod's mouth twisted.

"With Catharine?"

Rod stared, and glared at the back of the horse's head. "How the hell would you know?" His eyes narrowed.

"Logic, Rod." The robot's voice had a touch of smugness. "Only logic. And how did you feel while you were with Gwendylon?"

"Oh…" Rod threw his shoulders back, stretching. "Great, Fess. Better than I ever have. The world's clearer, and the day's younger. I feel so healthy and clearheaded I can't believe it. It's just the opposite to how I feel when I'm in love, but I like it."

Rod frowned at the back of Fess's head. "Well?"

The robot plodded on, not answering.

"Cat got your tongue?"

"I am not equipped with a tongue, Rod."

"Don't change the subject."

The horse was silent a moment longer; then, "I was mistaken, Rod. You love, and are loved—but you are not in love."

Rod frowned down at the roadway. "Why not, Fess?"

The robot made a sound like a sigh. "How do the two women differ, Rod?"

"Well…" Rod chewed at the inside of his cheek. "Gwendylon's human. I mean, she's just an ordinary, everyday woman, like I'm an ordinary man."

"But Catharine is more?"

"Ah, she's the kind of woman I tend to put on a pedestal… something to be worshiped, not courted.

"And not loved?" the robot mused. "Rod, of the two women, which is the better human being?"

"Uh… Gwendylon."

"The prosecution," said the robot-horse, "rests."

The demesne of the Loguires was a great, broad plain between the mountains and the sea. The low, rolling mountains stood at the north and east; beach curved in a wide semi-circle in the south; a sheer, hundred foot high cliff face towered in the northwest. The ocean battered at its seaward side; a waterfall poured over the other face into the valley. A long, old river twisted over the plain to the sea.

The plain itself was a patchwork of fields, with here and there a cluster of peasant huts—Loguire's people.

Tom and Rod stood at the verge of one of the mountain forests, where the road from the North fell away to the plain.

Rod turned his head slowly, surveying the demesne. "And where," he said, "is the castle?"

"Why, back of the waterfall, master."

Rod's head jerked around, staring at Tom; then he followed the road with his eyes.

It wound across the plain to the foot of the waterfall; there, where the cliff met the plain, a great gate was carved in the rock, complete with portcullis and a drawbridge over the natural moat formed by an oxbow of the river. The lords of Loguire had honeycombed the cliff for their home.

An exclamation point formed between Rod's eyebrows as they drew together. "Is that a dike to either side of the drawbridge, Big Tom?"

"Aye, master; and there are said to be charges of gunpowder within it."

Rod nodded, slowly. "And the land before the portcullis gate sinks down. So if unwelcome callers come knocking, you blow up the dike, and your front door gets covered with thirty feet of water. Very neat. Then you just sit and wait out the seige. The waterfall gives you plenty of fresh water, so your only worry is food."

"There are said to be gardens within the keep," Big Tom supplied helpfully.

Rod shook his head in silent respect. "So you're completely defended, and stocked for a ten years' siege. This place ever been taken, Tom?"

The big man shook his head. "Never, master." He grinned.

"Wonder if the old boy who built this place was maybe a little bit paranoid…Don't suppose they'd have room in that place for a couple of weary travelers, do you?"

Big Tom pursed his lips. "Aye, master, if they were noblemen. The hospitality of the Loguires is famed.

But for the likes of me, and even yourself, who are no more than a squire, master, that hospitality lies in the cottages."

The sun winked. Rod scowled and peered into the sky. "There's that damn bird again. Doesn't it know we're too big for lunch?" He unlimbered his crossbow and cranked it back to cocked.

"Nay, master." Big Tom put out a hand. "You've lost four bolts on it already.

"I just don't like anything airborne following me, Tom. They're not always what they seem." Tom's brow furrowed at the cryptic statement. Rod tucked the stock into his shoulder. "Besides, I've taken one shot a day at it for the last four days; it's getting to be a habit."

The bow hummed, and the quarrel leaped upward; but the bird sailed up faster. The bolt passed through the place where the bird had been, rose another fifty feet, hit the top of its arc, and began to fall. The bird, fifty feet higher, watched it sink.

Big Tom raised an eyebrow, his mouth quirked up on one side. "You'll never strike it, master. The fowl knows the meaning of a crossbow."

"You'd almost think it does." Rod slung the bow over his shoulder. "What kind of country is that, with elves under every tree and hawks in the sky shadowing you?"

" 'Tis not a hawk, master," Big Tom reproved. " 'Tis an osprey."

Rod shook his head. "It started following us the second day out. What would a fish hawk be doing that far inland?"

"Myself, I cannot say. Thou might ask it, though, master."

"And I wouldn't really be all that surprised if it answered," Rod mused. "Well, it isn't doing us any harm, I suppose, and we've got bigger problems at the moment. We came here to get into that castle. Do you sing, Big Tom?"

Tom did a double take. "Sing, master?"

"Yeah, sing. Or play the bagpipes, or something."

Tom tugged at his lip, frowning. "I can make some manner of noise on a shepherd's flute, and the half dead might put the word music to it. But what folly is this, master?"

"Fool's folly." Rod unstrapped a saddlebag and took out a small harp. "As of now, we're minstrels. Let's hope the cliffdwellers are a little short on music at the moment." He pulled an alto recorder out of the saddlebag and gave it to Tom. "I hope that's enough like your shepherd's flute to do some good."

"Aye, master, very like it. But—"

"Oh, don't worry, they'll let us in. Folks this far away from the capital tend to be out of touch; they're hungry for news and new songs, and minstrels carry both. Do you know "Eddystone Light'?"

"Nay, master."

"Too bad; that's one that alwasy goes over well in a seaport town. Well, no matter, I can teach it to you as we go."

They set off down the road, singing in accidentals unknown to any human mode or scale. This fish hawk screamed and sheered off.

"Bring ye news from the North?" the sentry had asked eagerly; and Rod, recollecting that minstrels were the closest medieval equivalent to journalists, had replied in the affirmative.

Now he and Tom stood before a gathering of twenty-eight noblemen, their wives and attendants, ranging in age from pretty teenage serving maids to the ninety year old Earl of Vallenderie, all with the same eager, hungry glint in their eyes, and Rod without a scrap of news to tell them.

Well, no matter; he'd make it up as he went along. He wouldn't be the first journalist who'd done it.

The crusty old Duke of Loguire sat in a great oaken chair in the midst of the company; he didn't seem to recognize Rod. But Durer did; he stood hunched over Loguire's left shoulder, eyes twisting hate at Rod. But it would have done him no good to expose Rod, and he knew it; Loguire still loved his niece, though he was at odds with her. He would have honored Rod for saving Catharine's life.

It was Loguire who voiced the question for all his people; and Rod, reflecting that the Duke had very personal reasons for wanting news of the House of Clovis, had replied that as yet, all was quiet in the North. Oh, one heard talk and saw signs of the House; but that was talk, and talk only—so far.

Then he and Tom swung into a foot-stamping rendition of "Eddystone Light." The gathering stood in astounded silence a moment; then grins broke out, and hands started clapping the rhythm.

Encouraged, Big Tom picked up both the tempo and the volume; Rod struggled to match him while he scanned the faces of the audience.

The old Duke was trying to look sternly disapproving, and not succeeding too well. A tall young man of about Rod's age stood behind the old man's right shoulder, a grin coming to his lips and a gleam to his eye as he listened to the song, displacing ajgt;rimace of discontent, self-pity, and bitterness. The elder son, Rod guessed, with a host of weaknesses Durer could prey upon.

It was easy to pick out Loguire's vassal lords; all were richly dressed, and accompanied by an even more richly-dressed wire scarecrow of a man: the councillors, Durer's boys.

Rod felt strangely certain that anything Durer proposed would have the unanimous approval of all the Southern lords, with only Loguire dissenting.

And Loguire, of course, had one more vote than all the vassal lords put together. Rod remembered Loguire's unsolicited promise to Catharine: "No harm shall come to the Queen while I live…"

"While I live…"

The performance was literally a howling success; Rod had managed to keep it on a ribald rather than a political level, walking the thin line between the risque and the pornographic. The audience had loved it, Rod decided that the tin ear must be a genetic dominant in Gramarye. He'd noticed, too, that the eyes of all the serving girls had been riveted to himself and Big Tom; he was still trying to understand why. It didn't seem to have done Big Tom's ego any harm, though.

But now and again, one of the councillors had asked a question that could not be put off; and when Rod had answered with rumors that the House of Clovis would rise against the Crown, a frantic, acid joy had burned in their eyes.

That, at least, he understood. The important thing about a revolution is that it begin; you can always take control of it later.

That he understood; but now, with the singing done, as he was going to the loft which had been temporarily assigned to Tom and himself, he was still pondering the look on the faces of the serving maids. When they had looked at Tom, he'd been quite sure what it was; he expected to find the loft fully occupied by the time he arrived, since Big Tom had gone on ahead.

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."

"Uh,Fess…"

"Yes, Rod?"

"I've seen quite a few elves since we landed."

"A fait accompli," the robot admitted reluctantly, "which I am constrained to acknowledge. I have not as yet sufficient data to explain the seeming conflict with known principles."

"You're as bad as a Catholic," Rod growled. "But at least it doesn't give you fits any more?"

"No-o-o." The robot was thoughtful. "The initial datum caused an overload; but that datum has since been assimilated."

"As long as you're sure there's a rational explanation."

"Precisely."

"So you're capable of handling the practical matters?"

"Quite capable."

"Because you're sure you'll be able to fit it into the Laws of Science eventually."

"Very perceptive, Rod."

"Sounds like a Jesuit," Rod growled. "But the practical matter at hand is that I am scared. And for a very good reason. Fess…"

"Yes, Rod?"

"If elves can exist on this crazy planet, why not ghosts?"

There was another pause; then Fess admitted, "There is no evidence that would directly contradict the hypothesis."

A moan, so deep that Rod could hardly hear it, and so loud that he winced in pain, shook the walls of the hallway.

Rod gasped. "What was that?"

"A complex wave-pattern of low frequency and high amplitude," Fess answered obligingly.

"Thank you, Dr. Slipcam. What caused it?"

"There is as yet insufficient data for—"

The moan came again, and a wraith of mist with hollow black eyes and a black circle of mouth swooped straight at Rod's head, starting as a pinpoint far down the hall and towering over him a second later.

Rod screamed and plastered himself against the wall. Fear knotted his belly, fear slackened his limbs, fear jellied his brain and squeezed at his heart.

Another moan sounded, a half-step above the first; Rod jerked his head to his right. Another ghost loomed over him.

A third moan, and Rod's eyes slapped up; a third specter towered before him.

Three ghosts, towering high about him, ringing him in against the stone wall. Their mouths formed great, lightless O's, cold bony fingers reaching out for him.

Through the moiling panic of his brain fought a single thought: Fess didn't believe in ghosts.

"Ghosts!" Rod screamed. "Ghosts, Fess, ghosts!"

"Ghosts," droned the robot, "are immaterial, even if they did exist. They are manifestations of neither energy nor matter, incapable of causing damage to a material being."

"Tell them! Tell them!" Rod shrieked.

The hand around his heart tightened. He gasped and coughed. Something was mashing his lungs, a steel band around his chest, tightening, tightening… Fear was a physical thing, a looming presence, armed and hating. Fear could paralyze, fear could kill…

"Rod, cover your ears."

Rod tried to obey the robot's order, and couldn't. "Fess!" he screamed. "Fess, I can't move!"

A loud, raucous buzz shook his skull, blotting out the moans. It modulated into monotone words: "C-O-V-E-R YOUR EARS."

And the fear was gone, vanished—or almost gone, at least; reduced to the cold, familiar lump in the pit of the belly. Rod could move again, as easily as he ever had. He put his fingers in his ears. The buzz stopped, and he could hear the ghosts again, their moans dulled and distant through his fingers. The fear rose into his throat again, but it was no longer paralyzing.

"Can you hear them, Rod?"

"Yeah, but it's not so bad now. What'd you do, Fess?"

"Nothing, Rod. Their moans have a harmonic frequency in the subsonic range, capable of inducing fear in members of your species."

"Oh."

"The fear-inducing tone is a beat frequency produced by the simultaneous emission of subsonic harmonics incorporated in the three moans."

"So it takes three of them to scare me?"

"Correct, Rod."

"And they're not really scaring me, just making me feel scared?"

"Again, correct."

"Well, that's a relief. For a minute there I was afraid I'd all of a sudden turned into a full-blown coward."

"All men fear, Rod."

"Yeah, but only a coward lets it stop him."

"That is a redundant statement, Rod."

"Oh, the hell with theory! Pardon me while I put it into practice."

Rod stepped away from the wall, forcing himself to move. He kept walking, right through the ghost in front of him. The moans suddenly ceased; then, with a howl of despair, the ghosts disappeared.

"They're gone," Rod croaked.

"Of course, Rod. Once you have demonstrated their inability to control you, they begin to fear you."

" Ye-e-es," Rod breathed. He set his feet wide apart, jammed his fists on his hips, flung his head back, and grinned. "Okay, spooks! Any doubts about who's boss?"

He stood, listening to the echoes of his voice die away among the empty corridors. A loud voice could be pretty impressive in here.

A mournful, sepulchral voice answered him out of thin air, moaning. "Leave us, mortal. Leave us to the peace of our graves. We harm no one here, in our cold, old halls."

"No one except the people who come in here," Rod snapped. "Them you kill, as you would have killed me, through weight of fear alone."

"Few," mourned the ghost. "Very, very few, mortal man. Only madmen, and fools."

"If you have killed one man here in your halls, you have killed one too many!' Rod rapped back.

"Would you not slay, Man, in defense of your home?"

Rod snorted. "What right have you to these halls?"

Suddenly the ghost was there, towering over him. "I once was Horatio, first Duke Loguire!" it thundered in anger. "I it was built this keep! Have I no right to a poor, cold quarter of its halls?"

Fear lanced Rod's belly; he took a step back, then set his teeth and stepped forward again. "You got a point there," he admitted. "And possession is nine-tenths of the law. But how many did you have to kill to gain possession?"

"None." The ghost sounded very unhappy about it. "All fled in fear."

Rod nodded, revising his estimate of the ghost. Apparently Horatio didn't kill if he could help it. Probably delighted when it became necessary, though…

"I mean you no harm, Horatio." He grinned suddenly, sardonically. "What harm could I do you, even if I wanted to?"

The ghost's head snapped up, empty eyes staring into Rod's. "You know not, mortal?"

"A ghost," Fess's voice said hurriedly behind Rod's ear, "like all supernatural creatures, can be hurt by cold iron or silver, or any medium of good conductivity, though gold is usually regarded as too expensive for such uses."

The ghost loomed larger over Rod, advancing on him.

Rod stepped back, his dagger at the ready. "Hold it right there," he snapped. "Cold iron, remember?"

"Then, too," Fess murmured, "you do know the secret of their power. You could bring in an army with earplugs."

"Then, too," said Rod, "I do know the secret of your power. I could bring in an army with earplugs."

The ghost halted, the corners of its mouth turning down. "I had thought thou hadst said thou knew not."

"I do now. One step backward, if you please."

The ghost reluctantly retreated, groaning, "What phantom stands at your side to advise you?"

Rod's teeth bared in a grin. "A black horse, made of cold iron. It's in the castle stables, but it can talk to me from there."

"A pouka," Horatio growled, "a spirit horse, and one who is a traitor to the world of ghosts."

"No." Rod shook his head grimly. "It's not a spirit at all. I said it was made of cold iron, didn't I?"

The ghost shook its head decisively. "No such thing could exist."

Rod sighed. "There are more things in Heaven and Earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy. But that's beside the point. All that matters to you is that I don't mean any harm here. I'm just looking for something. I'll find it and go. Okay?"

"You are master. Why dost thou ask?" the ghost said bitterly.

"Courtesy," Rod explained. Then a vagrant and vague possibility crossed his mind. "Oh, by the way, I'm a minstrel…"

The ghost's mouth dropped open; then it surged forward, hands grasping hungrily. "Music! Oh, sweet strains of melody! But play for us, Man, and we are thine to command!"

"Hold on a second." Rod held up a hand. "You built these halls, Horatio Loguire, and therefore do I ask of you the boon that I may walk these halls in peace. Grant me this, and I will play for you."

"You may walk, you may walk where you will!" the ghost quavered. "Only play for us, Man!"

Very neat, Rod thought. As good a job of face-saving as he'd ever done. After all, no sense making enemies if you can help it.

He looked up, started, and stared in shock. He was ringed by a solid wall of ghosts, three deep at least, all staring like a starving man in a spaghetti factory.

He swallowed hard and swung his harp around with a silent prayer of thanks that he hadn't been able to leave it in the sleeping-loft.

He touched the strings, and a groan of ecstasy swept through the ghosts like the murmur of distant funeral bells on the midnight wind.

It then occurred to Rod that he was in an excellent bargaining position. "Uh, Lord Horatio, for two songs, will you tell me where the secret passages are?"

"Aye, aye!" the ghost fairly shrieked. "The castle is thine, my demesne, all that I have! The kingdom, if thou wish it! Only play for us, Man! For ten hundreds of years we have heard not a strain of Man's music! But play, and the whole world is thine!"

His fingers started plucking then, and the ghosts shivered like a schoolgirl getting her first kiss.

He gave them "Greensleeves," and "The Drunken Sailor," they being the oldest songs he knew. From there he went on to "The Ghost's High Noon," and "The Unfortunate Miss Bailey." He was about to swing into "GhostRiders in the Sky" when it occurred to him that ghosts might not particularly like songs about ghosts. After all, mortals told spook stories for escapism; and by that yardstick, specters should want songs about humdrum, ordinary, everyday life, something peaceful and comforting, memories of green pastures and babbling brooks, and the lowing herd winding slowly o'er the lee.

So he went through as much of Beethoven's Sixth as he could remember, which was not easy on an Irish harp.

The last strains died away among the hollow halls. The ghosts were silent a moment; then a satiated, regretful sigh passed through them.

Horatio Loguire's great voice spoke quietly at Rod's elbow. "In truth, a most fair roundelay." Then, very carefully: "Let us have another, Man."

Rod shook his head with a sorrowful smile. "The hours of the night crowd down upon us, my lord, and I have much that I must do ere daybreak. Another night I shall return and play for you again; but for this night, I must away."

"Indeed," Horatio nodded, with another mournful sigh. "Well, you have dealt fairly with us, Man, and shown us courtesy without constraint to it. And shall we, for hospitality, be beholden to a guest? Nay; but come within, and I will show you doors to the pathways within the walls of this keep, and tell you of their twists and turnings."

All the ghosts but Horatio disappeared, with the sound of mouse feet running through the autumn leaves. Horatio turned abruptly and fled away before Rod, who dashed after him.

Rod counted his running steps; after fifty, the ghost made a right-angle turn with a fine disregard for inertia and passed through a doorway. Rod made a manful attempt at the inertialess turn, and got away with only a slight skid.

The ghost's voice took on the booming echo of the cavernlike room. "This was a cavern indeed, ready-made by God, lo, many centuries before I came. Loath to begrudge His gifts, I took it for my great banquet hall." The room seethed with the voices of a thousand serpent-echos as the patriarch ghost heaved a vast sigh. "Boisterous and many were the feastings held within this great hall, Man. Beauteous the maidens and valiant the knights." His voice lifted, exulting. "Brilliant with light and music was my banquet hall in that lost day, the tales and sagas older and more vital than the singing of this latter world. Wine flushed the faces of my court, and life beat high through the veins of their temples, filling their ears with its drumming call!

"The call of life…" The spirit's voice faded; its echoes died away among the cold cavern stones, till the great hall stood silent in its enduring midnight.

Somewhere a drop of water fell, shattering the silence into a hundred echoes.

"Gone now, oMan," mourned the ghost. "Gone and dead, while threescore of the sons of my blood have ruled these marches in my stead, and come home to me here in my halls. Gone, all my bold comrades, all my willing maidens—gone, and dust beneath our feet."

Rod's shoulders tightened as though a chill wind had touched him between the shoulder blades. He tried to stand a little more lightly in the dust carpet of the old banquet hall.

"And now!" The ghost's voice hardened in sullen anger. "Now others rule these halls, a race of jackals, hyenas who blaspheme my old comrades by walking in the forms of men."

Rod's ears pricked up. "Uh, how's that again, my lord?" Somebody's stolen this hall from you?"

"Twisted, stunted men!" grated the wraith. "A race of base, ignoble cowards—and the lord of them all stands as councillor to a scion of my line, the Lord Duke Loguire!"

"Durer," Rod breathed.

"Calls he himself by that name" growled the ghost. "Then well is he named, for his heart is hard, and his soul is brittle.

"But mark you, Man," and the ghost turned his cavern eyes on Rod, and the base of Rod's scalp seemed to lift a little away from his skull, for embers burned at the backs of the specter's eyes.

"Mark you well," it intoned, stretching forth a hand, forefinger spearing at Rod, "that the hard and brittle steel will break at one strong blow of iron forged. And so may these evil parodies of humankind be broken by a man that you may call a man!"

The ghost's hand dropped. His shoulders sagged, his head bowed forward. "If," he mourned, "if any live in this dark day who may call themselves men in truth…"

Rod's eyes broke away from the ghost and wandered slowly about the great chamber. There was only blackness, close and thick. He blinked and shook his head, trying to rid himself of the feeling that the darkness was pressing against his eyeballs.

"My Lord Loguire," he began, stopped, and said again, "My Lord Loguire, I may be your lump of iron—I've been called things like that before, anyway. But if I am to break the councillors, I must know as much about them as I can. Therefore tell me: what work do they do within these halls?"

"Witchcraft," growled the ghost, "black witchcraft ! Though the manner of it I scarce could tell…"

"Well, tell me what you can," Rod prodded. "Anything you can spare will be gratefully appreciated."

"Thou speakest like the parish priest a-tithing," the ghost snorted. "Naetheless, I will tell thee what I can. Know, then, Man, that these twisted men have builded themselves a great altar here, of a shining metal, it is not steel, nor silver or gold, nor any metal that I wot of—here in the center of my hall, where once my courtiers danced!"

"Oh." Rod pursed his lips. "Uh, what worship do they make before this altar?"

"What worship?" The ghost's head lifted. "Why, I would warrant, 'tis a sacrifice of themselves; for they step within that evil artifice, and then are gone; then lo!

there they are again, and come forth whole! I can only think they must have given of their life's blood to the dark demon within that shining altar, for they come forth gaunt and shaken, Indeed," he mused, "why otherwise would they be shriveled, little men?"

An uneasy prickle began at the base of Rod's skull and worked its way down his neck to spread out across his shoulders. "I must see this artifice, my lord." He fumbled at his dagger. "Let us have some light!"

"Nay!" The shriek tore at Rod's eardrums. The ghost pulsed, shrinking and growing, its outline wavering, like a candle-flame.

"Would you destroy me, Man, and send me screaming to a darker realm than this?"

Rod massaged the back of his neck, trying to loosen the muscles that had cramped themselves together at the ghost's shriek. "Forgive me, Lord Loguire; I had forgotten, My torch will rest darkened; but you must, then, lead me to this strange altar, that I may see it with my hands."

"Would you worship there, then?" The hollow eyes deepened ominously.

"No, my lord; but I would know this thing, that I may Bring it down in the fullness of time."

The ghost was silent a moment; then it nodded gravely, and glided ahead. "Come."

Rod stumbled forward, hands outstretched, in the ghost's wake, till his palms came up against something hard and cold.

"Beware, Man," rumbled the ghost, "for here lie dark powers."

Hand over hand, Rod felt his way slowly along the metal, glinting softly in the ghost's faint luminescence. Then his right hand fell on nothingness. He groped, found it was a corner, wished the ghost gave off just a little more light, and groped until he had located the outline of a door, or rather a doorway, seven feet high by three wide.

"What lies within, my lord?" he whispered.

"It is a coffin," the ghost moaned; "a metal coffin without a lid, standing on end, and you have found its open side."

Rod wondered what would happen if he stepped into the cubicle; but for some strange reason, he lacked the experimental urge of the true scientist.

He groped across the doorway. A circle pressed into his palm, a circle protruding slightly from the face of the metal block.

Running his fingers over the area to the right of the doorway, he discovered a full array of circles, oblongs, and buttons. The area within their outlines was smoother and less cold than the metal around them— glass, he-decided, or plastic. He had found a control panel.

"MyLordLoguire," he called softly, "come here to me now, I beg of you, for I must have light."

The ghost drifted up beside him; and, by the light of its cold radiance, Rod made out a set of meters, a vernier dial, and a set of color-coded buttons.

The ghost's voice was gentle, almost sympathetic. "Why do you tremble, Man?"

"It's cold," Rod snapped. "Milord Loguire, I'm afraid I have to agree with your opinion of this monstrosity. I don't know what it is, but it ain't pretty."

The ghost rumbled agreement. "And that which is evil to look upon must be doubly so in its action."

"Well, I'm not so sure about that as a basic principle," Rod demurred, "but it might apply in this case. Milord, pay no heed to my mumblings in the next small while; I must, ah, recite an incantation against the malice of this, ah, engine."

He switched to the patois of the galactic deckhand while the ghost scowled in perplexity. "Fess, you there?"

"Yes, Rod."

"Have you been listening in?"

"Certainly, Rod."

"Um. Well, then, uh, this thing's a hunk of metal, rectangular, about, uh, twenty feet long by, say, ten high, and maybe ten wide. Got a little cubicle cut into the front, just about the size of a coffin."

"Appropriate," the robot murmured.

"No kibitzing on the job, please. It's white metal with a dull finish, and colder than hell, right now, anyway. Set of controls next to the cubicle—a long strip-meter with a scale and a slider."

"How is the scale calibrated, Rod?"

"Looks like logarithms, Fess. Arabic numerals. The zero's about three-quarters of the way from left end. Left side of the scale is marked to ten thousand. The right-hand side goes up to, uh, 2,385. Sound like anything you've heard of?"

There was a pause; then the robot answered, "Filed for analysis. Proceed with the description."

Rod ground his teeth; apparently the huge gizmo was as much of an unknown to Fess as it was to himself.

"There's adial with aknob in the middle of it, just to the right of the strip-meter. Reference point at the top, twelve o'clock, negative number to the left, positive to the right. At least, I assume they're numbers. The thing just to the right of the reference point looks something like a French curve, or maybe a paranoid sine wave. Then there's a shape like an upside-down pear. Then there's a pair of circles with a line lying across them.

The last one is a question mark lying on its side; then there's infinity in the six o'clock position. Left-hand side is the same way, only all the symbols are marked with a negative sign."

The robot hummed for a moment; Rod recognized the tune: "SempreLibera" fromLa Traviata. Fess was enjoying himself.

"Filed for analysis and reference, Rod. Proceed with description."

"You don't recognize 'em either, huh?"

"They are totally without precedence in the discipline of mathematics, Rod. But if there is any logic to their derivation, I will decipher them. Proceed."

"Well, there're seven buttons set flush with the surface, in a row just under the strip-meter, color-coded. Colors are—uh—hey, it's the spectrum!"

"So I feared," the robot murmured. "Use of the spectrum in color-coding would indicate arbitrary assignation of values. There is no anomaly in the color sequence?"

"Well, the paint's iridescent…"

"Not quite what I meant by anomaly. Well, it is filed. Proceed."

"Nothing. That's all."

"All? Only three controls?"

"That's all."

The robot was silent a moment.

"What do you make of it, Fess?"

"Well…"the robot's voice was hestitant. "The control system appears to be designed for the layman, Rod…"

"Why? Because it's so simple?"

"Precisely. Beyond that, there is insufficient data for—"

"Oh, make a guess, damn it! Make a wild guess!"

"Rod, guesswork is not within the capabilities of a cybernetic mechanism, involving as it does an exercise of the intuitive—"

"So extrapolate from available data, already!"

He heard La Traviata, as it might have been sung by a wistful audio generator; thenFess said, "The irregularity of the figure 2,385 would seem to indicate the number of a year, Rod, due to its juxtaposition with the figure ten thousand."

"Uh, how's that again?"

"The figure ten thousand," Fess lectured, "has many probable referents, one of which is the period of recorded human history."

"Now, wait a minute,Fess. Written history doesn't go back beyond 2000 B.C.; even I know that."

"And a miracle it is, Rod, considering your resistance to instruction from your earliest ages."

"All right, all right! I was a bad little boy who didn't do his homework! I'm sorry! I repent! Just get on with the extrapolation, will ya?"

He heard the burring of serially closing relays that always reminded him of a chuckle; then Fess said, "Human history prior to the development of written language may be said to have been recorded in the legends and mythology of the vocal tradition, in works such as The Epic of Gilgamesh. The period included by such works may be estimated as having begun nearly four thousand years B.C. This figure, added to the present date, gives us the figure 9,432, which is a sufficiently close approximation to the figure ten thousand to be included as a referent."

"Hmm." Rod gnawed his upper lip. "Well, when you look at it that way, I suppose 2,385 could be a date. But what does that mean?"

"Why, the inference is obvious, Rod."

"So I'm a microcephalic idiot. Spell it out."

The robot hesitated. "Theaccuracy of the inference has a very low probability rating…"

"I asked for guesswork, didn't I? Come on, out with it."

"The artifact, Rod, would by this theory be a vehicle for chronical travel."

Rod stared at the strip-meter. "You mean it's a time machine?"

The slider was shoved all the way to the right, resting over the figure 2,385.

"Rod, you must bear in mind that the theory's probability index—"

"A time machine!" Rod's brain whirled. "Then the little bastards came out of the future!"

"Rod, I have cautioned you before about your tendency to accord an unproved hypothesis the weight of a conviction."

Rod gave his head a quick shake. "Oh, don't worry, Fess. It's just a guess, probably wrong. I'm keeping that in mind."

He turned away from the control panel, eyes glowing. "A time machine! Whaddaya know!"

He became aware of the faint glow to his left again. Horatio Loguire towered over him, brooding.

"What witchcraft is it, Man?"

Rod frowned, turning back toward the machine. "Strange, my lord, both dark and strange. I have some knowledge of the various, ah, magics; but this is one with which I have no acquaintance."

"What then will you do?"

Rod scowled at the floor, looked up with' a bleak smile. "Sleep. And ponder what I have seen."

"And when will you destroy this plaything of Satan?"

"When I am sure," murmured Rod, turning back to look at the machine again; "sure that this is the plague, and not the cure, of this benighted world."

Loguire's eyebrows drew together as his scowl deepened. He seemed almost to swell, looming taller and wider, dwarfing the man before him. Rod had the insane feeling that an ancient locomotive was roaring down on him.

The voice was distant thunder. "I charge you, then, with the exorcising of this demon altar and the rending of its ragtag priests."

The old boy, Rod decided, had definitely slipped a cog.

The ghost's sword flashed out of its scabbard; involuntarily, Rod fell back into defense stance. Then he straightened, cursing himself; a spectral sword could scarcely hurt him.

The sword floated before him, point downward, a glittering cruciform ghost-light.

"Swear now upon the hilt of this my sword, that you shall not rest until you have purged this land of corruption in the seats of power, that you shall exorcise this dark altar and all its minions, and more: that you shall never till you die desert this Isle of Gramarye in the hour of its peril."

Awe slacked Rod's jaw; he stared wide-eyed at the sudden power and majesty of the ghost. An alien, formless dread crept into his belly. The hairs at the nape of his neck lifted with a chill of nameless apprehension.

He shrank back. "My lord, this scarce is necessary. I love the Isle of Gramarye; I would never—"

"Lay your hand upon this hilt and swear!" The words were terse and stern.

Rod fairly cowered, well aware that the oath would bind him to the planet for life. "My lord, are you asking me to take a loyalty oath? I am insulted that you should doubt my—"

"Swear!" the ghost thundered. "Swear! Swear!"

"Art there, old mole?" Rod muttered under his breath, but it didn't work; he had never felt less funny.

He stared at the glowing hilt and the stern face beyond it, fascinated. Almost against his will, he took one step forward, then another; he watched his hand as it closed itself around the hilt. His palm felt nothing within it, no pressure of solid metal; but the air within his fist was so cold it paralyzed the knuckles.

"Now swear to me and mine!" Horatio rumbled.

"Oh, well, Rod thought, it's only words. Besides, I'm an agnostic, aren't I?

"I… swear," he said reluctantly, fairly forcing out the words. Then inspiration glimmered in his brain, and he added easily, "And I further swear that I will not rest until the Queen and all her subjects with one voice shall rule again."

He took his hand from the sword, rather pleased with himself. That additional clause gave him a clear track to the goal of his mission, whether or not Horatio counted democracy among the perils of Gramarye.

The ghost frowned. "Strange," he grumbled, "a most strange oath. Yet from the heart, I cannot doubt, and binding to you."

Of course, Rod admitted to himself, the oath still bound him to Gramarye; but he would bridge that gulf when he came to it.

The sword glided back to its scabbard. The ghost turned away, his voice trailing over his shoulder. "Follow now, and I shall show you to the halls within these halls."

Rod followed until they came to the wall. The ghost pointed a long, bony finger. "Grope until you find a stone that yields to your hand."

Rod reached for the stone the ghost pointed to, and pushed, leaning all his weight against it. The stone groaned and grudgingly gave way, sliding back into the wall. As it fell back, a door ground open with the protest of hinges that were long overdue for an oil break. Cold, dank air fanned Rod's cheek.

"Leave me now," said the ghost, tall and regal beside him, "and go to your duty. Yet remember, Man, your oath; and be assured that if ever you should lay it aside, the first Duke Loguire shall ever stand beside your bed until at last you yield to fear."

"Definitely a comforting thought," Rod mused. He groped his way down the moss-grown steps, humming "You'll Never Walk Alone."

This time, the door to the loft was open, and Tom's deep earthquake snores echoed in the rocky chamber.

Rod paused in the doorway, chewing at his lip. He went back into the hall, pulled a torch from its bracket, and thrust it ahead of him into the room, peering in cautiously, just to be sure there was no one trying to rearouse Tom with a paternity suit in mind.

The wavering light of the torch disclosed the stocky peasant's slumbering form, his cape thrown over his body from the rib cage down. One ursine arm was curled comfortably about the soft, rounded body of a blonde, covered (or uncovered) to the same degree by the cape. Her small, firm breasts were pressed against Tom's side; her head rested on his shoulder, long hair flung in a glorious disarray over her shoulders. One sun-browned arm was flung possessively across the big man's beer-keg chest.

Rod frowned, and stepped over for a closer look. The face was slender, the nose tilted, mouth small, with a smug little smile of content.

It was obviously not the brunette who had accosted Rod in the hallway earlier. He grunted in surprise; so the wench hadn't gone after the servant when she was refused by the master.

Of course, it might be just that she hadn't moved fast enough… But no, Big Tom would've been glad to accommodate both.

He replaced the torch, came back to the loft with a nod of grudging admiration at Big Tom, and without bothering to pull off his doublet, dropped into the heap of hay that served for a bed. It brought back fond memories. He yawned, cushioned his head on his forearm, and drifted slowly toward sleep.

"Man Gallowglass!"

The voice boomed in the little room. Rod jerked bolt upright; the girl screamed, and Big Tom swore.

A ghost towered before them, glowing cold in the dark.

Rod came to his feet, flicking a glance at Tom and the girl. She cowered in abject terror against the bear-hide of his chest. Tom's face had already settled into surly (and probably frightened) defiance.

Rod switched his eyes to the ghost, standing tall above him in plate armor, its face incredibly long and thin. The sword at its hip was a rapier; it was not Horatio Loguire.

Rod reminded himself that he was boss, a fact he had almost forgotten. He repaid the hollow gaze with the haughtiest look he could manage. "What sty were you raised in," he snapped, "that you come before a gentleman with such ill ceremony?"

The cavern eyes widened, the ghost's jaw dropping down inside its mouth. It stared at Rod, taken aback.

The mortal pressed his advantage. "Speak, and with courtesy, or I'll dance on your bones!"

The ghost fairly cringed; Rod had struck pay dirt. Apparently there was some sort of ectoplasmic link between a ghost and its mortal remains. He made a mental note to track down the graves of all relevant ghosts.

"Your pardon, milord," the ghost stammered. "I meant no offense; I only—"

Rod cut him off. "Now that you have disturbed my rest, you may as well speak. What brings you to me?"

"You are summoned—"

Rod interrupted him off again. "None summon me."

"Your pardon, lord." The ghost bowed. "Milord Loguire requests your presence."

Rod glared a moment longer, then caught up his harp with a sigh. "Well, he who deals with spirits must deal at odd hours." He cocked his head. "Horatio Loguire?"

"The same, my lord."

The servant girl gasped.

Rod winced; he had forgotten his audience. His reputation would be all over the castle by noon.

"Well," he said, shouldering his harp, "lead on."

The ghost bowed once more, then turned toward the wall, stretching out a hand.

"Hold it," Rod snapped. Better to leave the secret passages secret. "Go ye to Milord Loguire and tell him I shall come to him presently. You forget that I cannot walk through walls, like yourself."

The ghost turned, frowning. "But, my lord…"

"Go to Milord Loguire!" Rod stormed.

The ghost shrank away. "As you will, my lord," it mumbled hastily, and winked out.

In the sudden darkness, the girl let out her breath in a long, sobbing sigh; and, "How now, master," said Big Tom, his voice very calm, with only a trace of wonder, "do you traffic with spirits now?"

"I do," said Rod, and flung the door open, wondering where Tom had picked up a word like "traffic."

He turned to look at the couple in the light from the doorway, his eyes narrowed and piercing. "If word of this passes beyond this room, there shall be uneasy beds and midnight guest for the both of you."

Big Tom's eyes narrowed, but the girl's widened in alarm.

Good, thought Rod, I've threatened her income. Now I can be sure she'll keep quiet.

He spun on his heel, pulling the door shut behind him. Big Tom would console her, of course, and his master's control over ghosts wouldn't exactly hurt his standing with her.

And, of course, she'd keep her mouth shut.

Which was just as well. For a man who didn't believe in magic, Rod already had altogether too much of a name as a warlock.

He prowled along the hall till he found an empty chamber with access to the hidden tunnel. The granite blocks of one wall had been carved into a bas-relief of an orange flute being burned at the stake; apparently the Loguires took their adopted Irish name rather seriously. Rod found the one coal in the pile of faggots that was cut a little deeper than the rest, and threw all his weight against it, pushing it to his right. The ancient machinery gave a deep-throated grumble, and a trapdoor pivoted up from the stone flags of the floor.

Rod felt for the steps with his toes, reached up for the great iron ring set in the underside of the trapdoor, and pulled it shut as he went down the stairs.

He emerged from the massive door in the great hall with the dark altar. His phantom guide was there before him, waiting.

The ghost bowed. "If you would be so good as to follow me, master…"It turned away, drifting toward the archway into the corridor.

Rod followed, muttering, "A little lighter on the sarcasm there."

They came out into the corridor; and, off to his right, Rod saw the fox-firelight of a cluster of ghosts. They were motionless, their heads bent, looking at something on the floor in the center of their circle. Rod heard a very mortal, and very terrified, whimper.

Horatio looked up at Rod's approach. He glided apart from the knot of ghosts, his cadaverous face knotted with anger.

"My Lord Loguire!" Rod bowed his most courtly, straightened. "Why do you summon me?"

The ghost's brow smoothed a little, somewhat mollified. "Man Gallowglass," it growled, "wherefore did you not tell me you had come accompanied into our halls?"

"Accompanied?" Rod's eyebrows lifted. "Oh, was I, now?"

Loguire's frown deepened again, puzzled. "In truth, there was one who followed after you, as I found upon my outgoing from the chamber with the strange device."

"Excelsior," Rod murmured.

"Gesundheit," said Loguire. "If we are to have a continual passage of mortals here, I shall have to see to the heating of these halls. But anon: I found your servant, as I have said, directly without the chamber."

"Servant?" Rod frowned. "How do you know it was a servant?"

"It was listening at the door. And we may know that it is yours, for when we advanced upon it, it cried your name."

"Oh." Rod scratched at the base of his skull, frowning. "It did, did it?"

"Aye; else would we have slain it. And therefore did I send to you to claim it."

Loguire stepped aside; the circle of ghosts parted, and Rod stepped up. By the cold light of the ghosts, he saw a huddle of misery trying to push itself into the wall. The face was turned away from him. Long black hair flowed down over the shoulders. It wore white blouse, full skirt, and black bodice. The last was very well filled.

"My Lord Loguire," Rod began; his voice cracked; he tried again. "My Lord Loguire, this is scarcely an 'it.' " Then, in the gentlest voice he could manage, "Look at me, wench."

The girl's head jerked up staring, lips parted. Joy and relief flooded her face. "My lord!"

Then her arms were about his neck, so tight he had to fight for breath; and her body was pressed tight against him, head burrowing into his shoulder, her whole frame trembling with sobs. "My lord, O my lord!"

"My Lord!" Rod echoed, prying at her shoulder to get clearance for his larynx.

He recognized her, of course. It was the servant girl who had propositioned him earlier in the evening.

"There, there, now, lass, it's all right," he murmured, rubbing her back. The room seemed to reel about him; he picked out a fixed point of light and stared at it.

It turned out to be Horatio Loguire, face contorted by a touch of disgust. "Take her out from my halls, Man. They are damp enough of their own."

Rod was just noticing how nicely the peasant girl fitted in his arms. He closed his eyes, savoring the warmth and closeness of her. He nodded. "Aye, my lord, that I shall. There, there, now, lass, you mustn't cry." He pulled a handkerchief from his cuff and dabbed at her cheeks with it. "No more tears, there's a darling, you're raising the humidity, and Horatio's got arthritis, if he can just remember where he put his bones—there, that's right."

Her head lay against his chest, sniffling. Her eyes closed, her face relaxed; it almost seemed she was asleep. Rod was swept with a sudden wave of tenderness, aided and abetted by a feeling of towering strength contributed by his protective instinct, and silently cursed the adhesive effect of a damsel in distress.

He looked up into the brooding, empty eyes of the Loguire.

"Thou'rt ensnared, Man."

"Who, me?" Rod scowled and thumped his throat in the carotid region. "Fire seven times tried this."

"And found it wanting," Loguire agreed, "and seven times tried that judgment is. Take her from my halls, Man."

Rod threw him one last look of defiance and turned to the girl. "Come lass," he murmured, "we must go out from this place now."

He swung her up into his arms. She stirred, murmured petulantly, and burrowed her head tight into his shoulder again, her arms tight about his neck.

Babies and women, Rod thought, exasperated; they're worse than quicksand.

"My lord," he said to Loguire, "will you lead me? You may understand that I am somewhat turned about…"

"Aye," said the ghost, and turned away down the hall; but not before Rod had glimpsed a faint, phantom smile on the ghost's face…

He came out into the torchlit corridor, where he had met Durer earlier. The little man was gone; apparently he had assumed the worst and gleefully gone his way.

Rod lowered the girl's feet to the floor. She mur-mured another little inarticulate protest, and pressed her head tighter against him.

Rod tightened his arms about her and brushed his cheek against her hair, drawing out the moment as long as he could.

Then he smiled sadly and lifted his hand to stroke along her jaw, tilting her chin up. The long-lashed eyes were still closed; the full red lips pursed and parted, just a little…

Rod steeled himself and said gently, "You must tell me now, lass. Why did you follow me?"

Her eyes flew open, widened in alarm. Then she bit her lip, bowing her head, and stood away from him, clenching her hands in the cloth of his doublet.

"You must tell me, lass," he repeated softly. "Who sent you to spy on me?"

Her head flew up, eyes wide in dismay. She shook her head. "None, my lord. None, only myself."

"Oh?" Rod smiled sadly. "Of your own doing, you followed me into the haunted quarter?"

She looked down again. "I did not fear the spirits, lord."

Rod pursed his lips in surprise. If it was so, she had uncommon courage for a serving maid. Her nerve hadn't broken till she actually saw the ghosts—and having experienced their moans himself, Rod could understand her breaking then.

Too, she might have followed him in hopes that he might reconsider his decision to sleep alone. Or maybe she'd thought she could help if he got into trouble. Rod smiled at that last thought. But he had to make sure.

"Still, you have not yet told me: why did you follow me?"

She bit her lip again, her face twisting. Rod waited, quietly.

Grudging every word, she said, "I—I feared for you, my lord."

Rod stared; then his mouth twisted into a wry smile. He shook his head, slowly. "Yon feared for me!"

"Aye!" Her head snapped up, eyes flashing. "I had no knowing you were a warlock, and… a man alone, in those halls…"

Her voice trailed off; her eyes dropped again.

Rod heaved a sigh and clasped her to him. She resisted a moment, then yielded.

"Lass, lass!" he murmured. "What could you have done to help me?"

"I—I have some small way with some spirits, lord." Her voice was muffled by the cloth of his tunic. "I had thought…"

Rod scowled. Was communication with the spirit world the norm on this kooky planet?

He rubbed her back gently, pressed his cheek against her hair. She could be lying, of course; but that would imply she was an excellent actress, and she seemed a little too ingenuous for that.

He sighed and tightened his arms about her. She murmured sulkily and pushed her hips against him.

Rod closed his eyes and wiped his mind of all but the touch of her body. She felt good, very good. Almost like that farm wench, Gwendylon…

His eyes snapped open. He stared into the torchlit dusk of the hall, picturing the two faces before him, side by side. Dye the hair black, tilt the eyes a little, straighten the nose…

She had felt him tense; she looked up at him. "What is it, my lord?"

The voice was a little higher-pitched, yes; but it had that same quality.

He looked down at her. The complexion was flaw-less, not a single freckle; but it didn't take that much technology to concoct a makeup base.

He pointed his forefinger between her eyes. "You," he said, "have been deceiving me." His finger came to rest on the tip of her nose.

There was a flicker of disappointment in her eyes; then she was all innocence. "Deceiving you, my lord? I—I know not…"

Rod flicked his finger; the tip of her nose came off. He smiled grimly, nodding. "Cornstarch and water. But you were wrong to straighten it; I like it much better with that little tilt at the end."

He rubbed his fingertip across the corner of her eye; the eye was no longer slanted, and there was a dark smudge on his finger. "Cornstarch and water, and black paint at the eye-fold. Flour mixed with a little burnt umber on the face, and henna in the hair."

The corners of her mouth tightened. Her face blushed with the heat of anger under the paint.

He shook his head, brow puckered. "But why, lass? Your face is so much more beautiful."

He allowed himself a shot of self-satisfaction as the anger in her face melted into tenderness and longing.

She lowered her eyes. "I—I could not leave you, lord."

He closed his eyes, grinding his teeth, and only by main force of will kept himself from squeezing her.

"But…"He stopped, and drew a long hissing breath. "But how did you follow me, lass?"

She looked up, eyes wide in innocence. "In the guise of an osprey, lord."

His eyes snapped open with a near-audible click. He stared. "A witch? You? But…"

"You will not despise me for it, lord?" she said anxiously. "You, who are a warlock?"

His eyes had lost focus. "Huh? Uh—warlock? He shook his head, trying to clear it. "Uh, I mean… No, of course I don't. I mean… well, some of my best friends are… uh…"

"My lord?" She peered into his face. "Art thou well?"

"Who, me? Of course not! No, wait a minute…" He stopped and drew a very, very deep breath. "Now, look. You're a witch. So. Big deal. I'm far more interested in your beauty than your talents."

Embers there, in her eyes, ready to flame if he breathed upon them.

He took another deep breath and called his hormones to order. "Now. Let's get one thing straight."

She brushed up against him, breathing, "Aye, my lord."

"No, no! I didn't mean that!" He took a step back, hands coming up to hold her off. "Look. The only reason you followed me here was because you were afraid I'd get into trouble I couldn't handle, right?"

She paused, the glow dying in her eyes under a chill flow of disappointment. She lowered her eyes. "Aye, my lord."

The way she said it made him think she was leaving an awful lot to implication; but he hurried on to the next point.

"But now you know I'm a warlock. Right?"

"Aye, my lord." He could scarcely hear her.

"So you know I don't have to be afraid of anything, right? So there's no reason to follow me any more, right?"

"Nay, my lord!" Her face whipped up to him, glaring; then her chin lifted a little higher, proud and haughty and stubborn. "Still will I follow you, Rod Gallowglass. There be spells in this world that you wot not of."

And one of the most galling things about her, he decided, was that she was always so damned right. In this crazy, topsy-turvy world, there probably were quite a few "spells" he couldn't even imagine.

But, on the other hand, there seemed to be a few that she didn't know, either. An amateur witch, most likely, and too old to join the union—she must be almost as old as Rod was. In fact, her "witchcraft" seemed to consist of cosmetic skill, the ability to go birdie (he hadn't quite figured that one out yet), and a degree of courage that was totally unexpected in a woman.

So she was right, she had good cause to worry about him, he would still be in danger—but so would she.

No. It wouldn't do any good to tell her she couldn't follow him—she would anyway. And he'd come out of it alive, like he always did, but she'd get murdered in a ditch somewhere along the way. Or maybe she'd handicap him enough so they'd both wind up dead.

His head moved from side to side, tightening into a quick shake. He couldn't let her get killed. He had to shake her somehow—and he knew just how.

His mouth quirked into a sour smile. "It's true, what they say about farm girls: give them a moment of kindness, and you'll never be rid of them. My dear, you have an excellent nuisance rating."

She gasped, stepped away from him, her face twisting into a grimace of pain, the back of her hand coming up to her lips. Her eyes flooded with tears; she bit on her hand, turned, and fled.

He stared at the floor, listening to her sobs fading, feeling the hollowness grow within him.

A fist thundered on the heavy oaken door. Rod struggled up out of the depths of sleep, floundering to sit up in the hay.

Big Tom and his wench lay still, eyes fixed on the door.

Rod grunted and levered himself to his feet. "Don't worry," he growled. "Ghosts don't knock."

"Ho, minstrel!" a gruff beery voice bellowed. "Come forth to my master!"

Rod struggled into his doublet and caught up his harp. He swung open the great oak door, shaking his head to clear the traces of his meager sleep. "You might at least try to be civil at this hour of the damn morning," he growled. "And just who the hell is your master?"

The heavy fist caught him under the ear, sent him sprawling against the wall. He fought down the instant impulse to break the man's neck.

Through a ringing, blurred haze he heard a deep, sadistic chuckle. "Mind how you speak to your betters, gleeman. Tis a good rule for a peasant."

Rod gathered himself, hands braced against the wall, and sized up his persecutor. It was a common foot soldier in leather and mail, both of which needed cleaning, as did the soldier himself. He might have been a commoner, but he had an uncommon case of B .O., and halitosis on top if it, possibly due to the rotting teeth he was exhibiting in a self-satisfied grin.

Rod sighed and straightened, deciding it might be better to play his part; in fact, he'd deserved the blow, for having dropped out of character. The jester in medieval society served as an emotional release, not only through entertainment, but also through providing an outlet for aggressions by becoming their object.

"All right," he said, "I'm schooled. Let's go."

The fist caught him beneath the jaw this time. As he rolled with the blow, he heard the gleeful voice growl, "Thou'rt not schooled enough. To address your betters with master is the rule."

Rod fought the anger down into a cold, calm, cal-culating rage and lunged, his hands chopping out in three quick blows.

"I've got a better rule for a soldier," he informed the crumpled heap at his feet. "First be sure who your betters are. Now take me to your master."

The master, as it turned out, was Loguire. Rod was ushered into a medium-sized room, high-ceilinged and hung with tapestries. Three tall, narrow windows, through which Rod saw sunlight, dawn-colored, broken by the shifting prism of the waterfall. The room was filled with its roaring. But the sound was muted; looking closer, Rod saw the windows were double-paned, and three feet deep. Somebody had remembered some of the old technology.

The walls were hung with tapestries; there was a heavy carpet underfoot. A great oval table took up the center of the chamber. At its head sat Loguire; at his right, his eldest son. Durer sat at his left. The other places were taken up by eight men who had a familiar look. Rod's eyes widened as he recognized them: the Duke Di Medici, the Earl of Romanoff, the Duke Bourbon, and the Prince Hapsburg, and their councillors.

After Loguire, they were the four most powerful of the Great Lords. And if these five were gathered together, might not the other seven be close by?

All were at breakfast, but none of them really seemed to realize they were eating. Take Anselm, there, Loguire's son—he ate like a machine, glaring at his plate, face set like a sculpture of cold fury.

His father sat with head bowed, hands pressed tight to the table before him.

At a guess, Rod decided, there had been a bit of a quarrel here, between father and son, and Loguire had won—but only by ordering his son to shut up.

And Rod had been called in to heal the breach. Oy! The things people expect of performers!

Durer's face was lit with a subterranean glow of vindictive joy; the other councillors had milder versions of the same look. Whatever had happened here had gone the way Durer wanted; in fact, he'd probably instigated it. The man was the perfect catalyst, Rod decided: he never got involved in the reactions he caused.

Loguire looked up at his son, mute appeal in the old, red-rimmed eyes. But Anselm gave him not so much as a glance, and Loguire's face firmed into flint.

Turning, the old man saw Rod. "Minstrel!" he barked. "Why stand you there idle? Give us merriment!"

Durer's head snapped around, his eyes locked on Rod. Alarm chased shock across his face, to be followed by distilled, murderous hate.

Rod smiled cheerfully, bowed, and touched his forelock in salute. Inwardly, he wondered what song could possibly burn away the tensions in this room. He strongly suspected the custom was to clear the air by beating^the minstrel for failing to fulfill his assignment.

He began to play "Matty Groves," figuring his only chance lay in giving them something more gruesome than anything that could possibly have just taken place.

He held off on the words for a few minutes, though, to give him time to study the faces of the four lords. Their looks ranged from ruminative speculation to outright (though veiled) contempt, the last apparently directed at the old Duke. It would seem that Loguire had no virulent supporters here; the balance of opinion seemed to rest with his son.

"Minstrel!"

Rod looked up; it was Anselm who had spoken.

The young man's face seemed to have soured so much it had curdled. "Have you a song for a lad made a fool by a woman, yet doubly a fool, still, to love her?"

"Ha' done!" Loguire snapped; but before Anselm could reply, Rod said, "Many, my lord, of a man still loving a woman who scored him; and in all of them, the lady comes back to him."

"Comes back! "Anselm spat. "Aye, she'd take him back—to hang him in shame at her castle gate!"

The old Duke drew himself to his feet, roaring, "Enough of your slander!"

"Slander!" Anselm's chair crashed over as he rose to meet his father. "And is it slander to say she has spit on the proud name of Loguire, aye, and not once but twice, and will do so again?"

"Nay!" He slammed his fist on the board, turning to rake the lords with his glare. "This vile wench shall learn that she dare not trample the honor of her peers! We must tear her from the seat of power and break her beneath us for ever and aye!"

Loguire's face reddened, his throat swelled with a rebuke; but before he could speak it, Rod murmured, "Nay, my lord, not so harsh. Not a defeat, but a discipline."

He was caught in a crossfire of laser-beam glares from Anselm and Durer; but Loguire boomed "Aye!" with a giant's joy and relief. "He speaks out of place, but his speaking is true! Our young Queen is headstrong; but so is a filly before it is bridled. She must learn her authority is not absolute, that there are checks upon her power; but she is the sovereign, and must not be torn down!"

Anselm made a gurgling sound, his face swollen red and his eyes starting forth from their sockets, choking with rage; then he managed to speak, fairly stuttering in his wrath.

"Nay, now! Now I say nay! A woman for a sovereign? Tis a mockery! And a whoring, arrogant bitch of a—"

"Be still!" Loguire thundered, and even the four great lords shrank away from the savage power of his voice.

As for Anselm, he fairly cowered, staring appalled at the white-bearded giant before him, who almost seemed to swell and tower high as they watched.

Then, slowly, and with greater dignity than Rod had ever seen in a man, the true regal dignity that only comes unaware, Loguire resumed his seat, never taking his eyes from his son. "Retire to your chambers," he said in a cold, still voice. "We shall speak no more of this till the conclave at sunset."

Anselm somehow managed to summon the strength to lift his chin again, a gesture that somehow seemed pompous and ridiculous, and turned on his heel. As he stalked to the door, his eyes fell on Rod. Rage and humiliation boiled up in him, and he swung up his arm to favor the minstrel with a back-handed slap.

"Nay!" barked Loguire, and Anselm froze.

"This man," said the Duke, speaking in centimeters, "has spoken truth. I will not have him maltreated."

Anselm locked glares with his father; then his look faltered, and dropped. He turned away; the door slammed behind him.

"Minstrel," rumbled Loguire, "play!"

Rod let his fingers ramble through "The Old Man of TorTappan" while he reflected.

So there would be a council of war tonight, eh? And the main issue would apparently be constitutional monarchy versus warlordism, though only he and Durer might know it. Well, he knew which side he was on.

He looked again at the straight-backed old Duke, eating token bits of food, lips pressed tight under his flowing white beard, brow locked in a slight scowl, only the slightest hint of his grief showing in the deep, shadowed eyes.

Yes, Rod knew which side he was on.

They met in the great hall, large enough to act as a hangar for a good-sized spaceship, if the Gramarians had known what a spaceship was.

The stone floor was inlaid with Loguire's coat of arms. Great silver sconces supported torches every yard or so along the walls. The ceiling was concave and gilded, with an immense silver chandelier suspended from its center. There were no windows; but that made little difference, since night had fallen.

Loguire sat in a great carved chair at one end of the hall, bunting of his family's colors draped on the wall behind him. His chair was raised on a four foot dais, so that the standing lords must look up at him.

There were a good many of them, not only the twelve greats, but with them a host of counts, barons, and knights, their vassals.

And at each one's elbow stood, or rather hunched, a thin-faced, bony little man, with scant light hair lying close against his scalp.

Rod surveyed the hall; his lips pursed into a soundless whistle. He hadn't realized the councillors were so numerous. There were at least fifty, maybe seventy.

And there might be more outside his field of view. At the moment, he had literal tunnel-vision, and one-eyed at that. The torches that illuminated the hall sat in sconces that were held to the wall with three rough bolts.

But one of the sconces behind Loguire's throne was missing a bolt, and the stone behind it was bored through for an inch, then hollowed out to the depth and width of a man's head. The head, at the moment, was Rod's, where he stood in the clammy darkness of a narrow passage behind the wall.

His peephole afford him an excellent view of the back of Loguire's head, and some nice over-the-shoulder shots of anyone addressing him.

His right hand rested on a lever; if he pushed it down—if it wasn't rusted tight—the stone before him should swing wide to make a handy door. From the looks on the faces of the lords confronting the Duke, it might be very handy.

The man immediately in front of the Duke was An-selm. Bourbon and Di Medici stood at either side of the young man. Durer, of course, stood at Loguire's left hand.

Loguire rose heavily. "We are met," he rumbled. "Here in this room is gathered all the noble blood of Gramarye, the true power of the land." He scanned the faces before him slowly, looking each of his brother Great Lords directly in the eye.

"We are met," he said again," to decide on a fitting rebuke for Catharine the Queen."

The Duke of Bourbon stirred, unfolding his arms and setting his feet a little further apart. He was a great black bear of a man, with shaggy brows and a heap of beard on his chest.

His fists clenched, his mouth tightened. There was something furtive, sheepish, in his stance.

He glared at Loguire. "Nay, good Uncle, you have the wrong of it. We are met to say how we may pull her down, she who would trample upon the honor and the power of our nobles Houses."

Loguire stiffened, his eyes widening in outrage. "Nay!" he choked," there is not cause enough…"

"Cause!" Bourbon straightened, his black beard jumping with his jaw. "She hath taxed our lands more heavily than ever in the traditions of our lore, and wasted the substance upon the filth and dirt of peasants; she sends her judge amongst us every month to hear complaints from all the manor; and now she will appoint her priests within our lands—and we have no cause? She robs us of our rightful rule within our own demesnes, and then upon this all insults us to our faces by hearing the petitions of besotted beggars ere she will bend her ear to ours!"

Di Medici had bent to listen to the slight man at his elbow; now he straightened, smiling faintly, and murmured, "And was it custom, ever, for a monarch to receive petitions from his peasants within his own Great Hall?"

"Never!" thundered Bourbon. "But now our gentle monarch will place the rabble thus before us! And these, my reverend Duke, be but the greatest of her enormities, and the atrocities she hath wreaked upon the custom of the land. And this while she is but a child! What will she do, my lord, when she is grown!"

He paused for breath, then shook his head and growled, "Nay, good coz! We must needs pull her down!"

"Aye," murmured Di Medici, and "Aye," declared the other lords, and "Aye" rolled through the hall and swelled, till the word came full, clamoring from every throat, again and yet again.

"Aye!" and "Aye!" and "Aye!"

"Now I say nay!" Loguire roared above them all.

The hall fell still. Loguire drew himself up to his full height and breadth, looking more a king than duke.

His voice was only a little calmer, falling like the toll of a battle tocsin. "She is the sovereign. Caprcious, aye, and arbitrary, hot and headstrong, aye. But these are faults of youth, of a child who must be taught that there are limits to her power. We must now show her those limits that she has exceeded. That may we do, and nothing more. Our cause does not admit of further action."

"A woman cannot rule wisely," murmured Di Medici's councillor, and Di Medici took it up: "My good and gentle cousin, God did not make Woman wise in ruling."

Bourbon took his cue. "Aye, good Uncle. Why will she give us not a king? Let her marry, if she doth wish this land well-governed."

Rod wondered if Bourbon was a disappointed suitor. There was something vaguely lecherous about him, and nothing at all romantic.

"The rule is hers by right!" Loguire rumbled. "Hers is the blood Plantagenet, the Crown of this land since its birth! What, good nephew, have you so easily forgotten the oath you swore in fealty to that good name?"

"Dynasties grow corrupt," muttered Bourbon's councillor, eyes gleaming.

"Aye!" Bourbon bellowed. "The blood Plantagenet has thinned and soured, good my lord!"

Ah, so! Rod thought. He's not an uncle any more…

"Weakened sore, my lord!" Bourbon ranted. "Weakened till it can no longer sire a man, but only a woman, slip of a girl, with a woman's moods and whims, to reign! The bloodline of Plantagenet is worn and spent; we must have new blood now for our kings!"

"The blood of Bourbon?" Loguire lifted an eyebrow, his smile contemptuous.

Bourbon's face swelled red, eyes bulging. He had begun to splutter when Di Medici's voice interposed itself smoothly.

"Nay, good cousin, not the blood of Bourbon. What throneblood should we have but the noblest in all the South?"

Loguire stared, the blood draining out of his face in shock and horror. "I will not!" he hissed.

"Nay, my lord, and this we knew." Di Medici went oily on. "Yet must we have good blood, and a man of courage and decision, a man of youth who knows what must be done and will not hesitate to do it."

His voice rose. "What king should we have but Anselm, Loguire's son?"

Loguire's head jerked as though he had been slapped. He stared, his face paling to a waxen texture, taking on a grayish hue.

He reached behind him with a palsied hand, groping for his chair, and age draped heavy on his shoulders.

He lowered himself to the edge of the seat, leaning heavily on the arm. His vacant eyes sought out his son, then turned slowly from side to side.

"Villains!" he whispered. "Bloody, bawdy villains! And thus you steal my son…"

Anselm's chin was lifted in defiance, but guilt and fear had hollowed his eyes. "Nay, my lord, I was with them from the first."

Loguire's empty eyes sought him out again. "But thou, even thou…"

His voice strengthened. "But it is, thou more than any. Above all, it is thou!"

Durer now stepped forward, away from Loguire, to take his place by Anselm's side, his smile split into a grin of triumph.

Loguire's eyes gradually focused on him. Their eyes met, and held.

A slight rustle passed through the hall as all the councillors craned for a better view.

"Nay," Loguire whispered, "it was thou…"

He straightened slowly. Then, deliberately and slowly, he looked each Great Lord in the eyes once more. His eyes turned back to Durer.

"You are all of one mind." His voice had gained strength; but it was the strength of bitterness and contempt . "The debate has been before this, has it not? For you are all agreed; each man among you has quarreled with his conscience and won over it."

His voice hardened even more. "What wasp has flown among you, to sting your souls to such accord?"

Durer's eyes snapped fire. His mouth broke open for retort; but Loguire cut him off.

"Thou! Thou from the star! Thou earnest to me five years ago, and I, aged fool, thought 'Well and good'; and as thy bastard, cringing servants crept one by one into our households, still I rejoiced—poor, aged, doddering fool!"

He lifted his eyes to seek out Anselm's. "Anselm, who once I called my son, awake and hear! Beware the man who tastes thy meat, for he it is who best may poison it."

Rod suddenly realized how the meeting would end. The councillors couldn't risk leaving Loguire alive; the old man was still strong and vital, still indomitable. He just might be able to sway the lords to loyalty again. The chance was slight, but definite, and Durer couldn't afford it.

Anselm straightened his shoulders, his face set with rebellion. He clapped a hand to Durer's shoulder, not noticing that the little man's teeth grated as his jaws clamped shut.

"This man I trust," he stated in what might have been intended to be ringing tones. "He was with me from the first, and I welcome his wisdom—as I will welcome yours, if you are with us."

Loguire's eyes narrowed. "Nay," he spat. "Away with you, false child, and your tongue of treachery! I had sooner die than join you."

"You shall have your preference," Durer snapped. "Name the manner of your dying." • Loguire glared, then threw himself to his full height in one lurching motion.

Anselm stared, then reddened. "Be—be still, Durer! He is—is a fool, aye, and a traitor to the land. But he is my father, and none shall touch him!"

Durer's eyebrow shot up. "You would harbor snakes within your bed, my lord? Naetheless, it is the wish of all the nobles, not yours alone, that must be done."

He raised his voice, shouting, "What say you, lords? Shall this man die?"

There was a moment's pause. Rod rested his hand on the door-lever; he had to get Loguire out of there. He could open the door and pull Loguire into the passage before anybody realized what was happening…

But could he close it before they came running? Probably not; there were just too many too close. And Durer, at least, would react very quickly.

If only the hinges and springs were in decent shape! But he had a notion they hadn't been too well maintained in the last few centuries.

A chorus of reluctant "Ayes" rolled through the great hall.

Durer turned to Loguire, bowing his head politely. "The verdict, my lord, is death."

He drew his poniard and started forward.

And the light went out.

Rod stood a moment in the total blackness, stunned. How…?

Then he threw his weight on the lever. He jerked out his dagger as the stone slab groaned open. Act now, understand later.

The grating of the stone door broke the instant of shocked silence. Pandemonium struck as every voice in the hall started shouting—some in anger, some in distress, some calling for a porter to bring a torch.

The noise would be a good cover. Rod lunged out of the passage, groping blindly till he slammed into somebody's rib cage. The Somebody roared and lashed out at him. Rod ducked on general principles, felt the blow skim his hair. He flicked the button on the handle of his dagger and identified Somebody as the Duke Loguire in the flicker of light that stabbed up from the hilt.

A kindling-wood, twisting body struck into Rod with a howl of rage. Rod gasped and stumbled as steel bit into his shoulder. Apparently Durer had seen the flicker of light, too.

The dagger wrenched itself out of Rod's shoulder, he felt the warm welling flow out of the blood, and rolled away.

But the scarecrow was on him again. Rod groped, and by great good luck caught the man's knife-wrist.

But the little man was unbelievably strong. He forced Rod's arm down, down, and Rod felt the dagger's ppint prick his throat.

He tried to force his other hand up to help push the needle-point away. His shoulder screamed pain, but the hand wouldn't budge.

The dagger pricked a fraction of an inch deeper. Rod felt blood rise on his throat, and fear clawed its way up from his guts.

Total, numbing, paralyzing fear—and Rod heard a booming moan.

Durer gasped; the poniard clattered to the floor, and the weight rose off Rod's body.

The whole hall rang with a triple, very low moan, counterpointed with shrieks of terror.

Three huge white forms towered high in the black-ness. At the tops were skeletal faces, their mouths rounded into O's: Horatio and two other erstwhile Lords Loguire, having the time of their afterlives.

Rod forced a shout out of his terror. "Fess! Sixty cycles!"

His head clamored with the raucous buzzing, and the fear evaporated. His light flicked again, found Loguire. Rod sprang, struck him in the midriff. The breath went out of the old lord in a whoof! and he doubled over Rod's shoulder—the good one, fortunately.

Rod turned and ran, stumbling, hoping he was headed in the right direction.

Behind him, Durer was shrieking, "Clap your hands to your ears, fools! Fools! Fools!"

Rod blundered about in the dark, Loguire's weight dragging heavier on his shoulder. He couldn't find the door! And now he heard staccato steps in short, quick bursts—Durer, trying to find Rod by blind chance. And now that he had his earplugs in, Durer would once again be a formidable enemy. Also, Rod couldn't fight with one shoulder shot and the other under Loguire.

Cold air fanned his cheek, and a dim white form brushed past him. "Follow!" boomed Horatio Loguire.

Rod followed.

He ran after Horatio, his good arm out like a broken-field runner. It didn't help; his wounded shoulder slammed against the stone of the doorway and spun him around with a wrench of pain. He gasped, almost dropping Loguire, and stumbled back against the wall of the narrow passage.

He leaned against the wall, breathing horsely.

"Quickly, Man!" boomed Horatio. "The slab! You must close it!"

Rod nodded, gasping, and groped for the lever, hoping Loguire would stay balanced on his shoulder.

His hand found rusty metal. He hauled upward; the door grated shut.

He stood hunched over, just breathing.

After a small eternity, Loguire began to struggle. Rod called up the energy to lower him to the floor. Then, still panting, he looked up at Horatio.

"Many thanks," he wheezed, "for this timely rescue."

Horatio waved away the thanks, coming dangerously close to a smile. "Why, Man, how could you fulfill your oath to me dead?"

"Oh, I dunno." Rod sagged against the wall. "You seem to manage all right. I'd love to know how you pulled the fuse on those torches."

"Pulled… the fuse?" Horatio frowned.

"You know, the trick with the lights."

The ghost's frown deepened. "Was that not your doing?"

Rod stared. Then he raised a hand, palm out. "Now, wait a minute. Wait a minute. Now. You thought I did it… and I thought you did it."

"Aye."

"But, you didn't do it?"

"Nay."

"And I didn't do it."

"It would seem not."

"Then"—Rod gulped—"who… ?"

"Who is this?" Loguire rumbled at Rod's elbow.

A beam of light stabbed through the peephole.

Horatio gave one moan of fear, and winked out.

Rod put his eye to the peephole. The torches were lit again. Durer was on the dais, stabbing the air about him with his dagger and screaming, "Where? Where?"

Rod lifted his head away from the peephole and smiled up at Loguire thinly. "I don't think we ought to stay to find out, my lord. Shall we go?"

He turned to go; but Loguire's fingers dug into his shoulder. Rod gasped. "Please, milord—would you mind—the other shoulder, please…"

"What man was that?" Loguire growled.

"Man?" Rod looked about him. "What man?"

"Why, he who stood before us in white!"

"Oh." Rod scanned the old man's face. Apparently Loguire was still in shock, not quite yet ready to face reality, such as it was. "Uh, just a relative, milord."

"Your relative? Here?"

"No, milord. Yours." He turned away, groping down the passage.

After a moment, Loguire followed.

The light from the peephole fell off after a few yards. Rod groped his way, cursing; it would be pitch dark when they turned the corner to go down the narrow steps.

He turned the corner, fumbling out his dagger—and saw a ball of fox-fire before him. He stared, an eerie tingling nesting at the base of his neck; then, as his eyes adjusted to the dim glow, he made out a face and a body (it was impossible to see them as a unit, since each was worthy of independent study), one arm extended, with the fox-fire sitting on her palm. Her face was tense with worry.

"Gwendylon," he stated.

Her face flooded with relief and joy, but only for a moment; then the light of mischief was in her eyes.

She bobbed in a mock curtsy. "My lord."

"My Aunt Nanny!" he growled. "What the hell are you doing here?"

Her eyes widened in offended innocence. "I followed you, lord."

"No, no, no!" Rod squeezed his eyes shut. "That's not in the script. You were supposed to hate me now. You were supposed to quit following me."

"Never, lord." Her voice was very low.

He looked up to see if she was joking. No luck. Tom's line about farm girls ran through his mind.

"What," he said, nodding at the ball of fox-fire, "have you got there?"

"This?" She glanced at the ball of light. "Only a little spell my mother taught me. 'Twill light us through this maze, lord."

"Light," Rod agreed. "And may I ask how you killed the torches in the great hall?"

She started to answer, then frowned. " 'Tis not quickly said, lord. Have we time?"

Rod studied her face with his lips pursed. "But it was you who did it?"

"Aye, lord."

"Just another little spell that…"

"… my mother taught me, yes." She nodded brightly.

"Oka-a-a-y!" He shrugged. "Why not? Let's go, babe."

He started groping his way down the narrow stairs, wincing as his shoulder brushed the wall.

"My lord!" Gwendylon gasped, her hand darting out to touch his shoulder. "You're hurt!"

He half-turned toward her, lurching against the wall, still groping for the stone; but the full, firm mound that his hand found was anything but granite.

He jerked his hand away. She stared at him a moment, surprised; then her lids drooped, she smiled lazily, and caught up his hand, pulling it toward her. "Milord, you need not—"

"Yegad!" He pulled his hand away, shrinking back against the wall. She swayed toward him, lips parting.

"My dear lady… !"

"I ha' ne'er claimed that title," she murmured, her voice warm, rich, and husky. Her body pressed softly against him.

"Woman, please!" Rod made a valiant attempt to push his way into the stone. "I can't imagine a less aesthetic atmosphere."

"Neither time nor place matter to me, lord, when you are near," she breathed into his ear, and nibbled.

And I thought I had some lines, Rod told himself. "Look," he said, wriggling, "we don't have time, we don't have room…" He gasped and shivered as she caught just exactly the right spot. "Look, baby, just get us out of here, and I'm yours to command!"

She caught her breath and stood just far enough back to look up at him. "Truly, lord?"

"Well,uh…" Rod backpedaled furiously. "For twenty-four hours, anyway."

"That will do," she murmured smugly, with a similar quality in her smile.

He glowered down at her for a moment; then, "Take those canary feathers out of your mouth," he growled, "and get us out here!"

"Aye, lord!" She turned in a swirl of skirts and ran lightly down the mossy steps.

He watched her run for a moment, a gleam coming into his eye.

He caught up to her in three bounds and swung her around to face him.

She looked up in surprise, then turned on the sultry look again. "My lord, we must not delay…"

"This won't take long," he answered, arid pulled her hard against him. Her lips were moist and warm, and parted…

She gave a happy little sigh and pushed him away. "Wek! And what was that for?"

"Promissory note." He grinned.

She giggled, then spun away, tugging him down the hall. "We must hurry!"

He freed his arm and watched her run.

A deep, warm chuckle sounded behind him.

Rod threw Loguire a look of disgust. "Dirty old man," he growled, and ran after Gwen.

The slimy stones of the passage slid by on either side, scarcely three inches from each shoulder. Up a flight of steps, turn, up another flight, the stones greasy and slippery with dripping water, seepage from the lake overhead. Patches of pale moss grew like sores on the walls. Old spiderwebs festooned the low ceiling.

At the top of the twelfth staircase, Rod heard water chuckling somewhere in the distance.

"The inlet to the lake," Gwendylon informed him. "We shall come out along its border." She glanced back over her shoulder. "Your shoulder, Lord Rod?"

"Oh, it'll wait," he growled.

"Doth it yet bleed?"

"No; the doublet seems to have stanched it. Be a hell of a cleaning bill though."

"Hmm." She turned away, hurrying. " 'Twill hold till we come to the riverbank, then. Hurry, lords; we must be away ere they think to search in the stables."

Rod frowned. "Why? Are we coming out in the stableyard?"

"Nay, by the river; but when they look in the stables, they shall see that your black and the Duke's dun stallion have fled."

"You don't say!" He cleared his throat and spoke a little louder than necessary. "And where would my horse be?"

"By the riverbank, Rod," Fess's voice murmured, "with Big Tom and two real nags."

Gwendylon had started to answer, but Rod cut her off. "Yes, yes, they're by the riverbank, I know."

Gwen looked faintly surprised.

"But how," Rod went on, "did Big Tom know we'd be needing horses?"

She frowned at him a moment, then turned away. " 'Twas at my urging, lord. 'Twas but a thought, and could do little harm. I had a seeming they might be needed."

"A seeming," Rod echoed. Was she clairvoyant, too?

"Aye, lord, a seeming." She slowed suddenly. "Walk wary, lords." She stepped carefully over something lying in the passage.

Rod stopped and stared at it.

It was a miniature human skeleton, perhaps eighteen inches long; but the proportions were those of an adult, not a bably. It was green with mold.

He looked up at Gwendylon. "This has not been here so very long," he said. "What is it?"

"One of the Wee Folk, lord." Her mouth hardened. "There ha' been evil spells in this keep of late."

Rod looked up, surprised at the tone of her voice, ignoring Loguire's startled exclamation.

Her face was flint, set in a mold of bitterness. "Poor wee fellow," she murmured. "And we dare not stop to give him burial." She spun about and hurried on.

Rod stepped carefully over the tiny skeleton and followed.

"What manner of spell?" he asked as he caught up to her.

" Twas a sort of… singing… in the air, lord, though not for the ear, but the mind. If you or I tried to move against it, 'twould but stop us," like a wall. But it slew the Wee Folk."

Rod frowned. "A singing, you say?"

"Aye, lord. Yet not of the ear, as I told you."

A force field! But that was impossible. Ask any physicist, he'd tell you…

"How long ago?"

"It was cast five years agone, milord. It lasted no more than a month, for its master took no note of my stopping it, nor did he cast it again."

Rod stopped so fast Loguire stumbled into him. He stared at the gentle, very feminine form hurrying down the passage before him. Then he closed his mouth, swallowed, and followed.

A force field! And five years ago, that was when Durer had shown up…

Rod thought again of the dial on the supposed time machine. Then he stared at Gwen's long, red hair, swinging with her steps.

And she had stopped it? A machine out of the future, and she had stopped it?

He looked at his farm girl with new respect.

"Uh,Gwen, dear…"

"Aye, my lord?" She looked back at him, with a look of pleased surprise and a faint blush.

He frowned. What… ? Oh. He'd called her "Gwen." Also "dear."

"Aye, my lord, exorcised it. But the Wee Folk would not come here more, and I too thought it wise."

Yes, Rod mused, very wise. Durer amp; Co. would not have taken kindly to diminutive spies, and could probably have devised some very unpleasant preventatives. He fastened his eyes on Gwendylon's retreating back, watching her absently; she was just full of surprises, this one…

"We come near, lords!"

Rod jerked his head up and saw a point of dim light ahead. The ball of light in Gwen's hand flickered out.

A moment later, they stepped through the weath-ered, weed-grown mouth of the tunnel into the moonlit night. The river flowed by a few dozen yards away, bordered with willow and cypress. The breeze was chill after the dampness of the tunnel. Loguire shivered.

"Master!" came a soft, low cry, and Big Tom stepped out of the riverbank shadows, leading three horses.

Rod grabbed Gwendylon's hand and ran for the horses… and was brought up sharp by a most un-feminine jerk on his arm—fortunately, the good one.

"Nay, my lord," she said firmly. "First we must see to your arm."

"Which one," Rod grumped, swiveling his good shoulder; it had developed a sudden ache. "Look, we don't have time…"

"It will slow us in our ride soon or late," she said sternly. "Better to tend it now, when it will take but a moment."

Rod sighed and capitulated. He watched her run to the riverbank with a connoisseur's interest and wondered what the strange, pleasant feeling inside him was.

"She hath the right of it," growled Loguire, swinging Rod about to face him. "Clamp your teeth."

He unbuttoned Rod's doublet. Rod's nascent protest was cut off by a gasp of agony as Loguire snapped the doublet open, tearing the scab off in the process.

"Let it bleed freely a moment," Loguire growled, jerking the doublet off the injured shoulder.

Then Gwendylon came up with a handful of some sort of herb and a small wineskin—trust amp;ig Tom to have one on him, Rod thought—and perhaps five minutes later, Rod swung her onto Fess's saddle and leaped up behind her. He dug his heels into Fess's sides. Gwendylon started at the muted clang, and, as Fess sprang out into a gallop, she twisted about to frown, puzzled, at Rod.

"That's why I call him Old Ironsides," Rod explained. "Just relax and lean back against me. It's going to be a long ride."

"But, my lord, I have no need to—"

"There're only three horses, Gwen. Somebody has to ride double. Don't worry, Fess won't even notice the difference."

"But my lord, I—"

"Hush. My Lord Loguire!" he called back over his shoulder. "Lead us, my lord; you know this land best."

Loguire nodded mutely and spurred the big bay; it speeded a little, and passed Rod. Rod followed him, listening to the drum of hooves from Tom's mount behind him.

"Believe me, my lord, there is no need for—"

"Time enough to talk later," Rod growled. "We're leaving a trail as clear as Polaris. We've got to get far enough away fast enough so it won't matter if they follow us."

Gwendylon sighed. "Look behind you, my lord."

Rod turned, and saw a crowd of at least a hundred elves lined along their trail with miniature brooms, sweeping away every trace of their passing—even straightening the grass the horses' hooves had flattened.

Rod squeezed his eyes shut. "No. Oh, no. Why me, Lord? Why me?"

He turned back to Gwendylon. "Gwen, did you call out these… Gwen!"

The saddle was empty. She was gone.

"Gwen!" he shouted, and sawed back on the reins.

"Really, Rod," protested the murmur in his mas-toid, "I must ask that you attempt to control—"

"Gwendylon!" Rod yelled.

A cry like the mew of a seagull drifted down from the sky.

Rod looked up.

The osprey. The same one. He was willing to swear to it. Anyway, he was willing to swear.

The bird plummeted low and circled Rod's head, mewing urgently.

How the hell could she make a fish hawk sound so feminine?

The osprey shot away in front of him, skimming low over the ground after Loguire's horse.

Then it wheeled back, circled his head again, then lit out on the straightaway again.

"Yeah, yeah," Rod growled, "I get the message. I should quit holding up the party. Fess, follow that bird! Fess?Fess!"

The horse stood stiff-legged, head swinging between the fetlocks.

Oh, well, it had been a strain on Rod's neurology, too. He slapped at the reset button.

They rode the moon down, slowing to a trot after the first half-hour. Loguire was slumped in his saddle, almost too exhausted to stay on his horse, by the time the air freshened with dawn.

Rod, frankly, wasn't in much better shape. He reined in beside the Duke. "There're haystacks in that field over there, my lord. We must pause to rest. It will be dawn soon, and we dare not travel by day."

Loguire lifted his head, blinking. "Aye. Aye, most certain." He reined in his horse. Rod and Tom followed suit.

They broke through the hedge at the roadside and trotted for the nearest haystack. Rod dismounted and caught Loguire as he all but fell from his saddle. Big Tom unsaddled the horses and turned them out to the field with a slap on the rump as Rod half-led, half carried the old nobleman to the top of the haystack.

He lowered Loguire into the hay, stepped back, and murmured, "Fess."

"Yes, Rod."

"Get those nags far away from here, someplace where it's not too likely they'll be noticed, will you? And bring them back at sundown."

"I will, Rod."

Rod stood a moment, listening to the fading drum of hooves.

He looked down at Loguire; the old man was out cold: the strain, and the long night ride, to say nothing of how long it had been since he'd slept.

Rod pulled hay over the sleeping lord to hide him. Looking for Big Tom, he saw shins and feet disappearing into the side of the haystack. The saddles and bridles had already disappeared into the hay.

The feet were likewise removed from sight; then there was a protracted rustling, and Tom's ruddy face popped out of his burrow-hole. "Thou must take tha'self from sight right quickly, master. 'Twill be sunrise ere long, and the peasants mustn't see us."

"They won't come near this stack?"

"Nay. This field is far from the keep, so 'twill be some days yet ere they take in this hay."

Rod nodded. He threw up his hands and jumped, sliding down the side of the stack. He turned to see Tom's burrow fast closing. He grinned. "Good night, Big Tom."

"Good morn, master," answered the muffled voice within.

Rod chuckled, shaking his head, as he went to the nearest other haystack. He climbed to the top, mashed the hay down into a bowl, and stretched out with a blissful sigh.

There was a soft mew, and the osprey dropped down beside him into the hay. It fell onto its side, its form fluxed and stretched, andGwendylon was lying beside him.

She smiled mischievously and began to untie the strings of her bodice. "Twenty-four hours, my lord. Sunrise to sunrise. You ha' said you would obey my commands for so long."

"But—but—but…" Rod stared and swallowed as the bodice fell open and was thrown away. The blouse began to inch upward.

He swallowed again and stammered, "Bu-but somebody's got to keep watch!"

"Never fear," she murmured. The blouse went flying. "My friends shall do that."

"Your friends?" In a detached sort of way, Rod noted that in this culture the concept of the brassiere was not yet developed.

Gwendylon was, though.

"Aye, the Wee Folk." Skirt and slippers joined the discard pile with one smooth, sinuous motion.

The setting sun turned the straw blood-gold as Rod's head poked up out of the hay.

He looked around, sniffed the cool, fresh evening breeze, and expelled a sign of great satisfaction.

He felt immensely well.

He thrust the covering of hay aside with one sweep of his arm and reflected that it had been a busy day, as his eyes traveled slowly and lovingly over Gwen's curves.

He leaned forward and touched his lips to hers for a long, deep kiss. He felt her come awake beneath him.

He drew back; her eyes opened halfway. Her lips curved in a slow, sultry smile.

She stretched, slow and feline. Rod was surprised to feel his pulse quicken. His opinion of himself went up a notch.

His opinion of her was altogether too high already. With a twinge of alarm, Rod realized he was regretting that he was a traveling man. He also realized something was gnawing at the base of his conscience. She looked into his eyes and sobered. "What saddens you, lord?"

"Don't you ever worry about being used, Gwen?"

She smiled lazily. "Do you, lord?"

"Well, no…" Rod frowned at his palms. "But that's different. I mean, I'm a man."

"I would never ha' guessed," she murmured, biting his ear lobe in the process.

He grinned and twisted, trying to retaliate; but she wasn't done with his ear yet.

"Men are fools," she murmured between bites. "You are forever saying what is not instead of what is. Be done with the night, and live in the evening while you are in it."

She eyed him then through heavy lids with a somewhat proprietary joy, looking him up and down slowly.

Oh, well, Rod thought, so much for my one attempt to be honorable… "Kamere!" After all, there was only one way to wipe that smug smile off her face.

Big Tom chose just that moment to call, "Master! The sun has set, and we must away."

Rod let go of Gwen with a disgusted growl. "That boy has definitely the greatest sense of timing…" He started pulling on his hose. "Up and away, my dear!"

"Must we, lord?" she said, pouting.

"We must," he answered. "Duty calls—or at least Big Tom. Onward for the glory of France! or something like that…"

Two nights of pushing the pace, alternating canter and walk, brought them back to the capital.

As they came to the bridge over the river that curved around the town, Rod was surprised to see two foot soldiers armed with pikes, torches flaring by their sides in the darkness of the seventh hour of night.

"I shall clear the way," Tom muttered, and spurred his horse ahead of Rod and Loguire. "Stand aside," he called to the guards, "for my masters wish to enter."

The pikes clashed as they crossed, barring the bridge. "Who are your masters?" retorted the one of them. "Be they rebels? Or Queen's men?"

"Rebels?" Tom frowned. "What ha' passed in the Queen's Town while we ha' been to the South?"

"The South?" The guard's eyes narrowed. " Tis the lords of the South that rebel."

"Aye, aye!" Big Tom waved the objection away impatiently. "We ha' been there on the Queen's affairs—spies, i' truth. We bear word that the lords of the South rise in revolt, and the name of the day that they march; but how has this news come here afore us?"

"What is this badinage?" snapped Loguire, riding up with Rod at his side. "Stand aside, sirrahs, that a man of noble blood may enter!"

Th guards' heads swiveled to stare up at Loguire; then both pikes jumped forward, their points scarce an inch from his chest. "Dismount and stand, Milord Duke of Loguire!" The first guard's voice was firm, but deferential. "We must hold you in arrest, on command of her Majesty the Queen."

And the other guard bawled, "Captain! Captain of the Guard!"

Loguire stared in disbelief. Rod nudged his way past the lord and glared at the guard. "Name the crime for which the Queen holds Milord Loguire in arrest!"

The guard's eyes flicked from Loguire's face to Rod's, and back; then, dubiously, he answered, "Most high treason to the body and person of her Majesty the Queen."

Loguire's jaw sagged. Then his lips pressed thin and his brows beetled down, hiding his eyes in caves of shadow. His face seemed bloody in the torchlight.

"I am most sternly loyal to her Majesty the Queen!" he exploded. "Be done with your impertinence and stand aside!"

The sentry swallowed and stood his ground. "It is said Loguire leads the rebels, milord."

"Soldier." Rod spoke quietly, but with the tone of an old field sergeant.

The sentry's eyes jumped to him, but the pike didn't waver.

"You know me," and Rod's voice held the veiled threat of non-com authority.

It had more effect than all Loguire's lofty phrases. The soldier licked his lips and agreed, "Aye, master."

"Who am I?"

"You are Master Gallowglass, late of the Queen's Guard."

"Still of the Queen's Guard," Rod corrected, still softly. "Sent to the South a week agone, to guard Milord Loguire."

Loguire's head jerked up; his eyes blazed at Rod.

"We ha' known that you were gone," the soldier mumbled.

"And now you know why." Rod kept his voice under careful control, managing to imply that the Queen's Own Wrath would fall on the guard's miserable head if he disobeyed. "My Lord Loguire cries sanctuary from his kinswoman and suzerain, her Majesty the Queen. She would be wroth to hear him detained. Let us pass."

The guard took a firmer hold on his pike, gulped, and thrust out his jaw stubbornly. "The order ha' gone forth that Milord Loguire be held in arrest in the Queen's dungeon, good master. More than that I know not."

"Dungeon!" Loguire thundered, beet-red. "Am I a tuppenny footpad, to be crooked from a hedgerow to a dungeon cell? Is it thus that the Queen would acknowledge her vassal? Nay, nay! The blood Plantagenet hath not ebbed so low! Knave, I'll hale thy lying tongue from thy head!"

His hand went to his dagger, and the soldier cowered back; but Rod's hand stayed the nobleman's.

"Calm yourself, milord," he murmured, " Tis Durer hath sent this word here before us. The Queen could not know of your loyalty."

Loguire checked his temper with vast effort, subsiding into a sort of gurgling fury. Rod leaned over and whispered to Tom.

"Tom, can you find someplace to hide the old man where he'll be safe?"

"Aye, master," Tom frowned down at him. "With his son. But why… ?"

"At the House of Clovis?"

"Aye, master. 'Twould take all the Queen's men, and great bombards, to hale them forth from the House."

"I would have said a good strong wind would've done it," Rod muttered, "but I guess it's the best we can do. So…"

"Speak so that all may hear!" shouted a new voice.

"That had a familiar ring," Rod muttered, looking up.

Sir Maris strode forth between the two vastly relieved guardsmen. "Well done, Rod Gallowglass! Thou hast brought a most pernicious rebel to the safekeeping of our stronghold!"

Loguire's narrowed eyes stabbed hate at Rod.

"Do not speak among yourselves," Sir Maris went on; "I forbid it. And hearken well to my orders, for there are twelve good crossbowmen with their quarrels aimed at your hearts."

Loguire sat back in his saddle, tall and proud, his face composed in the granite of fatalism.

"Twelve?" Rod gave Sir Maris a one-sided mocking smile. "Only twelve quarrels, to kill the Loguire? Good Sir Maris, I must think you grow rash in your old age."

The granite mask cracked; Loguire darted a puzzled glance at Rod.

Rod dismounted and stepped out toward the bridge, away from the horses. He shook his head woefully. "Sir Maris, Sir Maris! My good Sir Maris, to think that—"

Suddenly he whirled, with a high, piercing cry, slapping at the horses' chests. "Turn and ride!" he shrieked. "Ride!"

Sir Maris and his men stood frozen with surprise as the horses reared, wheeled about, and sprang away. An instant later, twelve crossbow bolts bit the ground where they had been.

One archer had been a little quicker than his fellows; his bolt struck Fess's metal hindquarters with a clang and ricocheted off into the river.

There was an instant's shocked silence; then the whisper ran through the ranks, swelling with fear: Witch horse! Witch horse!"

"Cloud the trail, Fess," Rod murmured, and the great black horse reared, pawing the air and screaming combat; then it wheeled away and was gone, lost in the night, hoofbeats drumming away.

Rod smiled grimly, sure thatFess's trail would cross and recross Tom and Loguire's till an Italian spaghetti cook wouldn't be able to unsnarl it.

He peered up into the sky. He couldn't see beyond the circle of torchlight, but he thought he heard a faint mewing.

He smiled, again, a little more sincerely this time. Let Catharine try to imprison. Let her try.

Then his smile settled and soured as he turned to face Sir Maris.

The old knight was struggling manfully to look angry; but the fear in his eyes blared as loud as a TV commercial. His voice quavered. "RodGallowglass, you have abetted the escape of a rebel."

Rod stood mute, eyes glittering.

Sir Maris swallowed hard and went on. "For high treason to the body and person of her Majesty Queen of all Gramarye, Rod Gallowglass, in arrest I must hold thee."

Rod inclined his head politely. "You may try."

The soldiers muttered fearfully and drew back. None wished to match arms with the warlock.

Sir Maris' eyes widened in alarm; then he spun and grabbed one of his soldiers by the arm. "You there! Soldier! Soldier!" he hissed. "Run ahead and bear word to the Queen. Say what transpires here."

The soldier bolted, overwhelmingly glad to lose out on the action.

Sir Maris turned back to Rod. "Thou must now come to judgment before the Queen, Master Gallowglass."

Oho! thought Rod. I'm a master now, am I?

"Wilt thou go to her freely?" said Sir Maris apprehensively, "Or must I compel thee?"

Rod fought to keep his shoulders from shaking with laughter at the dread in the old knight's voice. His reputation had decided advantages.

"I will come freely, Sir Maris," he said, stepping forward. "Shall we go?"

Sir Maris' eyes fairly glowed with gratitude.

Abruptly, he sobered. "I would not be in thy place for a castle and dukedom, RodGallowglass. Thou must needs now stand alone before our Queen's tongue."

"Well, yes," Rod agreed. "But then, I've got a few things to say to her too, now haven't I? Let us go then, Sir Maris."

Unfortunately, the march to the castle gave Rod time to mull over Catharine's latest churlish tricks; so by the time they came to the door to her chambers, Rod's jaw was clenched and shivering with rage.

And, equally unfortunately, there was a reception committee, consisting of two sentries, the soldier who had been sent ahead as messenger, and two pikes pointed right at Rod's midriff.

The procession halted. "And what," saidRod, with icy control, "is this supposed to mean?"

The messenger stammered an answer. "Th-the Queen forbids that the w-warlock be brought before her unch-chained."

"Oh." Rod pursed his lips for a moment, then gave the messenger a polite lift of the eyebrow. "I am to be chained?"

Th messenger nodded, on the verge of panic.

The pikes crashed as Rod knocked them away to each side. He grabbed the messenger by the scruff of the neck and threw him into the pack of Guardsmen as they surged forward. Then he lashed out with a kick that wrenched the crude metal hinges from their bolts.

The door crashed down, and he strode in over it, stepping hard.

Catharine, the Mayor of the Queen's Town, and Brom O'Berin shot to their feet from their chairs around a mapladen table.

Brom sprang to bar Rod's path. "What devil possesses you, Rod Gallowglass, that you…"

But Rod was already past him and still moving.

He swung to a stop before the table, glaring across at her, his eyes chips of dry ice.

Catharine stepped back, one hand coming to her throat, disconcerted and afraid.

Brom leaped to the tabletop, thundering, "What means this unseemly intrusion, Rod Gallowglass? Get thee hence, till the Queen shall summon thee!"

"I would prefer not to come before her Majesty in chain—" his words cold and clipped. "And I will not allow that a nobleman of the highest rank be clapped in a common, noisome dungeon with rats and thieves."

"Thou wilt not allow!" Catharine gasped, outraged; and, "Who art thou to allow or not allow?" roared Brom. "Thou hast not even gentle blood!"

"Then I must think that blood is opposed to action," Rod snapped.

He flung the table out of his way and advanced on the Queen. "I had thought you noble." The word was a sneer. "But now I see that you will turn against your very family, even to one near as nigh you as a father! Certes, if you would fight any of your nobles, you must needs fight a kinsman; but your very uncleT^Fie, woman! Were he the foulest murderer, you had ought to receive him with courtesy and the honor due his station. Your finest chamber you should appoint his cell; 'tis but your duty to blood!"

He backed her up against the fireplace, glowering deep into her eyes. "Nay, were he but a murderer, no doubt you would receive him with all honor! But no, he has committed the heinous crime of objecting to your high-handed, arbitrary laws, and the further calumny of maintaining his honor against your calculated insults. He will insist on being accorded the respect due a man during the reign of a vindictive, childish, churlish chit of a girl who hath the title of a Queen but none of the graces, and for this he must needs be damned!"

"Fie, sirrah," she quavered, waxen pale, "that you would speak so to a lady!"

"Lady!" he snorted.

"A lady born!" It was a forlorn, desperate cry. "Will you, too, desert me? Will you speak with the tongue of Clovis?"

"I may speak like a peasant, but you act like one! And now I see why all desert you; for you would whip to scorn Loguire, who alone of all your lords is loyal!"

"Loyal!" she gasped. "He, who leads the rebels?"

"Anselm Loguire leads the rebels! For keeping faith with you, the old Duke is now deposed in favor of his son!"

He smiled bitterly as the horror and guilt dawned in her, then turned his back upon her and stepped away, giving her time to realize the breadth of her betrayal. He heard a long-drawn, shuddering breath behind him; Brom rushed past him to aid his Queen. He heard a chair creak as Brom made her sit.

Looking up, he saw the Lord Mayor staring past him wide-eyed. Rod cleared his throat; the burgher's eyes shifted to him. Rod jerked his head toward the door. The Mayor glanced back at the Queen, hesitating. Rod toyed with the hilt of his dagger. The Mayor saw, blanched, and fled.

Rod turned back to the stricken girl.

Brom, at her elbow, threw Rod a glance of withering hatred and growled, "Ha' done! Have you not cut deep enough?"

"Not yet." Rod's lips thinned. He stepped up to the Queen again, his voice cold. "This good nobleman, the Duke Loguire, your own uncle, out of love for you stood against the whole of your nobility, even his own son!" His voice crackled. Her eyes jerked up to him, filling with dread. "And it is your doing, by your high-handed lawmaking and utter lack of diplomacy, that Anselm turned against his father. He had two sons, and you have robbed him of both!"

She shook her head, faster and faster, lips shaping silent denials.

"Yet still he is loyal!" Rod murmured. "Still he is loyal, though they would have slain him for it—and damn near did!"

She stared in horror.

Rod tapped his shoulder. "This took the dagger that would have pierced his heart. And even at that, 'twas only by a miracle, and the help of one of the witches whom you scarce acknowledge, that I managed to bring him out alive!"

Brom's head snapped up, searching Rod's face for something. Rod frowned, and went on.

"But bring him out I did, at peril of my life, and brought him safely back. And what do I find? He is to be held a prisoner! And not even as befits a royal prisoner! No, not to be treated with due courtesy and deference, but as a common cutpurse, in a lightless, damp, dank dungeon!"

He paused for effect, rather proud of the Tast bit of alliteration.

But he had overdone it a bit; she rallied. Her chin came up, and she sniffled back some tears. "Before my laws, sirrah, all are equal!"

"Yes," Rod agreed, "but that should mean you treat a peasant like a lord, not that you treat a lord like a peasant!"

He leaned over her, his face an inch from hers. "Tell me, Queen: why is it that Catharine must treat all with contempt?"

It was a lie; she didn't treat all with contempt, just the noblemen; but anguish and sudden self-doubt showed in her eyes.

Still she tilted her chin a fraction of an inch higher, and declaimed, "I am the Queen, and all must bow to my power!"

"Oh, they bow, they bow! Until you slap them in the face; then they slap back!"

He turned away, glowering at the hearth. "And I can't say I blame them, when you deprive them of liberty."

Catharine stared. "Liberty? What talk is this, sirrah? I seek to give the serfs greater liberty!"

"Aye, so you seek." Rod smiled sourly. "But how do you go about giving it? You gather all ever more tightly unto you. You deprive them today, that you may give them more later!"

He slammed his fist onto the arm of her chair. "But later will never come, don't you see that? There is too much ill in the land, there will always be another evil to fight, and the Queen's word must be law unquestioned to command the army against the evil."

He drew his hand back slowly, eyes burning. "And so it will never come, the day that you set them free; in your land, none will have liberty, save the Queen."

He locked his hands behind his back and paced the room. "There is only just so much of it to go around, you know—this liberty. If one man is to have more, another must needs have less; for if one is to command, another must obey."

He held his hand before her, slowly tightening it into a fist. "So little by little, you steal it away, till your slightest whim is obeyed. You will have complete freedom, to do whatever you wish, but you alone will be free. There will be none of this liberty left over for your people. All, all, will be gathered unto Catharine."

His hand loosened and clasped her throat lightly. She stared and swallowed, pressing against the back of the chair.

"But a man cannot live without at least a little liberty," he said softly. "They must have it, or die." His hand tightened slowly. "They will rise up against you, made one by their common enemy—you. And then will squeeze their liberties out of you again, slowly, slowly."

Catharine tore at his hand, fighting for breath. Brom leaped to free her, But Rod loosed her first.

"They will hang you from your castle gates," he murmured, "and the nobles will rule in your stead; your work will all be undone. And of this you may be certain, for thus was it ever with tyrants."

Her head jerked up, hurt deep in her eyes. She gasped for breath to speak, shaking her head in ever harder denial.

"No, not I," she finally rasped. "Not that, no! Never a tyrant!"

"Always a tyrant," Rod corrected gently, "from your birth. Always a tyrant to those about you, though you never knew it till now."

He turned away, hands locked behind his back. "But now you know, and know also that you have none to blame but yourself for rebellion. You pushed them and pushed them, harder and harder, your nobles— for the good of your people, you said."

He looked back over his shoulder. "But was it not also to see which among them would dare say you nay? To see which among them were men?"

Contempt curdled her face. "Men!" The word was obscenity. "There are no men in Gramarye any more, only boys, content to be a woman's playpretties!"

He smiled, one-sided. "Oh, there be men still. Men in the South, and men in the House of Clovis—or one, at least, there. Men, my Queen, but gentle men, loving their Queen, and loath to strike at her."

Her lids lowered, the contempt playing over her lips in a smile. "It is as I have said: there are no men in Gramarye more."

"They are men," Rod answered, very quietly, "and they march north to prove it."

She stared.

Then slowly sat back. "Well, then, they march north, and I shall meet them on Breden Plain. Yet still there is none among them I would call man. Beasts, every one."

"Oh, you shall meet them." Rod gave her a syrupy, mocking smile. "And what shall you use for an army? And who will command it?"

"I will command," she replied hautily, "I and Brom. And there be five hundred of the Queen's Guard, and seven hundred of the Queen's Army, and threescore knights at my manors."

"Sixty knights!" Rod's lips tightened, pulling down at the corners. "Not even enough to give the Southern knights entertainment for one full charge! Sixty knights out of how many hundreds in your kingdom? And all the rest arrayed there against you! And twelve hundred footmen against the rebels's thousands!"

Her hands seized the arms of the chair in a spasm, to hide their trembling; fear drained her face of its color.

"We shall win, for the honor of Plantagenet or Gramarye, or die nobly."

"I have yet," Rod said tightly, "to see a noble death in battle. They're all just a little on the messy side."

"Be still!" she snapped, then closed her eyes and bowed her head, knuckles whitening on the chair arms.

She rose, proud and calm again, and Rod couldn't help a brief, admiring thought for her spunk.

She sat at the table, drew up parchment and quill, scribbled a moment, then folded the parchment and held it out to Rod. "Bear this to my Uncle Loguire," she said. " Tis a command that he appear here before me, and a warrant of safe-conduct; for I bethink me that I shall need all loyal to me by my side ere greatly long."

Rod took the parchment and crumpled it slowly in his fist.

He flung it into the fire without taking his eyes from Catharine. "You shall write a letter to the Duke, and I shall bear it," he said in an antarctic voice; "but in it you shall beg of him the courtesy of an audience."

Her back stiffened and her chin came up. Rod warmed his voice hastily, smiling. "Come, come, my Queen! You already have all the liberty; can you not expend a little in courtesy?"

His eyes darkened, the smile faded. "Or will you be swept by the sin of pride, and allow your liberty to become license?"

He stepped a little closer, towering over her. "Will your people pay the price of your pride, my Queen? Or will you?"

She glared back at him a moment, but something inside her was clamoring for attention. She dropped her eyes and sat quiet a moment, then turned to the table again and wrote.

She folded the letter, sealed it, and held it out to him.

He took it, bowed a little too deeply, with a click of the heels, and turned for the door.

He caught a quick scurry of movement along the baseboard out of the corner of his eye. He turned, saw a mouse duck under the tapestry, where it stayed very still.

Rod's jaw tightened. He crossed the room in two strides, lifted the tapestry.

The mouse looked up at him, its eyes very wide, very green, and very intelligent.

"I do not appreciate eavesdroppers," Rod said coldly.

The mouse flinched, but stared back defiantly.

Rod frowned at a sudden thought. Then his stern look melted. He picked the mouse up, gently, held it level with his eyes, with a tender look that did a very nice job of negating any image of dignity he might have built up.

He shook his head slowly. "You didn't really think I'd need help in here, did you?"

The mouse lowered its eyes, whiskers twitching a little.

"Certes," murmured Catharine, "methinks the man is possessed."

"YourMajesty," Brom said with a musing tone and a gleam in his eye, "may speak more truth than she knows."

The drawbridge echoed hollowly under Rod's striding feet. He ran lightly down the slope, away from the castle, and slipped into a copse of spruce.

"Fess," he called softly.

"Here, Rod." The great black steel horse came through the trees.

Rod smiled, slapped the metal side affectionately. "How the hell'd you know I'd come here?"

"Quite simply, Rod. An analysis of your behavior patterns, coupled with the fact that this grove is the closest to—"

"Skip it," Rod growled. "Big Tom took Loguire to the House of Clovis?"

"Affirmative, Rod."

Rod nodded. "Under the circumstances, it's probably the safest place for the Duke. What a comedown for a nobleman."

He swung into the saddle, then fumbled in his doublet and brought out the little mouse. It looked up at him apprehensively.

"Well," he sighed, "it doesn't seem to make any difference what I tell you to do; you're going to go right ahead and do whatever you want anyway."

The mouse lowered its eyes, trying to look guilty and ashamed; but its whiskers quivered with delight.

It rubbed its cheek against the skin of his palm.

"Affection will get you nowhere," Rod growled. "Now, listen. You go to the House Of Clovis; that's where I'm bound. That's an order."

The mouse looked up at him with wide, innocent eyes.

"And it's one order I can be sure you'll obey," Rod went on, "since it's what you were going to do anyway. But, look!" A note of anxiety crept into his voice. "Be careful, will ya?"

He brought his hand forward and kissed the mouse's nose, very gently.

The mouse leaped, wriggled with delight, dancing gleeful on his hand; as it danced, it reared up, its front paws stretching and broadening into wings. Its tail fanned out; feathers sprouted on its body; its nose blurred and became a beak, and a wren was dancing on Rod's hand.

Rod caught his breath. "Uh… yeah," he said after a while. "That's just a little hard to take the first time I watch it happen. But don't worry, I'll get used to it."

The bird hopped from his hand, few once around his head, hovered in front of him, then sprang arrowing into the sky.

Rod looked after the wren, murmured, "Do you think she'll do what I tell her this time, Fess?"

"She will." There was a strange quality to the robot's voice.

Rod looked sidewise at the great black head. "Thought robots couldn't laugh."

"A misconception," Fess replied.

"Git." Rod knocked his heels against the steel sides. Fess leaped into his long, steel canter.

"What else could I do?" Rod growled.

"With that lady," Fess answered, "nothing. But have no regrets, Rod. It's excellent policy. Many kings have used it."

"Yes," Rod mused. "And after all, being obeyed is the important thing, isn't it?"

Fess galloped silently into the moonlit courtyard on rubber-padded hooves and stopped abruptly. Rod's chest slammed against the horse's neck.

"Whuff!" He slammed back into the saddle. "Ohhhh! My tailbone! Look, Fess, warn me before you pull a stunt like that, will ya? Inertia may be just a nuisance to you, but it hits me right where I live."

"Where is that, Rod?"

"Never mind," Rod growled, dismounting. "Suffice to say that I just learned why the cavalry used split saddles."

He crossed the courtyard, glancing at the moon as he went. It was low in the sky; dawn was not far off.

He pounded on the door. There was a rustle of movement inside, then the door opened. The gnarled, bent figure of the Mocker stood before him.

"Aye, milord?" he said with a snaggle-toothed grin.

Wouldn't do to let him know that Rod knew he was the power behind the throne. Rod stepped in through the door, scarcely noticing the little man's presence. "Take me to the Lord Loguire, fellow."

"Certes, milord." The Mocker scurried around Rod and opened the inner door. Rod passed through it, pulling off his gauntlets… and stepped into the middle of a semicircle of beggars and thieves, standing three deep and armed with truncheons and knives.

They grinned, their eyes hungry; here and there one licked his lips.

Their faces were dirty and scarred, mutilated, and festering with sores; their clothes were threadbare, patched, torn; but their knives were remarkably well-kept.

Rod tucked his gloves into his belt, hands stiffening into karate swords, and turned to the Mocker. That worthy was now flanked by five or six prime samples of the lees of society.

"I come here in friendship." Rod's face was immobile.

"Do ye, now?" The Mocker grinned, exposing bleeding gums, and cackled. Suddenly his eyes gleamed with hate. "Declare yourself, lordling!"

Rod frowned. "Declare myself how?"

"For the noblemen, for the Queen, or for the House ofClovis!"

"Be done with your blathering!" Rod snapped. "I have small stomach for nonsense, and I'm beginning to feel very full. Take me to Loguire, now!"

"Oh, aye, that we shall. Yes, milord, at once, milord, straightaway." He rubbed his hands, chortling with glee. Then his glance darted over Rod's shoulder, and he nodded.

Rod started to turn, but something exploded on the back of his head. Stars reeled about him, then blackness.

Slowly, Rod became aware of pink light, pain, and a thousand discordant bass fiddles tuning up inside his head.

Slower yet, he became aware of something cold and slimy against his cheek. The pink light, he realized, was sunlight filtered through closed eyelids.

Th pain pulled itself in and concentrated in his head. He winced, then by heroic measures managed to open his eyes, and winced again.

Everything was blurred, out of focus, sunlight and blobs of color.

The slime under his cheek was moss, and the coldness beneath it was stone.

He shoved hard with his hands; the slimy surface swung away, left him reeling, leaning on his hands heavily, stomach churning.

He shook his head, flinched at the pain, and blinked several times. His lids rasped over gummy eyeballs, but slowly his vision cleared. He forced his eyes to focus on… the face of Tuan Loguire.

Tuan sat with his back against black, old stone. There were huge iron staples in the stone, and the chains that hung from them ran to manacles on Tuan's wrists and ankles. He sat in a heap of dirty, moldering straw, in the watery light of a weak sunbeam.

Tuan smiled with irony as heavy as the rusty chains on his body, and lifted a hand in greeting, chain jangling with the movement. "Welcome."

Rod turned his eyes away, looking about him. The old Duke sat against the next wall, chained beside his son. "Cold welcome, RodGallowglass," the old lord mumbled, face heavy and brooding. "It is scant safety your serving-man has brought me to."

Treachery! Rod should have known better than to trust Tom. "Big Tom, you… !"

"Here, master."

Rod looked, turning; Big Tom sat against the far wall, chained like the rest of them.

Tom smiled sadly, bent a reproachful, bloodhound-eyed look on his master. "I had thought you would free us, master. Yet here art thou, chained one amongst us."

Rod scowled, looked down at his wrist, A rusty, thick iron band circled it. It had mates on his ankle and other wrist.

He looked up at Tom, smiled, and raised his hand, giving the chain a shake. "Ever hear tell that stone walls don't make a prison?"

"Who spoke those words was a fool," said Tom bitterly, from the shadows.

Rod lifted his eyes to the small, barred window set high in the wall. It was the only light in the room, a chamber perhaps ten feet wide by fifteen long, with a ten foot high ceiling, all moss-grown, rotting stone, floored with moldering straw.

The only decoration was a skeleton, held together by mummified ligament, chained to the wall like themselves.

Rod eyed the silent partner warily. "Not such great housekeepers, are they? They could at least have lugged the bones into the nether room."

He turned to the window again. "Fess," he mumbled, low enough so the others couldn't make out the words. "Fess, where are you?"

"In the most filthy, broken-down stable I've ever seen," the robot answered, "along with five of the sorriest nags outside of a glue factory. I think we're supposed to be the cavalry of the House of Clovis, Rod."

Rod chuckled softly. "Any mice with large green eyes running around, Fess?"

"No, Rod, but there is a wren perched on my head."

Rod grinned. "Ask her if she has any power over cold iron."

"How am I to speak with her, Rod?"

"Broadcast on human thought-wave frequency, of course! She's a telepath, you idiot savant!"

"Rod, I strongly resent the derogatory connotions of references to my abilities in areas in which I am not programmed to—"

"All right, all right, I'm sorry, I repent! You're a genius, a prodigy, an Einstein, an Urth! Just ask her, will you?"

There was a pause; then Rod heard a faint series of chirpings in the background.

"What's the chirping, Fess?"

"Gwendylon, Rod. She reacted significantly to the novel experience of telepathy with a horse."

"You mean she almost fell off her perch. But did she say anything?"

"Of course, Rod. She says that now she is certain you're a warlock."

Rod groaned and rolled his eyes up to the ceiling. "Look, get her back to business, will you? Can she get us out of these chains and cut the bars on our window?"

There was another pause; then Fess answered, "She says she has no power over cold iron, Rod, nor has any witch or elf that she knows. She suggests a blacksmith, but fears it is impractical."

"Genesis, Exodus, Leviticus… Well, tell her I' in glad she hasn't lost her sense of humor. And ask her how the hell she's going to get us out of here!"

" She says there is no need for hard language, Rod."

"You didn't have to transmit me literally, you bumblebrain!"

"And she thinks that the Prince of the Elves may be able to free you. She thinks he will come, but he is some short distance away, so it may be a while."

"I thought she said elves couldn't handle cold iron!"

There was another pause; then Fess said, "She says that the Prince of the Elves is not quite an elf, Rod, being but half of the Old Blood."

"Only half… Wait a minute!" Rod scowled. "You mean he's a half-breed between elf and mortal?"

"Precisely, Rod."

Rod tried to imagine how an eighteen-inch elf and a six-foot mortal could have a child; his brain reeled.

"She departs now, Rod, to summon him, and will return as quickly as she may, but will be a while. She bids you be of stout heart."

"If my heart were any stouter, it'd be positively obese! Give her my… No, just tell her I thank her, Fess."

He seemed to hear a faint sigh behind his ear, and the robot said, with a touch of resignation, "I'll tell her, Rod."

"Thanks, Fess. Stay lively."

Rod turned back to his prison. The Loguires were both plastered against the wall, looking at him strangely.

"He speaks to thin air," murmured Tuan. "Certes, the man is possessed!"

"Seems to me I've heard that before," Rod mused, "and the air in here is anything but thin."

"Still," muttered Loguire, " 'tis the act of one crazed!"

Big Tom rumbled a laugh. "Not so, my lords. This man speaks with spirits."

Rod smiled bleakly. "How come so cheerful all of a sudden, Big Tom?"

The big man stretched, chains clashing. "I had thought for a moment they had beaten you, master. Now I know 'twas fool thinking."

"Don't be so sure, Tom. Cold iron is a tough spell to break."

"Nay, master." Tom's eyelids drooped lazily. "Thou'It find a way to it, I warrant."

He clasped his hands over his belly, leaned his head back against the wall.

Rod smiled as Tom began snoring. He looked at the Loguires and jerked his head toward Tom. "There's confidence for you. While I work things out, he takes a nap."

"Let us hope 'tis a faith warranted," saidTuan. He eyed Rod dubiously.

"Let's," Rod echoed grimly.

He nodded at the Duke. "Been renewing acquaintance?"

Loguire smiled. "I rejoice to see my son again, though I had lief it were more open welcome."

Tuan frowned at his hands. "It is sad news he hath brought me, Rod Gallowglass, most sad and sorrowful." He looked at Rod, bright anger in his face. "I had known my brother hateful and ambitious, but I had not thought he would sink into treason."

"Oh, don't be too hard on the poor boy." Rod leaned back against the wall, closing his eyes wearily. "Durer's got him spellbound. And if his magic came so close on the father, how could it fail on the son?"

"Aye," Tuan agreed darkly. "Myself had fallen like prey to the Mocker."

"Oh?" Rod opened one eye. "You've realized that, have you?"

"Oh, aye! A most excellent villain is that! He will bow him most humbly before you, while his henchman is slitting your purse—and thus hath he served me!"

Rod pursed his lips. "He's the one who gave you the idea for organizing the beggars?"

"Aye." Tuan nodded heavily. "I had first thought only to provide them relief from hunger and chill; but his word in my ear made me think of an army, for defense of the Queen. And I had seen and heard in the South that which led me to think such an army might well be needed."

The old Duke made a choking sound.

"Pardon, my father," said Tuan, bowing his head, "but I knew even thou couldst not check them forever. But I had not thought"—and his voice hardened—" 'twduld be treason from Anselm."

Rod twisted, feeling decidedly uncomfortable. "Well, as I said, you shouldn't blame him too much. After all, he did try to keep Durer from killing your father."

He stretched his legs and crossed them. "So when the Mocker learned that the South was up in arms, he decided it was time to assert his rightful authority and overthrow the Queen. Right?"

"Aye." Tuan's lips tightened as though he had his first taste of straight vermouth. "When I spoke against, saying that 'twas our time to defend the Queen, he called me traitor, and"—he frowned, words coming very hard—"one of the beggars would ha' slain me. But the Mocker would not hear of it; no, he threw me here without food or fire."

He looked up at Rod, frowning. "Which is most truly strange, Rod Gallowglass. Would not you ha' thought he would ha' killed me himself?"

"No." Rod closed his eyes, shaking his head. "He needs somebody to be figurehead king after they've pulled down Catharine."

"Nay, not a king," Tuan said, brooding. "He cries that we shall ne'er have a king more, but only a sort of chieftain, raised by acclaim of the people."

" 'A sort of chieftain.' " Rod scowled. " What name does he call this chieftain by?"

"Dictator." Tuan chewed at the inside of his cheek. "A most strange title. There shall be no nobles or king, only the dictator. In all truth, most strange."

Rod's mouth tightened with sourness. "Not so strange as all that. But you don't mean to say the beggars think they can take the castle?"

"Nay, but it is known that the South is in arms, and Catharine was never one to be waiting till the battle was brought to her."

"Oh." Rod chewed that one over. "You mean the Mocker's pretty sure she'll march south to meet them?"

"Most assuredly. And the Mocker will march south behind her."

Rod nodded. "So when the armies join battle, the beggars will attack the royal forces from the rear."

"Ever their way," rumbled Loguire.

Tuan nodded agreement. "And caught between two forces, her armies will last scarce half an hour."

"And what does the Mocker propose to do about the councillors and noblemen after the battle's over? Durer means to make your brother king."

"So it would seem," Tuan agreed, "but the Mocker hath an answer to that, and to all the noblemen."

"Oh?" Rod raised an eyebrow.

"Aye, Tis a tube of metal fitted into a crossbow stock, nothing more; but it throws a ball of lead which can pierce the stoutest armor."

"And he means to put one of these into the hands of every man in the army?"

"Oh, nay." Tuan frowned. "He hath but the five of them, one for himself, one for each of his three lieutenants , and one for his fourth lieutenant." Tuan jerked his head toward Tom's recumbent mountain form. "But that one hath lately fallen into disfavor. He assures us the five tubes shall answer for the full force of noblemen and councillors."

But Rod was staring at Tom. "Big Tom?" He gulped. "A lieutenant?"

"Aye." Tuan frowned. "Did you not know he was ofClovis?"

Tom opened one hound's eye and looked back at Rod.

Rod looked away, cleared his throat, and pursed his lips. "Well, ah, that does explain a few things."

He switched his eyes back to Tom. "So you're part of the Inner Circle?"

Big Tom smiled sourly and held up one lumber forearm. The chain clashed and rattled. "Was," he said.

"He stood against them," rumbledLoguire, "stood against his fellows and this—how do you name him? The Mocker—stood against the Mocker and his three jackals when they commanded I be 'prisoned with my son. 'Nay,' quoth your man Tom, 'I must needs take him back to my master, where he will be aid to your plans. "The plans are changed,' quoth they, and would not hear of enlarging me; and then your man Tom, here, fought cheek by jowl at my side, and accounted for a most goodly number of them." This last was said in a tone of surprised respect.

Tom grinned, and Rod saw with a shock that one tooth was missing from the big man's smile. "Thou art braw brawler tha'self," Tom chuckled. "I ha' not thought gentlemen could fight so well without armor or sword."

Rod peered into the shadows at Tom's end of the room and saw that the big man's eye was swollen and purple; also, there was a slash with a new scab across one lumpy cheek.

He sat back, smiling on one side of his face. "How many heads did you bash in, Big Tom?"

"Scarce a round score," Tom replied with disgust. "I had but this one stalwart gentleman to guard my back, and there were too many for us."

Rod grinned, wondering if Loguire knew just how deeply he had been complimented.

He stretched, yawned." Well, that pretty well brings us up to date. Anybody got a poker deck?"

The two Loguires frowned, puzzled; but a flicker of recognition passed in Big Tom's eyes.

Rod smiled sourly at the big peasant, and Tom's face turned wooden. He stared back at Rod.

"Oh, come on now, Tom!" Rod snapped. "Your secret's official knowledge now. No more point to playing games, is there?"

Tom glowered at him; then slowly, his face livened again, to a brooding, meditative look.

He leaned back against the wall, half closing his eyes. "Aye, tha hast the right of it, as when hast thou not?"

With a sinking feeling, Rod began to realize that Big Tom saw him as more than just an employer, or a piece in the game.

"My lot is cast with thee now," said Tom," whether I would have it or no; so wherefore should I dissemble?"

"Dissemble?" Rod cocked an eyebrow at his serving-man. "Pretty high-falutin' vocabulary for a simple peasant, Big Tom."

Tom waved a hand impatiently. "Be done with your games! I am unmasked; do me the courtesy to take off your own."

Rod froze.

Then, slowly, he smiled. "You're quicker than the average ursine, Big Tom. How long have you known?"

The Loguires stared, totally lost.

Big Tom gave a short bark of laughter. "Why, master, since first you used judo on me!"

"Ah." Rod's eyebrows lifted. "From the first, then? So that's why you wangled the batman job."

Tom smiled lazily.

"Under orders?"

Tom nodded.

Rod lowered his eyes, studying the chain on his wrist.

"What are you, master?"

"A warlock." Rod winced inside; but it was the best answer under the circumstances.

Big Tom spat. "Games, master, games! Twas yourself said to be done with 'em! You are not of the councillors, else you would not ha' stolen the Lord Loguire away from them; and you are not of the House, or I would ha' known you of old. What are you, then?"

"A warlock," Rod repeated. "A new player in the game, Big Tom, and one who stands squarely behind the Queen. X, the unknown factor in the councillors' and Clovis' equations, here by pure happenstance and coincidence."

"Warruh!" Big Tom spat again. "I ha' small faith in happenstance, master. I ha' known that you back the Queen; may I ask who stands behind you"?"

"Strange manner of talk," growled Loguire, angering, "for a footman to his lord."

Rod smiled bleakly. "A most strange footman, my lord."

"Aye, and a most strange lord," Tom snarled. "Who backs you, Rod Gallowglass?"

Rod studied the big man, then shrugged. The word would mean nothing to the Loguires, and Tom was on his side now anyway.

"SCENT," he answered.

Tom stared; then, almost whispering, he said, "I ha' thought the last of them were dead." He swallowed, bit his lip. "Eh, but tha'rt alive. Tha might be a ghost, but nay; tha'rt alive, or the witch would scarce be so fond of thee. I ha' heard ye were dispersed, after ye won; but nay, I ought to ha' known. 'Twas secret, and secret from all, mayhap; but thou lived."

"Won?" Rod frowned.

And was answered by a frown of even deeper perplexity from Tom.

Then the big man's face cleared. He grinned, rocking back against the wall, and roared laughter.

The Loguires stared from him to Rod, who spread his hands, shaking his head. They looked back at Tom, wiping his eyes and eking the remains of his laugh into chuckles. "Eh, eh, now I see it, aye, now, and fool that I was not to see it before. What age art thou, master?"

"Age?" Rod scowled. "Thirty-two. Why?"

"Nay, nay!" Tom shook his head impatiently. "What age are thou from?"

Rod's mouth formed a round, silent O as the light dawned. "It was a time machine!"

Big Tom's face froze as he realized the implications of Rod's answer.

"And," Rod pressed, "there's another one hidden in this building, isn't there?"

"Enough!" Big Tom snapped, and his eyes were very cold. "You know too much already, Rod Gallowglass."

Fear gathered in Rod's belly and crawled up his spine as he saw chill, amoral murder come into the man's eyes.

"Big Tom." He cleared his throat, spoke in a swift, driving monotone. "Big Tom, your own kind have turned against you now. You owe them no allegiance; and the wrongs they said they'd fix, I can fix, too. Go back to them, and they'll kill you. I won't, you know that."

The annihilation ebbed from Tom's eyes, the huge body relaxed.

"Nay," Tom growled, "thou hast right again, though not in the way tha knowest. They ha' but bottled me up for now, till the great deeds are done; but they will hale me forth again, for I am too costly a man to discard so lightly. But tha'rt right they will slay me—in a year, two years, or five, when my office is done. And I do wish to live."

Rod raised an eyebrow skeptically. "They don't doubt your loyalty?"

Big Tom chuckled deeply. "They ha' no need to, master. I disagree only on means, not on goals. But I disagree, and for that, soon or late, they will slay me."

"Rod," said in a quiet voice that only he could hear.

Rod held up a hand. "Hold it! Late news on the Rialto!"

"Rod, the Prince of the Elves has arrived. He is leading a squad of elves toward your cell." There was a touch of laughter to the robot's voice.

"All right, what's so funny?" Rod muttered.

"You have a surprise in store, Rod."

Two gnarled, bent, white-bearded figures scurried up to the window. Rod frowned.

"Fess, those are gnomes, not elves."

"Gnomes? Oh, yes, metal-working elves. Purely semantics, Rod. They are still incapable of dealing with iron."

The gnomes pulled out a hammer and cold chisel with a faint bronze sheen, then stepped back and handed them to a larger, darker figure that blocked out the sunlight.

The Loguires, chained under the window, craned their necks backward to try to see as the first blow sounded.

Big Tom frowned. "There be something that pricks at my memory about that form at the window. Ah, for light, to see his face!"

Rod frowned. "What's so great about his face? Probably pretty ugly."

Tom gave a toothy grin. " 'Twould be excellent fine to tell my children, good master, if I should live long enough to sire them. No mortal has yet looked upon the faces of the royalty of the Elves, though they are said to be aged past believing. They are… uh… ah… mmmmmm!"

Tom's head lolled forward; he began to snore.

Two other snores answered him. Turning, Rod saw the Loguires, chins on their chests, sleeping blissfully.

Rod stared.

A metal bar dropped from the window and bounced on the floor. The ends were sheered through.

Rod whistled. This Prince of the Elves might be old, but he certainly wasn't languishing—not if he could still cut through inch-thick iron with nothing but a cold chisel and a mallet.

The third bar fell down. There was a scrabbling sound, and the squat, broad form shot through the window and leaped to the floor.

Rod stared, squeezed his eyes shut, and shook his head. Then he looked again, and understood why Tom and the Loguires had suddenly dozed off.

He swallowed, fought for composure, and smiled. "Well met, Brom O'Berin."

"At your service." The little man bowed, smiling maliciously. "I owe you a rap on the head, Master Gallowglass, for the way that you spoke to the Queen: a rap on the head, or great thanks, I know not which."

He turned to the window and called softly in a strange, fluid tongue. The cold chisel arced through the air and fell to his feet. He reached up and caught the hammer as it dropped.

"Now, then." He dropped to his knees and pressed Rod's forearm flat against the floor. "Stir not, or thou'lt have a gouge out of thy wristbone." He set the chisel against the first link of chain and tapped lightly with the hammer. The link fell off, sheared through. Brom grunted and moved to Rod's other side.

"Thou'lt wear bracelets when I've done," he grumbled, "but no chains. The manacles must wait till we're at the castle smithy."

"Uh… that's pretty hard bronze you've got there," Rod ventured, watching the chisel slide through the iron.

"Most hard," Brom agreed, attacking the ankle chains. "An old recipe, known long in my family."

"Uh… in your family?"

"Aye." Brom looked up. "There were elves in lost Greece, too, Rod Gallowglass. Didst thou not know?"

Rod didst not; but he didn't figure this was the time to mention it.

He stood up, free of the chains at least, and watched Brom cutting the others loose. The Prince of the Elves bit explained a lot about Brom: his size and bulk, for one thing.

"Never knew you were royalty, Brom."

"Hm?" Brom looked back over his shoulder. "I would have thought thou'd have guessed it. Why else am I named as I am?"

He turned back to his work. Rod frowned. Name?

What did that have to do with anything? Brom? O'Be-rin? He couldn't see the connection.

"There, the last," said Brom, cutting through Big Tom's foot shackle. "Do thou now lend me aid of thine shoulder, Master Gallowglass."

He jumped back out through the window. Rod got a shoulder in Tom's midriff and, staggering, somehow manhandled him over to the window as a rope flew through.

Rod tied it under Tom's arms, threw the loose end out, and called "Heave!"

He heard Brom grunt, and marveled again at the little man's muscles as Big Tom moved jerkily up the wall, still snoring happily.

What with the beerbelly and the muscles, and the minimal size of the window, Big Tom was a tight fit.

"Why don't you just wake him and let him shove himself out?" Rod grunted as he shoved at Tom's ample rear.

"I have no wish for my office to be known among mortals," came Brom's muffled reply.

The window now framed only Tom's sizable posterior and sequoia shanks. Rod eyed the former, weighing the merits of a well-placed kick, and decided against it.

"So, why'd you let me stay awake?" he grunted as he pushed.

"One amongst you must needs aid me with the others," answered Brom, but Rod had a notion that wasn't quite the whole story.

He left off the questions, however, until his cellmates were deposited on the ground outside the window. Tuan's shoulders had proved even more of an obstacle than Tom's belly; they had to back him up, feed his hands through in front of his head, while Rod wondered fleetingly about brachiator ancestry.

Then Brom hauled Rod out, muttering something about the fish being undersized these days. Rod snarled a return compliment as he gained his feet, then bowed double, putting his head on Brom's level.

"And what's that for?" Brom growled.

"For belting," Rod answered. "You owe me a rap on the head, remember?"

The dwarf chuckled, clapped him on the shoulder. "Nay, lad; you did only that which I should ha' done myself years ago; but I had never the heart. But come now, we must away."

Brom caught up Tuan's midsection. The gnomes took his shoulders and feet, and bore him away toward the ruined fountain in the center of the courtyard.

More gnomes materialized out of the stonework and tucked their shoulders under Big Tom.

Rod shook his head wonderingly, and stooped to sling Loguire over a shoulder.

Brom fumbled with a stone at the fountain's base and pulled it away to disclose the dark mouth of a small tunnel three feet in diameter.

Rod tapped Brom on the shoulder. "Wouldn't this be a little easier if we woke them first?"

Brom stared, scandalized; then his face darkened. "We go to Elfland, Master Gallowglass! And no mortal may journey there and remember it!"

"I have."

"Well, truth," Brom admitted, turning back to the Tuan problem," but then thou' rt not so mortal as some. Thou'rt a warlock." He disappeared into the burrow.

Rod started to reply, then thought better of it. He contented himself with a few grunted reniarks about discrimination and a report to the Human Rights Commission as he lugged Loguire into the tunnel.

Two gnomes started to swing the stone back into place, but Rod stopped them with an upraised hand.

"Fess," he murmured, looking at the stable, "we're on our way. Get out of that hole and meet me at the castle."

There was a moment's silence; then a crash and the sound of splintering wood came from the stables. The door crashed open, and the great black horse came trotting out into the morning sunlight, head held high, mane streaming.

Heads popped out of slit-windows in the inn as a bleary-eyed hostler came stumbling out of the stable in Fess's wake, screaming for the horse to stop.

"Come on, get moving!" Rod growled, but instead, Fess stopped and looked back over his shoulder at the hostler.

The youth came running up, shouting, one hand outstretched to grab Fess's bridle.

A great, blue electric spark crackled from Fess's hide to the youth's hand.

The hostler screamed and fell backward, nursing his hand and moaning as he rolled on the cobbles. Fess was off in a swirl and a clatter of hooves.

"Show-off," Rod growled as the horse disappeared.

"Not at all, Rod," came the horse's quiet answer. "Merely providing an instructive object lesson—at low amperage, it shook him up but didn't hurt him—and enhancing your reputation as a warlock."

Rod shook his head slowly. "As if it needed enhanc-ing!"

"Why, Master Gallowglass," one of the gnomes chuckled in a voice strongly reminiscent of a rusty can opener, "wouldst thou have us believe thou'rt not a warlock?"

"Yes! Uh, that is, I uh…" Rod glanced back at the tunnel. "Warlock? Of course I'm a warlock! Till we get through Elfland, anyway. Shall we go, boys?"

Not so very much later, they sat around the fire in the Queen's council chamber. Catharine had apologized profusely to Loguire, pointedly ignoring Tuan the while; and the amenities over, reverted to type.

Tuan sat to the left of the fireplace, eyes fixed in brooding on the flames.

Catharine sat in the angle of the room, as far from Tuan as possible, with a heavy oak table and Brom O'Berin carefully interposed between.

"… and that is full standing in the South, my Queen," said Loguire, gnarled hands twisting as he wound up his report, which had abounded in nuances of intrigue that Rod couldn't follow at all. "I am no longer duke; and the rebel lords march already."

Catharine stirred. "Thou shalt be Duke Loguire again," she stated coldly, "when we have beaten these traitors!"

Loguire smiled sadly. "They shall not be easily beaten, Catharine."

" 'Your Majesty'!" she snapped.

" 'Catharine'!" Rod barked.

She glared at him.

He glared back.

Catharine turned haughtily away. "What am I, Brom?"

" 'Your Majesty,' " Brom answered with the ghost of a smile. "But to your uncle, and to his son, your cousin, you must needs be Catharine."

Rod fought down a smile as Catharine sank back in her chair, staring aghast at Brom.

She composed herself, and gave Brom the best et tu, Brute? look in her repertoire. "I had thought you were for me, Brom O'Berin."

"Why, so I am," Brom smiled, "and so is this gyrfalcon, here"—he jerked a thumb toward Rod—"if you would but see it."

Catharine favored Rod with a cold glance. "A gyr-falcon, aye." Her voice hardened. "And what of the poppinjay?"

Tuan's head shot up as though he'd been slapped. He stared at her, appalled, eyes wide with hurt.

Then his mouth tightened, and a crease appeared between his eyebrows.

Some day, Rod thought, she will push him just a little too far, and that may be the luckiest day of her life-if she lives through it.

"I am for you," Tuan breathed. "Even now, Catharine my Queen."

She smiled, smug and contemptuous. "Aye, I had known you would be."

Oh, bitch! Rod thought, his fist tightening. Bitch!

Catharine noticed the silent motions of his lips.

She smiled archly. "What words do you mumble there, sirrah?"

"Oh, ah, just running through a breath-exercise my old voice-and-diction coach taught me." Rod leaned back against the wall, folding his arms. "But about the rebels, Queenie dear, just what do you propose to do about them?"

"We shall march south," she snapped, "and meet them on Breden Plain!"

"Nay!" Loguire bolted from his chair. "Their force is ten to our one, if not more!"

Catharine glared at her uncle, the corners of her mouth curled into tight little hooks. "We shall not stay to be found like a rat in a crevice!"

"Then," said Rod, "you will lose."

She looked down her nose at him (no mean trick, when she was seated and he was standing). "There is naught of dishonor in that, Master Gallowglass."

Rod struck his forehead and rolled his eyes up.

"What else ought I do?" she sneered. "Prepare for a siege?"

"Well, now that you mention it," said Rod, "yes."

"There is this, too," Tuan put in, his voice flat. "Who shall guard your back 'gainst the House of Clovis?"

Her lip curled. "Beggars!"

"Beggars and cutthroats," Rod reminded her. "With very sharp knives."

"Shall the Queen fear a beggar?" she snapped. "Nay! They are dust at my feet!"

"That which crawls in the dust at your feet is a snake," Brom rumbled, "and its fangs are sharpened, and poisonous."

She caught her lip between her teeth and lowered her eyes, uncertain; then she lifted her chin again, and glared at Tuan.

"So you have armed them against me, and beaten them into an army, ruled and ordered and forged them into a dagger for my back! Most bravely well done, King of Vagabonds!"

Rod's head snapped up. He stared. He turned his head slowly toward Tuan, a strange light in his eyes.

"I will march," said Catharine. "Will you march at my side, my Lord Loguire?"

The old lord bent his head slowly in affirmation. "You play the fool, Catharine, and will die; but I will die with you."

Her composure wavered for a moment; her eyes moistened.

She turned briskly to Brom. "And you, Brom O'Be-rin?"

The dwarf spread his hands. "Your father's watchdog, milady, and yours."

She smiled fondly.

Then her eyes snapped hard as she looked at Tuan. "Speak, Tuan Loguire."

The youth raised his eyes, very slowly, to the fires. "It is strange," he murmured, "at but twenty-two years of ago, to look back over so very short a time, and see so much folly."

Rod heard a choked gasp from Catharine.

Tuan slapped his thigh. "Well, then, 'tis done; and if I have lived in folly, I might as well die in it."

He turned, his eyes gentle, brooding. "I shall die with you, Catharine."

Her face was ashen. "Folly…" she whispered.

"He knows not what wisdom he speaks," Brom growled. He looked over Tuan's shoulder at Rod. "What say you to folly, Rod Gallowglass?"

Rod's eyes slowly focused on Brom's. " 'Wise fool, brave fool,' " he murmured.

Brom frowned. "How say you?"

"I say that we may yet live through this!" Rod grinned, eyes kindling. "Ho, King of the Vagabond-si" He slapped Tuan's shoulder. "If the Mocker and his henchmen were gone, could you sway the beggars to fight for the Queen?"

Tuan's face came alive again. "Aye, assuredly, were they gone!"

Rod's lips pulled back in a savage grin. "They shall be."

The moon was riding high when Rod, Tuan, and Tom darted from the shadow of the tottering wall to the shadow of the ruined fountain in the courtyard of the House of Clovis.

"Thou wouldst make most excellent burglars, thou," growled Big Tom. "I might ha' heard thee a league or three away."

It hadn't been easy to persuade Tom to come along. Of course, Rod had started on the wrong tack; he'd assumed Tom's loyalties to the proletarian idea had died when he was clapped into irons. He'd clapped Tom on the back, saying, "How'd you like a chance to get back at your friends?"

Tom had scowled. "Get back at 'em?"

"Yeah. They booted you out, didn't they? Threw you in the calaboose, didn't they? After your blood now, ain't they?"

Tom chuckled, "Nay, master, not by half! Eh, no! They'd ha' freed me when the trouble was done!"

"Oh." Rod scowled. "I see. Trained men are hard to come by."

Tom's face darkened. "Thou seest too quick for my liking."

"Well, be that as it may…" Rod slung an arm around the big man's shoulder, almost dislocating his arm in the process. "Uh, in that case… what did they lock you up for?"

Tom shrugged. "Disagreement."

"Ways and means, eh?"

"Aye. They held for attacking Queen and nobles both at one time, though 'twould mean dividing of forces."

"Sounds risky. What did you want to do?"

"Why, to bring down the noblemen and their councillors first, under guise of loyalty to the throne. Then we might slowly woo all the land to the House of Clovis, and, secured by the people, pull down the Queen and Brom O'Berin with two blows of a knife."

Rod swallowed and tried to remember that the man was on his side now. "Very neat." He slapped Tom on the back. "Spoken like a good little Bolshevik. How much does that way of doing things mean to you, Tom?"

Big Tom gave him a long, calculating look. "What price were you minded of, master?"

Rod grinned. "Shall we throw your four colleagues in the cell they'd reserved for you?"

" 'Twould be pleasant," said Tom slowly. "What comes after, master?"

"Why,then," saidRod, "the House of Clovis fights on the Queen's side, against the nobles. That gives you a better chance of beating the councillors and nobles; afterward, you can follow through with your own plan."

Tom nodded, slowly. "But will the beggars fight for the Queen?"

"That, we leave to Tuan Loguire."

Tom's face stretched into a huge grin. He threw back his head and roared, slapping Rod on the back.

Rod picked himself up off the floor, hearing Big Tom gasp between spasms of laughter, "Eh, I should ha' thought of it, master! Aye, that boy will charm them! You know not the powers of that silver tongue, master. The lad could make a leopard believe it had no spots!"

Rod held his peace, trying to remember if he'd seen a leopard on Gramarye, while he tried to rub the sore spot between his shoulders.

"Thou'll twist thine arm loose that way." Tom grinned. He turned Rod around and began to massage his back. "Thou knowest, master, if together we bring down the councillors, 'twill be thy head, alongside Brom's and the Queen's, that I'll next be a-chas-ing."

Rod closed his eyes, savoring the massage. "It oughta be a great fight. A little further to the left, Big Tom."

So now they stood in the shadows of the fountain with Tuan between them, planning assault on the mol-dering heap of stone that stood across a moon-filled expanse of courtyard.

Rod counted his pulse beats, wondering if his heart had really slowed that much, until Tom whispered, "No alarm. They ha' not seen us, good masters. Ready thy selves, now."

Tom gathered himself, looking like a diesel semi that had decided to turn cat-burglar.

"Now!" he growled, and ran.

They charged lightly, quietly, through the seeming glare of the moonlight to the welcoming shadow of the walls, then flattened themselves against the stone, hearts thudding, breath held as they strained their ears for some sound of alarm.

After a small eternity of three minutes, Big Tom loosed his breath in a great, gusty sigh.

"Eh, then, lads!" he hissed. "Come along, now."

They crept around the corner of the great dank stone pile. Big Tom splayed his fingers out wide, set his elbow at the corner of the wall, and marked the spot where his second finger ended. He put his other elbow against the mark.

"Big Tom!" Rod called in an agonized whisper, "we don't have time for—"

"Hsst!" Tuan's fingers clamped on Rod's shoulder. "Silence, I pray thee! He measures in cubits!"

Rod shut up, feeling rather foolish.

Tom made a few more measurements, which apparently resulted in his finding what he was looking for. He pulled a pry from the pouch at his belt and began to lever at the base of a three-foot block.

Rod stared, uncomprehending. It would take all night and most of the next day to dig the block out. What was Tom trying to do?

Tom gave a last pry, and caught the sheet of stone as it fell outward. It was perhaps an inch thick.

He laid the slab on the ground and looked up at his companions. His grin flashed chill in the moonlight. "I had thought I might have need of a bolthole one day," he whispered. "Gently now, lads."

He ducked head and arms through the hole, kicked off with his feet, and slithered through.

Rod swallowed hard and followed Tom. Tuan came through at his heels.

"All in?" Tom whispered as Tuan's feet stood hard to the floor, and the moonlight was cut off as Tom fitted the stone plug back into place.

"Light," he whispered. Rod cupped his hand over the hilt of his dagger and turned it on, letting a ray of light escape between two fingers. It was enough to see Big Tom grope up a worm-eaten panel from the floor and fit it back into place in the bolthole.

Tom straightened, grinning. "Now let them wonder at our coming. To work, masters."

He turned away. Rod followed, looking quickly about him.

They were in a large stone room that had once been paneled. The panels were crumbled and fallen away for the most part. The room held only cobwebs, rusty iron utensils, and long trestle tables, spongy now with rot.

" 'Twas a kitchen, once," Tom murmured. "They cook at the hearth in the common room, now. None ha' used this place for threescore years or more."

Rod shuddered. "What's a good kid like you doing in a place like this, Tom?"

Big Tom snorted.

"No, I mean it," said Rod urgently. "You can judge a god, an ideal, by the people who worship it, Tom."

"Be still!" Tom snapped.

"It's true, though, isn't it? The councillors are all rotten, we know that. And the Mocker and his buddies are lice. You're the only good man in the bunch. Why don't you—"

"Be still!" Tom snarled, swinging about so suddenly that Rod blundered into him. Rod felt the huge, hamlike hand grabbing a fistful of his doublet, right at the throat, and smelled the beery, garlic reek of Tom's breath as the man thrust his face close to Rod's.

"And what of the Queen?" Tom hissed.' "What says she for her gods, eh?"

He let Rod go, with a shove that threw him back against the wall, and turned away.

Rod collected himself and followed, but not before he had caught a glimpse of Tuan's eyes, narrowed and chill with hate, in the beam of the torch.

"We approach a corner," Tom muttered. "Dampen the light."

The torch winked out; a few moments later, Rod felt the stone wall fall away under his left hand. He turned, and saw a faint glow at the end of the blackened, short hallway ahead.

Big Tom stopped, " 'Tis a corner again, and a sentry beyond. Walk wary, lads."

He moved away again, stepping very carefully. Rod followed, feeling Tuan's breath hot on the back of his neck.

As they neared the corner, they heard a rhythm of faint snores to their right, from the new hallway.

Big Tom flattened himself against the wall with a wolfish grin. Rod followed suit… and drew away with a gasp and a convulsive shudder.

Tom scowled at him, motioning for silence.

Rod looked at the wall and saw a thick blob of grayish-white stuff fastened to the wall. It had brushed the back of his neck, and he could say with authority that the texture was flaccid, the touch cold and moist.

He looked at the obscene glop and shuddered gain.

" Tis but witch-moss, Rod Gallowglass," Tuan whispered in his ear.

Rod frowned. "Witch-moss?"

Tuan stared, incredulous. "Thou'rt a warlock, and knowest not witch-moss?"

Rod was saved from an answer by the cessation of the snores from around the corner.

The trio caught their collective breath and flattened themselves against the wall, Rod carefully avoiding the witch-moss. Tom glared at his sidekicks.

The moment of silence stretched out as thin as the content of a congressman's speech.

"Hold!" shouted a voice from around the corner.

Their muscles snapped tight in a spasm.

"Where do you go at this hour?" the sentry's voice snarled.

Dread clambered its way up Rod's spine.

A quaking, nasal voice answered the sentry. "Nay, I do but seek the jakes!"

The three men let their breath out in a long, silent sigh.

"Sir, when yer speak to a soldier!

"Sir," the whining voice echoed, surly.

"What was your reason for walking past curfew?" the sentry threatened in ominous tones.

"I do but seek the jakes, sir," the nasal voice whined.

The sentry chuckled, mollified. "And the jakes are near to the women's hall? Nay, I think not! Back to your pallet, scum! Your doxie's not for you this night!"

"But I—"

"Nay!" the guard snapped. "You do know the rule, fellow. Do you ask of the Mocker first." The voice became almost confidential. " 'Tain't so much as all that, chum. Like as not he'll give yer the paper says yer can do't, an' set yer a fit place an' time. He's free 'nough about it."

The nasal one hawked and spat.

"Come on, now," the guard growled. "Yer've but to ask of him."

"Aye," sneered the nasal voice, "and ask again every night that I'm wishin' to see her! Hell, 'twas the one thing in this world that came cheap!"

The guard's voice hardened again. "The Mocker's word is the law in this House, and my club'll remind you of it, if my word's not enough!"

There was a pause, then an angry, despairing snarl, and feet padded away.

There was silence again; after a while, the guard began to snore again.

Rod glanced at Tuan. The boy's face was dead white, lips pressed so tight the color'd gone out of them.

"I take it you didn't know anything about this?" Rod whispered.

"Nay," Tuan whispered back. "Once they'd set me by, they wasted no time. A guard at each hall, a writ ere two may share a bed—this is worse than the lords of the South!"

Tom's head jerked up. "Nay!" he snarled. " 'Tis but inconvenience. The gains to be got from it are well worth the price."

For his part, Rod agreed with Tuan. Police state, control over every facet of the people's lives—yes, the Mocker's Marxism was showing.

"What gains are worth that price?" Tuari snorted, raising his whisper a trifle.

"Why," growled Big Tom, at minimum bullfrog volume, "more food for all, more and better clothing, none poor and none starving."

"And all thanks to planned parenthood," Rod murmured, with an apprehensive glance at the corner.

"And how may this come?" asked Tuan, hiking his voice another notch and ignoring Rod's frantic signals. "From a writ of consent for a lovemaking? I cannot see how!"

Tom's lip twisted in scorn, and the bullfrog croaked louder. "Nay, you cannot! But the Mocker can!"

Tuan stared; then his jaw tightened, and his hand slipped to his dagger. "Do you place yourself and your kind above a nobleman, churl?"

"Uh, gentlemen," Rod whispered.

Big Tom tensed, grinning; his eyes danced mockery. "Blood will tell," he said, full voice.

Tuan's dagger leaped out as he sprang.

Tom lugged out his minor sword.

Rod threw out his hands, stiff-arming both of them at the collarbone. "Gentlemen, gentlemen] I realize you both feel very strongly about the issues at hand; but it is my bounden duty to remind you that a sentry fully capable of bringing the wrath of the House down on our heads is dozing, and not too heavily either, just around the corner!"

"This is not to be borne, Rod Gallowglass!"

"Aye," chuckled Big Tom, "the truth was ever hard to bear."

Tuan lunged, trying to stab at Tom over Rod's head. Rod shoved back on the boy's collarbone and ducked as the knife arced past his head.

Tom chuckled softly. "There is a nobleman for you! A fool could see the reach is too great! Ever will he overreach himself, when he knows he must fail."

Rod eyed Tom sideways. "You're slipping, Big Tom. That was almost a compliment."

"Nay!" Tom hissed, his eyes fire. "To attempt the impossible is the act of a fool! The nobles are fools, and the roads to their Utopias are paved with the bones of the peasants!"

Tuan spat. "And what else are they—"

"Be still!" Rod gave them both a shake. "Could I possibly persuade you to overlook your obvious differences in favor of the common good for a moment?"

Tom straightened to his full height and looked down his nose at Tuan. "Little man," he crooned.

Rod let go of Tuan and swung on Big Tom, grabbing the big man's collar with both hands. Tom grinned and brought up a hamlike fist. "Aye, master?"

"What's the Utopia right now, Big Tom?" Rod breathed.

Tom's grin faded to a frown. "Why, that the people of Gramarye should rule their land for themselves."

"Right!" Rod let go of Tom's collar, patting the man's cheek. "Bright boy! You get the silver star this week! And what do you have to do first?"

"Kill the councillors and noblemen!" Tom grinned.

"Very good! A gold star for the boy! You'll make valedictorian yet, Big Tom! Now, if you really want to be a good boy, tell teacher what you have to do before that!"

Tom sobered. "Jail the Mocker."

"A-plus! And what comes before that?"

Big Tom knit his brown, confused. "What?"

"Be quiet!" Rod roared in his face, in a stage whisper. He spun on Tuan. "Now! What do we do about that sentry?" And to himself, he mumbled, "Sheesh! I should maybe have brought a political convention in here!"

Tuan's chin jutted out stubbornly. "Ere we go further, this fellow must acknowledge me lord!"

Tom took a breath for a fresh blast.

"Down, boy!" Rod said hurriedly. "High blood pressure's bad for you! Is Tuan Loguire a nobleman born, Tom?"

"Aye," Tom grudged, "but that does not—"

"Is Loguire one of the greatest of the noble houses?"

"It is, but—"

"And your mother and father were peasants?"

"Yes, but that's not to say that—"

"And you have absolutely no wish to have been born a nobleman!"

"Never!" Tom hissed, eyes glowing. "May I be hanged from the highest gallows in Gramarye if ever I had wished that!"

"And you wouldn't want to be a nobleman if you could?"

"Master!" Big Tom pleaded, wounded to the core. "Hast so little regard for me that thou couldst think such of me?"

"No, I trust you, Big Tom," said Rod, patting his shoulder, "but Tuan has to be shown." He turned to the young nobleman. "You satisfied? He knows his place, doesn't he?"

"Aye." Tuan smiled like a fond father. "Fool I was to doubt him."

Understanding came into Tom's eyes as his mouth dropped open. His heavy hand closed on Rod's neck. "Why, thou lump of… !"

Rod reached up and squeezed Tom's elbow just at the funny bone. Tom let go, eyes starting from their sockets, mouth sagging in a cry of agony that he dared not voice.

"Now," said Rod briskly, "how do we get rid of that sentry?"

"Oh, thou scum!" Tom breathed. "Thou slimy patch of river-moss, thou mongrel son-of-a-democrat, thou!"

"Precisely," Rod agreed.

"Nay, but tell me," Tuan breathed in Rod's ear, eyes glowing. "What didst thou do to him? Thou didst but touch him and—"

"Uh… warlock trick," said Rod, falling back on the easiest, though most distasteful, excuse. He caught the back iof Tuan's neck and jerked the youth's head down into the huddle with himself and Big Tom. "Now, how do we knock out that sentry?"

"There is but one way," murmured Tuan. "Wake him and fight him."

"And let him give the alarm?" Tom stared, horrified. "Nay, nay! Come catpaw behind him, and give him a blow o' the head!"

"That," said Tuan grimly, "lacks honor!"

Tom spat.

"Big Tom's plan is okay," said Rod, "except what happens if he wakes while we're sneaking up? And there's a very good chance of it; that lecherous beggar proved it for us!"

Tom shrugged. "Then a quick rush, and a hope. If we die, then we die."

"And the Queen dies with us," Rod growled. "No good."

Tom pulled out his short sword and balanced it on a finger. "I'll strike him in the throat with this blade at full fifty paces."

Tuan stared, appalled. "A man of your own men, sirrah!"

"One for the good of the cause." Tom shrugged. "What of it?"

Tuan's eyes froze. "That is worse than a stab in the back! We must needs give him lief to defend himself."

"Oh, aye!" Tom snorted. "Lief to defend himself, and to raise the whole House with his cries! Lief to…"

Rod clapped a hand over each mouth, glad that he hadn't brought three men with him. He hissed at Big Tom, "Be patient, will you? He's new to commando work!"

Tom sobered.

Tuan straightened, eyes icy.

Rod put his mouth next to Tom's ear and whispered, "Look, if you hadn't known he was an aristocrat, how would you have judged him?"

"A brave man, and a strong fighter," Tom admitted, "though foolish and young, with too many ideals."

Rod shook a finger at him. "Prejudice, Big Tom! Discrimination! I thought you believed in equality!"

"Well said," Tom growled reluctantly; "I'll bear him. But one more of his pious mouthings and…"

"If we get this job done fast, he won't have a chance to. Now, I've got an idea."

"Then why didst thou ask us?" growled Tom.

" 'Cause I didn't get my idea till you two started haggling. What we need is a compromise solution, right? Tuan won't stand for a knife in the back, or a knife while the guy's sleeping, or for killing a loyal retainer who might make good cannon fodder tomorrow. Right?"

"Aye," Tuan agreed.

"And Big Tom won't stand for him giving the alarm—and neither will I, for that matter we're all good fighters, but just the three of us against the whole Houseful of cutthroats is straining the bonds of fantasy just a little bit far. So, Tom! If that sentry should come running around this corner all of a sudden, will you clobber him lightly?"

"Aye!" Tom grinned.

"Lightly, I said. Does that satisfy honor, Tuan?"

"Aye, since he faces us."

"Good! Now, if we could just get him to chase a mouse around this corner, we'd be all set."

"Aye," Tuan agreed, "but where's the mouse that would so nicely oblige us?"

"The master could make one," Tom growled.

"Make one?" Rod stared. "Sure if I had a machine shop and a…"

"Nay, nay!" Tuan grinned. "I know not those spells; but thou hast the witch-moss, and thou'rt a warlock! What more dost thou need?"

"Huh?" Rod swallowed. "Witches make things out of that stuff?"

"Aye, aye! Dost thou not know? Living things, small things—like mice!"

The missing piece in the puzzle of Gramarye clicked into place in Rod's mind. "Uh, say, how do they work that trick?"

"Why, they have but to look at a lump of the stuff, and it becomes what they wish it!"

Rod nodded slowly. "Very neat, ve-ry neat. The only hitch in the plan is, that's not my style of witchcraft."

Tuan sagged. "Thou craftest not witch-moss? Then how are we to… ? Still, 'tis most strange that thou shouldst not know of it."

"Not so," Tom dissented. "A very poor briefing bureau…"

"Oh, shut up!" Rod growled. "There are other ways to get a mouse." He cupped his hands around his mouth and called softly, "Gwen! Oh, Gwe-en!"

A spider dropped down on a thread right in front of his nose.

Rod jumped. "Ye cats! Don't do that, girl!"

"Vermin!" Tom hissed, and swung his hand back for a swat. Rod poked him in the solar plexus. "Careful, there!

Squash a spider, and you get bad luck, you know— namely, me!"

He cupped the spider in his hand and caressed it very gently with a finger. "Well, at least you didn't choose a black widow. Prettiest spider I ever saw, come to think of it."

The spider danced on his hand.

"Listen, sweetheart, I need a mouse to bring me that sentry. Can you handle it?"

The spider shape blurred, fluxed, and grew into a mouse.

It jumped from his hand and dashed for the corner.

"Oh, no you don't!" Rod sprang, cupped a hand over it, then very carefully picked it up. "Sorry, sweetheart, you might get stepped on—and if anything like that happened to you, I'd be totally crushed."

He kissed its nose, and heard Tom gagging behind him. The mouse wriggled in ecstasy.

"No," said Rod, running a fingertip over its back and pinching the tail, "you've got to make me one instead, out of that blob of witch-moss. Think you can handle it, pet?"

The mouse nodded, turned, and stared at the witch-moss.

Slowly, the blob pulled itself in, extruded a tendril into a tail, grew whiskers at the top end, changed color to brown, and a mouse crept down off the wall.

Tom gulped and crossed himself.

Rod frowned. "Thought you were an atheist."

"Not at times like this, master."

The witch-moss mouse scurried around the corner.

Big Tom lifted his dagger, holding it by the tip, the heavy, weighted handle raised like a club.

The snores around the corner stopped with a grunt.

"Gahhh! Nibble on me, will ya, y' crawlin' fer-leigh?"

The sentry's stool clattered over. He stamped twice, missed both times; then the waiting men heard running footsteps approaching.

Tom tensed himself.

The mouse streaked around the corner.

The sentry came right behind it, cursing. His feet slipped on the turn. He looked up, saw Tom, and had just time enough to begin to look horrified before Tom's knife-hilt caught him at the base of the skull with a very solid thunk.

Rod let out a sigh of relief. "At last!"

The sentry folded nicely into Tuan's waiting arms. The young nobleman looked at Rod, grinning.

"Who fights by the side of a warlock," he said, "wins."

"Still, it was a pretty ratty trick," said Rod sheepishly.

Tom winced and pulled a length of black thread from his pouch.

"Nay, that will not hold him," Tuan protested.

Tom's only answer was a grin.

"Fishline?" Rod lifted an eyebrow.

"Better," said Big Tom, kneeling, beginning to wrap up the sentry. "Braided synthetic spider silk."

"And we owe it all to you," said Rod, petting the mouse in his hand.

It wriggled its nose, then dove between the buttons on his doublet.

Rod stifled a snicker, cupped a hand over the lump on his belly. "Hey, watch it! That tickles!"

Tom had the sentry nicely cocooned, with a rag jammed in his mouth and held in place by a few twists of thread.

"Where shall we hide him?" Tuan whispered.

"There's nary a place close to hand," Tom mut-tered, tongue between his teeth as he tied a Gordion knot.

"Hey!" Rod clapped a cupped hand over a lump moving south of his belt buckle. "Cut that out!"

"There's a torch-sconce on this wall," saidTuan, pointing.

"The very thing," Tom growled. He heaved the inert sentry up, hooked one of the spider-thread loops over the sconce.

Rod shook his head. "Suppose someone comes by this way? We can't have him hanging around like that."

He reached in his doublet and hauled the mouse away from its exploratory tour of his thorax. "Listen, baby, you know what a dimensional warp is?"

The mouse rolled its eyes up and twitched its whiskers. Then it shook its head firmly.

"How about a uh, time-pocket?"

The mouse nodded eagerly; then the little rodent face twisted up in concentration… and the sentry disappeared.

Tuan goggled, mouth gaping open.

Big Tom pursed his lips, then said briskly, "Ah… yes! Well, let's get on with it, then."

Rod grinned, put the mouse on the floor, turned it around, gave it a pat on the backside.

"Get lost, you bewitching beast. But stay close; I might need you."

The mouse scampered off with a last squeak over her shoulder.

"The Mocker will be sleeping in what was Tuan's chamber, I doubt not," Tom muttered, "and his lieutenants, we may hope, will not be far off."

"May not one of them be wakeful?" whispered Tuan. "Or might one be set Master of the Watch?"

Tom turned slowly, eyeing Tuan with a strange look on his face. He raised an eyebrow at Rod. "A good man," he admitted, "and a good guess." Then, "Follow," and he turned away.

They were able to bypass the only other sentry between themselves and the common room.

The room itself, cavernous and slipshod as ever, was lit only by the smoky glow from the great fireplace, and a few smoldering torches. It was enough, however, to make out the great stone staircase that curved its way up the far wall with a grace that belied its worn treads and broken balustrade.

A gallery jutted out into the hall at the top of the stair. The doors opening off it gave onto private rooms.

A broad-shouldered, hatchet-faced man sat sprawled and snoring in a huge chair by the side of the vast fireplace. A sentry stood guard at the foot of the great staircase, blinking and yawning. Two more guards slouched at either side of the door in the center of the balcony.

"Here's a pretty mess," said Big Tom, ducking back into the hallway. "There's one more of them than there are of us, and they be so far between that two must surely take alarm as we disable two others."

"To say nothing of that wasteland of lighted floor that we have to cross to get to any of them," Rod added.

"We might creep up through the tables and stools," Tuan suggested, "and he at the foot of the stairs must surely nod himself asleep ere long."

"That takes care of the two on the ground floor," Rod agreed, "but how about the pair on the balcony?"

"To that," said Tuan,' T have some small skill at the shepherd's bow."

He drew out a patch of leather with two rawhide thongs wrapped about it.

"How didst thou leam the craft of that?" Tom growled as Tuan unwound the strings. " Tis a peasant's weapon, not a lordling's toy."

There was a touch of contempt in the glance Tuan threw Tom. "A knight must be schooled in all weapons, Big Tom."

Rod frowned. "I didn't know that was part of the standard code."

"It is not," Tuan admitted. "But 'tis my father's chivalry, and mine, as you shall see. Both yon knaves shall measure their length on cold stone ere they could know what has struck them."

"I don't doubt it," Rod agreed grimly. "Okay, let's go. I'll take the one by the fireplace."

"Thou'lt not," Big Tom corrected him. "Thou'lt take him by the stairway."

"Oh? Any particular reason?"

"Aye." Tom grinned wolfishly. "He in the great chair is the lieutenant that Tuan foresaw—and one among those who ha' jailed me. 'Tis my meat, master."

Rod looked at Tom's eyes and felt an eerie chill wind blow up along his spine.

"All right, butcher," he muttered. "Just remember, the lady's not for carving, yet."

" 'Let each man pile his dead according to his own taste and fashion,' " Tom quoted. "Go tend your corpses, master, and leave me to mine."

They dropped to their bellies and crawled, each to his own opponent.

To Rod, it was an eternity of table-legs and stool-feet, with plenty of dropped food scraps between, and the constant fear that one of the others might reach his station first and get bored.

There was a loud, echoing clunk.

Rod froze. One of the others had missed his footing.

There was a moment's silence; then a voice called, "What was that?" Then, "Eh, you there! Egbert! Rouse yourself, sot, and have a mind for the stairs you're guarding!"

"Eh? Wot? Wozzat?" muttered a bleary, nearer voice; and, "What fashes ye?" grumbled a deeper, petulant voice from the fireplace. "Must ye wake me for trifles?"

There was a pause; then the first voice said, with a note of obsequiousness, " 'Twas a noise, Captain, a sort of a knock 'mongst the tables."

"A knock, he says!" growled the captain. "A rat, mayhap, after the leavings, nowt more! Do ye wake me for that? Do it more, an' thou'lt hear a loud knock indeed, a blow on thy hollow head." Then the voice grumbled to itself, "A knock, i' faith! A damned knock!"

Then there was silence again, then a muted clang as one of the sentries shifted his weight uneasily.

Rod let out a sigh of relief, slow and silent.

He waited for the sentry to start snoring again.

Then he wormed his way forward again, till at last he lay quiet under the table nearest the stairway.

It seemed he lay there for a very long time.

There was a piercing whistle from the fireplace, and a clatter as Big Tom overturned a stool in his charge.

Rod sprang for his man.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Tuan leap upright, his sling a blurred arc; then Rod crashed into the sentry, fist slamming at the midriff, left hand squeezing the throat.

The man folded. Rod chopped at the base of the skull lightly, just under the iron cap, and the sentry went limp.

He looked up just in time to see a sentry on the balcony sag to the floor. The other lay writhing on the stones, hands clasped at his throat.

Rod was up the stairs in five leaps. He landed a haymaker on the man's jaw. The man's eyes closed as he went under.

His larynx was pushed out of line. It was not a pretty sight.

But at that, he'd been lucky. If it had been a direct blow, his trachea would have been crushed.

His companion hadn't been so lucky. The pebble had crushed his forehead. Blood welled over his face and puddled to the floor.

"Forgive me, man," whispered Tuan, as he contemplated his handiwork. Rod had never seen the boy's face so grim.

"Fortunes of war, Tuan," he whispered.

"Aye," Tuan agreed, "and had he been my peer, I could dismiss it at that. But a man of my blood is intended to protect the peasants, not slay them."

Rod looked at the boy's brooding face and decided it was men like the Loguires who had given aristocracy what little justification it had had.

Tom had glanced once and turned away to bind the remaining man, his face thunderous.

There had been only the one casualty; the captain and stair-guard lay securely trussed with Tom's black thread.

Tom came up, glowering at Tuan. " 'Twas well done," he growled. "You took two of them out, and were able to spare the one; tha'rt braw fighter. And for the other, do not mourn him: thou couldst scarce take the time for better aim."

Tuan's face was blank in confusion. He couldn't rightly object to Tom's manner; yet it was disquieting to have a peasant offer him fatherly advice, and forgiveness.

Rod gave him an out. "You used to sleep there?" He jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the door the sentries had guarded.

He broke through Tuan's abstraction; the youth turned, looked, and nodded.

"Well, that's where the Mocker'll be, then." Rod looked up at Tom. "That captain downstairs was one of the Mocker's cadre?"

"Aye."

"That leaves two lieutenants, then. How's chances for one of them being in each of these rooms next to the Mocker's?" As Tom pulled at his lower lip and nodded , Rod went on: "One for each of us, then. You boys take the lieutenants. I'll take the Mocker."

He turned to the door. Big Tom's meaty hand fell on his shoulder.

"How now?" growled the big peasant. "How is the Mocker your meat, not mine?"

Rod grinned. "I'm the middleman, remember? Besides, what belt do you hold?"

"Brown," Tom admitted.

"And the Mocker?"

"Black," Tom answered reluctantly. "Fifth dan."

Rod nodded. "I'm black, eighth dan. You take the lieutenant."

Tuan frowned. "What is this talk of belts?"

"Just a jurisdictional dispute; don't worry about it." Rod turned to the center door.

Big Tom caught his arm again. "Master," and this time he sounded like he meant it. "When this is done, thou must teach me."

"Yeah, sure, anything. I'll get you a college degree, just let's get this over with, shall we?"

"I thank thee." Tom grinned. "But I've a doctorate already."

Rod did a double take, then stared at him. "In what?"

"Theology."

Rod nodded. "That figures. Say, you haven't come up with any new atheist theories, have you?"

"Master!" Tom protested, wounded. "How can one prove or disprove the existence of a non-material being by material data? 'Tis an innate contradiction of—"

"Gentlemen," said Tuan sarcastically, "I greatly dislike to interrupt so learned a discourse, but the Mocker awaits, and may shortly awake."

"Huh?Oh! Oh, yes!" Rod turned to the door. "See you in a few minutes, Big Tom."

"Aye, we must have further converse." Tom grinned and turned away to the right-hand door.

Rod eased his own door open, hands stiffened.

The door creaked. It groaned. It shrieked. It lodged formal protest.

Rod threw himself forward, having just time to realize that the Mocker had left his hinges carefully unoiled as a primitive but very effective burglar alarm, before the Mocker screamed "Bloody Murder!" and jumped from his bed, hands chopping.

Rod blocked an overhand blow and thrust for the solar plexus. His hand was skillfully rerouted, the Mocker's scream for help dinning in his ears.

Rod had just time to appreciate the humor of a black belt calling for help before he saw the kick smashing at his groin.

He leaped back, and the Mocker leaped after him. This time, the kick landed.

Rod rolled on the floor, curled around his agony.

He saw the foot aimed at his jaw and managed to turn his head aside just enough; the foot glanced off the side of his head.

He saw a shower of red asterisks, glowing against black, and shook his head frantically, trying to clear it.

Through the ringing in his ears, he heard another scream, suddenly cut off, then a thud; then Big Tom was bellowing, "Thy sling, Tuan! There'll be guards to answer that scream!"

Then the big man was bending over him, face close. "How bad art thou hurt, master?"

Rod had never known stale beer and onions could smell so good.

"I'm all right," he gasped. "The blow landed a little off-center, thank heaven!"

"Canst thou stand?"

"In a minute. Gwen may be in for a temporary disappointment, though. How'd you do it, Big Tom?"

"Caught his foot on the upswing," Tom grinned, "and threw him high. Then I got in an uppercut ere he landed."

Rod stared. "A what?"

"An uppercut. A haymaker."

Rod rolled over, got his knees under him, shook his head in amazement. " 'Uppercut takes out Black Belt.' Call the newspapers."

There was a cry outside, choked off suddenly.

Rod's head snapped up, listening. Then he stumbled to his feet, hands still pressed to his groin, and all but fell out the door, ignoring Big Tom's solicitous protests.

Three more bodies lay on the stone floor of the common room.

Tuan stood at the balcony rail, sling stretched tight between his hands, jaw clamped shut, bleak dismay in his eyes.

"First the one came," he said in a monotone, "then the other, then the third. The first two I dispatched ere they could cry; but on the third, I was tardy." Tuan turned back to the hall. After a moment, he said, slow and hard, "I do not like this killing."

Then his vision cleared.

"Huh." Rod nodded, gasping, as a brief spasm of nausea made him clutch at the railing. "No man worthy to be called a man does like it, Tuan. Don't let it worry you. It's war."

"Oh, I ha' slain before." Tuan's lips pressed thin. "But to slay men who three days agone drank my health…!"

Rod nodded, closing his eyes. "I know. But if you have any hope of being a king, Tuan, or even a good Duke, you've got to learn not to let it bother you."

He looked up at the boy. "Besides, remember— they'd have killed you if they could."

Tom came out on the balcony, carrying the trussed-up Mocker in his arms, like a baby.

He looked briefly at the common room; his face hardened. "More killing?"

He turned away, laying the Mocker carefully on the floor next to the prone bodies of his lieutenants, and sighed. "Ay de mi! But 'tis the times, and the fashion ."

He bent to the work of binding up one of the lieutenants, a tall, emaciated skeleton of a man with a scar where he should have had an ear, a souvenir of royal justice.

Rod looked, and nodded; the Mocker had chosen his confederates well. They had cause for hating the monarch.

Rod slowly straightened, wincing at the pain.

Tuan glanced at him. "Thou ought to seat thyself and take rest, Rod Gallowglass."

Rod pulled in a sharp, quick breath and shook his head. "It's just pain. Hadn't we better cart these three down to the dungeon?"

A gleam sparked in Tuan's eye. "Nay. Bind them and keep them here; I have uses for them."

Rod frowned. "What do you mean, uses?"

Big Tom held up a hand. "Do not ask, master. If Tuan has need of them, let him have them. This lad knows his craft; I ha' ne'er seen, and but rarely heard, of any man who could so sway the mob."

He turned and leaped down the stairs, checked for heartbeats in the fallen men, bound up the one that still lived, and dragged them all under the balcony. Then he caught up the their lieutenant from the hearth, slung him over a shoulder.

"Tom!" Tuan called, and the big man looked up.

"Bring that horn that hangs o'er the mantle, and the drum beside it!" Tuan called.

Tom nodded and took down the battered, curled hunting horn from its nail and plucked one of the rude drums—nothing more than an empty cask with hide stretched over each end—from its place on the mantle.

Rod frowned, perplexed. "What do you want the drum and bugle for?"

Tuan grinned. "Canst play at the horn?"

"Well, I wouldn't exactly qualify for first chair in the Philharmonic, but…"

"Thou'lt do," said Tuan, eyes dancing.

Big Tom bounded back up the stairs with the Mocker's lieutenant over one shoulder and the trumpet and drum over the other.

He dropped the instruments and laid the bound man by his companions.

He straightened, fists on hips, grinning. "Halloa, my masters! What would you have us do with 'em, lordling?"

"Do thou take the drum," said Tuan, "and when I give the word, hang these four from the balcony rail, but not by their necks. Tis far more to our credit we've taken them living."

Rod cocked an eyebrow. "Not that old wheeze about being powerful enough to be merciful?"

He didn't hear the answer, because Tom started pounding the drum. The tenor throbbing filled the room.

Rod caught up the horn.

Tuan grinned, jumped up on the rail, stood with feet wide apart and arms folded. "Summon them, Master Gallowglass," he shouted.

Rod set the mouthpiece to his lips and blew "Reveille."

It sounded rather weird on a hunting horn, but it had its effect. Before he was halfway through with the second chorus, the hall had filled with beggars, muggers, lame, one-armed, thieves and cutpurses and murderers .

Their muttering, surf and wind before a storm, filled the hall as an undercurrent to the drum and horn. They were fresh-woken, bleary-eyed and fuzzy-brained, hurling a thousand incredulous questions at one another, shaken and cowed to see Tuan, whom they had jailed, standing tall and proud in the hall he'd been exiled from.

He should fear them; he should have feared to return; and if he had come back, it should have been as a thief in the night, skulking and secret.

Yet here he stood, free in their eyes, summoning them to him with bugle and drum—and where was the Mocker?

They were shaken, and more than a little afraid. Men who had never been taught how to think now faced the unthinkable.

Rod ended with a flourish, and flipped the trumpet away from his lips, whirling it in a flashing circle to land belldown at his hip.

Big Tom gave the drum a last final boom.

Tuan held his hand out to Tom and began clicking his fingers very softly.

The drum spoke again, throbbing, insistent, but very soft.

Rod looked up at Tuan, who was grinning, arms akimbo, a royal elf come into his kingdom. He looked down at the audience, shaken and fearful, staring, mouths agape, at the lordly, commanding figure above them.

Rod had to admit it was a great way to open a speech.

Tuan flung up his arms, and the hall stilled, except for the low-pitched throb of Tom's drum.

"You cast me out!" Tuan shouted.

The mob shrank back on itself, muttering, fearful.

"Cast out, thrown to exile!" Tuan called. "You had turned your eyes from me, turned away from me, thought never to look upon me!"

The muttering grew, began to take a surly, desperate quality.

"Was I not banished?" Tuan called, then, "Be still!" he snapped.

And, miraculously, the room stilled.

He leveled an accusing forefinger at the crowd and growled, "Was I not banished?"

This time there werea few muttered "Ayes."

"Was I not?"

The mutter of "Ayes" grew.

"Was I not?"

"Aye!" rolled across the heads of the crowd.

"Did you not call me traitor?"

"Aye," the crowd growled again.

"Yet here I stand," Tuan cried, "strong and free, and master again of the House of Clovis!"

Nobody disputed it.

"And where are the real traitors, who would ha' seen you all torn to bits in hopeless battle?The traitors, who ha' turned this House to a jail in my absence? Where are they now, to dispute my mastership?"

He rested his hands on his hips while the crowd took up the question in its own ranks, and Tom quickly lashed ten feet of thread to the Mocker's bonds, lashing the other end to a railing-pillar. As the mutters of "Where?" and "The Mocker!" began to grow, he served the three lieutenants likewise.

Tuan let the mutters swell and grow; then, just as they hit their peak, he gave Tom the signal.

Tom and Rod threw the bound men over, where they hung two on each side of Tuan. The Mocker had regained consciousness; he began writhing and kicking at die end of his rope.

A shocked silence filled the hall.

Tuan grinned and folded his arms.

The crowd roared, like one huge, savage beast, and pressed forward. The front ranks began to jump at the dangling feet. Obscene epithets, cursing the Mocker and his men, blasted from the packed floor.

"Behold!" Tuan shouted, throwing up his arms, and the crowd fell silent. "Behold them, the traitors who once you called masters! Behold them, the traitors, the thieves who took from you all the liberty I had gained for you!"

Big Tom was grinning, eyes glowing and fixed on the young lord, swaying to the rhythm of the boy's words.

For, truly, the lad seemed twelve feet tall now.

"Were you not born without masters?" Tuan shouted.

"Aye!" the crowd roared at him.

"You were born to freedom!" Tuan bellowed. "The freedom of outlawry and poverty, aye, but born free!"

Then, "Were you not born wild?" he fairly shrieked; and:

"Aye!" the crowd shrieked in response, "Aye, aye! Aye!"

"Did I steal your freedom from you?"

"Nay, nay!"

A twisted hunchback with a patch over his eye shouted, "Nay, Tuan! You gave us more!"

The crowd clamored.

Tuan crossed his arms again, grinning, letting the acclamation run its course.

When it had just passed his peak, he threw up his arms again, and shouted. "Did I tell you?"

Silence fell.

"Did I tell you that you must have my permission for a night's loving?"

"Nay!" they roared back, both sexes united for a change.

"And never I will!"

They cheered.

Tuan grinned, and bowed his head in thanks, almost shyly.

"And yet!" Tuan's voice dropped down low, surly, angry. He hunched forward, one fist clenched, shaking at the audience. "When I came back to your halls this dark eventide, what did I find?" His voice rose, building . "You had let these base knaves steal away all I had given you!"

The crowd roared.

Tuan flicked his left hand: Tom struck the drum with a boom that cut the crowd short.

"Nay, more!" Tuan cried. His forefinger jabbed out at the crowd, his eyes seeking hot individual faces. His voice was cold, now, and measured. "I found that in your base cowardice you had let them steal from you even that liberty you were born with!"

The crowd murmured, frightened, unsure. The front ranks shrank back.

"Even your birthright you had let them steal from you!"

The murmuring was a wave of fright at the contempt in the silver tongue.

"You would let them take from you even bed-freedom!"

He flicked his hand; the drum boomed.

"And you call yourselves men!" Tuan laughed, harsh and contemptuous.

The murmuring wave came back at him now, with sullen, protesting voices. "We are men!" someone cried, and the crowd took it up, "We are men! We are men! We are men!"

"Aye!" shrieked the eye-patched hunchback. "But give us these dangling knaves who h' robbed us, Tuan, and we shall prove we are men! We shall rend them, shall flay them! We shall leave not an ounce of flesh to cling to their bones! We shall crack even their bones and hale out the marrow!"

The crowd howled in blood-lust.

Tuan straightened and folded his arms, smiling grimly. The crowd saw him; their roar subsided to a growl, with an undertone of guilt, then broke up into sullen lumps of murmurs, and stilled.

"Is this manhood?" said Tuan, almost quietly. "Nay!" His arm snapped out, pointing, accusing. "I ha' seen packs of dogs could do better!"

The muttering ran through the crowd, growing angrier, louder and louder.

"Careful, there!" Rod called to Tuan. "You'll have them tearing us apart next!"

"No fear," said Tuan, without taking his eyes from the crowd. "Yet let it work a while."

The muttering rose sharply. Here and there a man shouted, angry shouts, fists waved at Tuan where he stood on the balcony rail.

Tuan flung up his arms again, shouting, "But I say you are men!"

The crowd quieted, staring.

"There are others who slander you; but I call you men!" Then, looking from face to face: "And who will gainsay me?"

For a moment, they were quiet; then someone called, "None, Tuan!" and another answered, "None!"

"None!" called the several, and "None!" called the many, till "None!" roared the crowd.

"Will you prove you are men?" Tuan shouted.

"Aye!" the crowd bellowed.

"Will you fight?" Tuan howled, shaking a fist.

"Aye!" they cried, crowding closer with blood-thirst.

Tuan's hands shot out waist-high, palms down, fingers spread.

The crowd stilled.

His voice was hushed, chanting. "You were born to filth and the scabs of disease!"

"Aye," they muttered.

"You were born to the sweat of your joints, and the ache of your back in hard labor!"

"Aye!"

"You were born to the slack, empty belly and the want of a home!"

"Aye!"

"Who filled your bellies? Who gave you a roof for your head in this very house?"

"You did!"

"Who gave you a fortress?"

"You did!"

"Who?"

"You!"

"Tell me the name!"

"Tuan Loguire!" they shrieked.

"Aye!" Tuan's hands went out again; he stood crouched, eye afire.

"This was the misery I took from you. But who gave it to you at birth? Who is it has beaten you down, century upon century, from father to son, age upon age to the time of your remotest grandfathers?"

The crowd muttered, uncertain.

"The peasants?"

"Nay," the crowd answered.

"Was it the soldiers?"

"Aye!" they shouted, come to life again.

"And who rules the soldiers?"

"The nobles!"

Rod winced at the hate they packed into the word.

"Aye! 'Twas the nobles!" Tuan shouted, thrusting upward with his fist, and the crowd howled.

He let pandemonium reign for a few moments, then threw up his arms again.

Then his hands dropped down to belt-level again; he fell into the crouch.

"Who!" he demanded, and the drum throbbed behind him. "Who! Who alone of all the high-born took your part? Who gave you food when you cried for it, heard your petitions? Who sent judges among you, to give you justice instead of a nobleman's whim?"

His fist thrust upward with his whole body behind it, "The Queen!"

"The Queen!" they echoed him.

"She shut her ears to the noblemen, that she might hear your cries!"

"Aye!"

"She hath shed tears for you!"

"Aye!"

"Yet," cried the hunchback, "she cast you out, our Tuan Loguire!"

Tuan smiled sourly. "Did she? Or did she send me among you!" He threw up his arms, and they roared like an avalanche.

"It is the Queen who has given you your birthright again!"

"Aye!"

"Are you men?" Tuan shouted.

"We are!"

"Will you fight?"

"We will fight! We will fight!"

"Will you fight the noblemen?"

"Aye!"

"Will you fight for your Queen?"

"Aye!"

"Will you fight the noblemen for Catharine your Queen?"

"Aye! Ayeayeayeaye/"

Then the noise of the crowd covered all. The people leaped and shouted; men caught women and swung them about.

"Have you weapons?" Tuan shouted.

"Aye!" A thousand daggers leaped upward, gleaming.

"Catch up your packs, fill them with journeybread! Burst out of this house, through the south gate of the city! The Queen will give you food, give you tents! So run you all to the South, south along the great highway to Breden Plain, there to wait for the noblemen!

"Go doit!" he shouted. "Go nowiFor the Queen!"

"For the Queen!"

Tuan flipped his hand; the drum boomed loud and fast. "Hunting call!" Tuan snapped in aside to Rod.

Rod flourished the trumpet to his lips and began the quick, bubbling notes.

"Go!" Tuan roared.

The people broke, to their rooms, to the armory. In ten minutes time they had caught up packs, staffs, and knives.

"It is done!" Tuan leaped down off the rail to the balcony floor. "They'll ha' run down to Breden Plain in two days!" He grinned, slapping Big Tom's shoulders. "We ha' done it, Tom!"

Tom roared his laughter and threw his arms about Tuan in a bear-hug.

"Whew!" Tuan gasped as Tom dropped him. He turned to Rod. "Do you, friend Gallowglass, tell the Queen, and see that the word of it goes out to her soldiers. Tell her to send meat, tents, and ale, and right quickly. And do you hurl these lackeys"—his thumb jerked at the Mocker and his lieutenants—"deep into the Queen's dungeon. Farewell!" And he was bounding and leaping down the stairs.

"Hey, wait a minute!" Rod shouted, running to the rail. "Where do you think you're going?"

"To Breden Plain!" Tuan shouted, stopping to look back up. "I must guard my people, or they'll strip the countryside worse than any plague of locusts could do, and kill themselves off in a fight o'er the spoils. Do you tell Catharine of my"—he paused; a shadow crossed his face—"loyalty."

Then he was gone, leading the mob that boiled out the great front doors of the house, running before them in a wild, madcap dance.

Rod and Tom exchanged one glance, then turned and ran for the stairs to the roof.

They watched from the rooftop as the chanting mob poured out the south gate. Somehow, by means of the chant, Tuan had gotten them moving in good order, almost marching.

"Do you think he needs any help?" Rod murmured.

Tom threw back his head and guffawed. "Him, master? Nay, nay! Rather, help those who come up against him, with that army at his back!"

"But only one man, Tom! To lead two thousand misfits!"

"Canst doubt it, master, when thou hast seen his power? Or didst thou not see?"

"Oh, I saw." Rod nodded, light-headed. 'There's more witchcraft in this land than I thought, Big Tom. Yes, I saw."

"Waken the Queen, and beg of her that she join us here in her audience chamber!" Brom snapped at a hastily-wakened lady-in-waiting. "Go!"

He slammed the door and turned to the fireplace, where Rod sat with a bleary-eyed Toby, rudely awakened after only an hour o sleep; the nightly party in the Witches' Tower had run a little late tonight. He held a steaming mug in his hand and a throb in his head.

"Assuredly," he muttered thickly, "we wish to aid the Queen in any manner we may; but what aid would we be in a battle?"

"Leave that to me." Rod smiled. "I'll find something for you to do. You just get the Queen's Witches down to Breden Plain by… uh…"

"Three days hence." Brom smiled. "We march at dawn, and will be three days in our journey."

Toby nodded, hazily. "We shall be there, my masters. And now, with your leave…"

He started to rise, gasped, and sank back in his chair, hand pressed to his head.

"Easy there, boy!" Rod grasped an elbow, steadying him. "First hangover?"

"Oh, nay!" Toby looked up, blinking watery eyes.

" 'Tis but the first time I've been wakeful when the drunk turned to the hangover. If you'll pardon me, masters…"

The air slammed at their eardrums as it rushed in to fill the space where Toby had been.

"Uh…yes," Rod said. He shook his head and eyed Brom. "Teleportative, too?"

Brom frowned. "Tele-what?"

"Uh…" Rod closed his eyes a moment, cursing the slip of the tongue. "I take it he's just gone back to bed."

"Aye."

"He can disappear from here and reappear there?"

"Quick as thought, aye."

Rod nodded. "That's what I thought. Well, itoughta come in handy."

"What wilt thou have them do, RodGallowglass?"

"Oh, I dunno." Rod waved his mug airily. "Conjure up feathers inside the Southern knights' armor, maybe. Or something like that, good for a joke. They'll just die laughing."

"Thou knowest not what thou'lt be having them do, yet thou would bring them?"

"Yeah, I'm beginning to think a little witchcraft can come in handy at times."

"Aye." Brom smiled covertly. "She hath saved your life twice over, hath she not?"

Rod swung about. "She? Who? She who, huh? What're you talking about?"

"Why, Gwendylon!" Brom's smile absorbed mischief.

"Oh, yes! Uh… you know of her?" Rod raised a cautious eyebrow; then he smiled, relaxing. "No, of course you'd know of her. I forget; she's on pretty good terms with the elves."

"Aye, I know of her." Brom's eyebrows pinched together. "Nay, but tell me," he said, almost anxiously, "didst thou love her?"

"Love her?" Rod stared. "What the hell business is that of yours?"

Brom waved a hand impatiently." Tis of concern to me; let it pass at that. Dost thou love her?"

"I won't let it pass at that!" Rod drew himself up with a look of offended honor.

"I am Prince of the Elves!" Brom snapped. "Might I not have concern for the most powerful witch in all Gramarye?"

Rod stared, appalled. "The most… what?"

Brom smiled sourly. "Thou didst not know? Aye, Rod Gallowglass. 'Tis a most puissant wench thou hast grappled with. Therefore, do you tell me:dost thou love her?"

"Well, uh, I, uh…I don't know!" Rod sat, cradling his head in his hands. "I mean, uh, this is all so sudden,I, uh…"

"Nay, nay!" Brom growled impatiently. "Surely thou must know if thou lovest!"

"Well, I mean, uh… well, no, I don't know! I mean, that's a subject that it's a little hard to be objective about, isn't it?"

"Thou dost not know?" Thunderclouds gathered in Brom's face.

"No, damn it, I don't!"

"Why, thou fool of a puking babe, thou mock of a man! Dost thou not know thine own heart?"

"Well, uh, there's the aortic ventricle, and, uh.

"Then how am I to know if thou lovest her?" Brom thundered.

"How the hell should I know?" Rod shouted. "Ask my horse!"

A quivering page thrust his head in, then came quivering into the room. "My lords, her Majesty the Queen!"

Brom and Rod swung about, bowed.

Catharine entered in a dressing gown of the royal purple her loosened hair a pale, disordered cloud around her head. She looked very tired, and scarcely wakened.

"Well, milords," she snapped, seating herself by the fire, "what great news is it makes you waken me at so slight an hour?"

Rod inclined his head toward the page. The boy paled, bowed, and left.

"TheHouse of Clovis is up, into arms, and away," Rod informed her.

She stared, lips parting.

"They have boiled out of the south gate, and this very night run south toward Breden Plain."

Catharine's eyes closed; she sank back in her chair with a sigh. "May Heaven be praised!"

"And Tuan Loguire," Rod murmured.

Her eyes opened, staring. "Aye. And Tuan Loguire," she said reluctantly.

Rod turned away, running his hand over the mantle. "They must be sent food and drink, so that they will not strip the countryside as they pass. And a courier must ride ahead to tell soldiers to let them pass."

"Aye," she said grudgingly, "surely."

Her eyes wandered to the fire. "And yet it is strange, that they who have ever raised their voices in clamor against me, now should fight for me," she murmured.

Rod looked at her, his smile tight and ironic.

"Tuan…" she murmured.

Brom cleared his throat and stumped forward, hands locked behind his back. "And this very night," he growled, "have I spoken with the King of the Elves; all his legions are ours."

She was her old self again, smiling sourly. "Legions of elves, Brom O'Berin?"

"Oh, don't underestimate them." Rod rubbed the back of his head, remembering a clout on the skull and a prisoned werewolf. "And to top it off, we've got your own personal coven of witches…"

"… and the most powerful witch in all Grama-rye," Brom interjected.

"Uh,yes, and her," Rod agreed, with a shish-kebab glance at Brom. "All ready and eager to serve the only ruler in history who has protected witches."

Catharine's eyes had slowly widened as she listened; now her eyes took on a distant look, and wandered to the fire. "We will win," she murmured. "We will win!"

"Well, uh, with all due respect to your Majesty, uh, it might be a trifle more correct to say we stand an even chance."

Breden Plain was a delta, open to the south but closed on the north by the meeting of two rivers. A dense thicket of trees ran along each river, bordering the field. The field itself was tall grass and lavender.

Not that they could see much of it, Rod thought as he squatted by a campfire. A thick, chill mist covered the field; at least Rod, who had seen something of civilized smog, would have called it a mist; but Tuan, chafing his hands across the fire from Rod, shook his head and muttered, "A most dense and unclement fog, Master Gallowglass! 'Twill weigh heavily on the spirit of the troops!"

Rod cocked an eyebrow at him and listened to the sounds of revelry drifting over the field from the beggars' pickets. The witches were at it, too; the usual party had started at noon today, out of respect for the weather.

His shoulders shrugged with a snort of laughter. "Well, don't let it worry you, Tuan. The precog—uh, witches, say it'll be a beautiful, sunny day, tomorrow."

"And St. George be praised, we will not have to fight until then!" Tuan drew his cloak about him, shivering.

The latest word from Brom's miniature spies— whom Rod had immediately dubbed the Hobgoblin Associated Reconnaissance Korps—was that the Southern troops were just half a day away. Catharine had arrived with Brom and her army the preceding evening, and the beggars had been resting a full day already. They were, in fact, so primed and ready that Tuan was having a little trouble holding them in check; they were all for marching south and attacking the noblemen on the run.

"Still," said Rod, tugging at his lip, "I don't see why we should wait for morning to do the fighting. We could ambush them tonight, when they're drawing up their troops."

"Attack at night!" Tuan gasped, horrified.

Rod shrugged. "Sure, why not? They'll be tired from a day's march, and won't know where we are. We'd stand a much better chance of winning."

"Aye, and you would stand a better chance of killing a man if you kicked at his head while he was down!"

Rod sighed and forebore saying that he had once done exactly that, when the man was one of five excellently trained, seasoned killers who'd ambushed him. As a matter of fact, he'd fought dirtier than that with a lot less justification; but this didn't seem quite the time for telling it.

He did say, "I thought the point in fighting was to win."

"Aye," Tuan agreed, staring out into the fog toward the south end of the meadow, "but not by such foul means. Who would be loyal to a Queen who maintained her power thus?"

And that, Rod admitted, was the kernel of it. Prestige was everything on this world; and honor was the cornerstone of prestige.

"Well," he sighed, "you're the doctor."

Tuan frowned at him. "Doctor? I have no skill in healing."

"No, but you're an excellent practical psychologist. So I'll follow your lead when it comes to handling people."

Tuan smiled sadly, shaking his head. "FriendRod, I have no skill at ruling."

Rod allowed himself a skeptical look. "Well, maybe not, but you're one hell of a leader."

"Ho!" a voice bellowed.

Rod turned and grinned at the huge shape that loomed in the fog. "Everyone happy over there?"

Big Tom shouldered his way out of the mist, grinning. "Most happy, master. They've ne'er in their lives drunk such wine, or so much of it."

"Hmmm." Rod tugged at his lip. "Better roll the wine away in a little while. We don't want them drunk so soon before battle."

But, "Nay," Tuan corrected, almost automatically, Rod noticed. "Let them drink their fill; 'twill put them abed sooner. Then rouse them early in the morning and give each a tankard or two—then they'll fight like the very demons."

Well, Rod had to allow that was true. They weren't asking precision from the beggars, just wanted them to get out and beat up the enemy.

The night was pricked with the pinholes of watch-fires, softened by the lifting mist.

More dots of light sprang up to the south, where the noblemen and councillors were bringing up their army.

In the northern meadow, there was bawdy laughter and shouting, and the din of music, where the beggars were in the last stages of gleeful compliance with the order to get drunk as fast as possible.

On the hillside across the river there was a stern, disapproving silence, and the gentle glow of lamps within silken tents, where Catharine and her army of regulars went sober to bed.

But in the largest tent, Catharine's, things were anything but quiet.

"Nay, nay, and again I say nay!" she cried, angrily pacing the floor.

She swung about, clapping her hands sharply. "I shall have no more of your arguments! Have done, have done; for I will ride tomorrow at the head of my armies! I shall brook no further objection!"

Rod and Brom exchanged glances.

Tuan's face was beet-red with anger, frustration, and worry.

"Begone," snapped Catharine, and turned her back.

Reluctantly, the three men bowed, and filed out of the tent.

"What she will, she will," Brom growled. "We three must guard her, then, and leave the plan of the battle to SirMaris."

"That's one sure road to defeat," Rod growled.

"His way of running a battle is as outdated as the phalanx."

Brom sighed and rubbed his eyes. "But as I have said, I will die by her. Yet mayhap we shall live, for I have a slight plan."

He stumped away into the darkness before they could question him, from which Rod inferred that his "plan" was limited to buoying up Rod's and Tuan's spirits by insinuating that there was yet hope.

"We shall die in her defense," Tuan whispered, drawn and pale. "Yet when we are gone, she will die too, and for that I am loath." He spread his hands helplessly. "But what can I do?"

"Well…" Rod pursed his lips, and looked back over his shoulder at the lighted tent. "I know one way to make sure she won't ride tomorrow…"

"Tell it, then!" Tuan's face lit with frantic eagerness.

"Make sure she won't be able to sit down in the morning."

Tuan stared. A slow flush crept into his face, then drained away, leaving him pale and trembling. "What… dost… thou mean?" His voice was choked and threatening. He lifted a clenched, trembling fist.

Rod looked at him, frowned. "Why, spank her. Smack her so hard she'll have to stand till next Sunday. How else would you do it?"

Tuan's fist slowly dropped; the color came back to his face in a blush. "Oh," he said, and turned away. 'T truth," he said. " 'twould be well done."

"It's that, or let her die."

Tuan nodded, life coming back to him. He turned to the Queen's tent, paused a minute, then squared his shoulders. "That shall I do, then. Pardon me, friend Gallowglass, for my anger; for a moment I had thought you meant… something else."

He took a deep breath and stepped off briskly toward the tent.

He paused at the entrance, nodded at the guards, squared his shoulders again, and marched in.

Rod smiled, amused. "And I thought I had a dirty mind!"

He chuckled, shaking his head, and turned toward the witches' campfires, reflecting thatTuan's years in the House of Clovis had taught him a lot about life.

Gwendylon materialized out of the darkness (literally). She smiled shyly. "What amuses my lord?"

Rod grinned, caught her by the waist, and swung her up for a kiss, a warm kiss, and lasting.

"My lord!" she said, blushing prettily, patting her hair back into place.

The night breeze wafted a sudden slapping sound to them, accompanied by squeals and cries.

The guards at the tent jerked bolt upright, then swung toward the tent. One put up a hand to swing aside the cloth igt;f the doorway; but the second caught the hand and cried, "Does your Majesty require aid?"

"Stay out!" squealed an agonized voice. "On pain of your life, do not enter!"

The sentries exchanged puzzled looks, then shrugged and turned back to their posts, albeit with some nervous looks over their shoulders.

The squeals became muffled, then turned into sobs. The slapping sounds ceased.

Then all was still.

Rod looked down atGwen. "What are you grinning about?"

She looked up at him out of the corner of her eyes. "I had told you, my lord, that I can hear all thoughts but yours."

"Oh?"

"Aye. And there are most goodly thoughts in that tent at this moment."

The lights in the tent went out.

Gwendylon giggled and turned away. "Come, my lord. Twould be most improper to listen further. Come. Thou must be early abed this night."

"Waken, Rod Gallowglass!"

Something jarred his shoulder.

Rod growled and levered his eyes open. "What the hell do you think…"

He stopped as he saw the look on Brom's face.

"Aye," Brom growled. "Now robe thyself and come with me."

"I don't sleep naked on battle nights," Rod growled, and rose very carefully, so as not to disturb Gwendylon.

His face softened for a moment as he looked down at her. He touched his lips to her cheek. She stirred, murmured in her sleep, and smiled.

Then he rose, his face hardening.

Brom was already striding away through the chill predawn mist, beckoning curtly.

"All right, what's happened?" Rod growled as he caught up with Brom.

"Nay, be still!" Brom snapped, and was silent till they had climbed the hillside far above the tents.

Then he swung on Rod and snapped, "Now tell me! Dost thou love her?"

Rod's face emptied.

Then he said, softly, "You woke me just to ask that?"

"It is of some importance to me," Brom snapped. "Dost thou love her!"

Rod folded his arms, leaning back on one hip. "Just what the hell business is it of yours? What right have you to know my soul?"

Brom looked away, his face working; and when he spoke, the words seemed almost dragged out of him.

"She is my daughter, Rod Gallowglass."

He glanced up at Rod's stunned face, and a sardonic gleam came into his eye. "Aye. Thou scarce can credit it, canst thou?"

He turned away, looking out over the valley. His voice softened with memory and musing.

"She was naught but a servant-wench in the King's halls, Rod Gallowglass—yet I loved her. She was small, scarce half the height of another woman, yet still a head taller than I. And mortal, much too mortal.

"And she was beautiful, ah, so beautiful! And, strange though it may seem, highly desired by the men of the court. And yet"—Brom's voice took on a tone of wonder andawe—"yet she loved me. She alone, of all women living, elf or mortal, saw me not as dwarf, elf or Prince—but only as a man.

"And desired me…

"And loved me…"

He broke off, shaking his head in wonder.

He sighed. "I loved her, Rod Gallowglass, I loved her only, and begat a child within her."

His face darkened. He locked his hands behind his back and scowled at the ground. "When she proved by child, and her time grew apace, and she would soon be so swollen that all would know, and would shame her with cruel jests, though we were wed, I sent her away to the wild wood, to my people. And there, midwived by elves and leprechauns, she birthed a beautiful, laughing, part-elven child."

His eyes misted over. He lifted his head, staring through Rod. "She died. When her daughter was aged of two years, she died of a chill. And we buried her there, 'neath a tree in the forest. And yearly I come there…"

His eyes focused on Rod again. "But I had, still, the child."

He turned away, restless. "Yet what should I do? Raise her near me, and have her know her father for a gnarled thing, and the butt of bad jests? Raise her to shame of me?

"She was raised in the woods, therefore, knowing her mother's grave and the elves, but never her father."

Rod started to protest, but Brom waved him silent. "Be still! 'Twas better so!"

He turned slowly, murder in his eyes. "As 'tis still. And if ever she learns of it from thee, RodGallowglass, I'll hale out thy tongue by its roots, and lop off thy ears."

Stone-faced, Rod studied him, and found nothing to say.

"And therefore, now tell me!" Brom slammed his fists against his hips and lifted his chin. "For know this: half-mortal am I, and may therefore be slain; and it may be that this day I shall die."

His voice lowered. "So tell me, tell a poor, anxious father, an thou wilt: dost thou love my child?"

"Yes, "Rod said, low. Then, "So it was no accident that I met her on my ride south?"

Brom smiled, sourly. "Nay, of course not. Couldst thou ever have thought that it was?"

The east was reddening, embarrassed with dawn, and the mist lifting as Rod rode into the beggars' camp to waken them.

But Tuan was there before him, going from pallet to pallet, shaking the beggars awake. A soldier was with him, placing a mug of hot mulled wine by each pallet.

Tuan looked up, saw Rod, and came up to him with arms outstretched and a grin a yard wide.

He clapped Rod on the shoulder, gripped his hand in a crushing shake. There was a deep, almost intoxicated quiet content in his eyes.

"My thanks, friend Rod," he said simply. "Dost thou wish my life? Thou mayst have it! Such is the debt that I owe."

Rod smiled slyly. "So you made double sure, did you? Well, all the better."

Tuan seemed to have things well in hand in the beggars' camp, so Rod turned Fess's steps toward the witches' lines.

All was in good order there; the baskets with ropes and harnesses stood ready; and the morning brew was passing from hand to hand. It was a potent beverage, something like concentrated tea with a touch of brandy, and served much the same purpose: a stimulant, to bring the witch powers to their peak.

Elves were underfoot everywhere about the camp, distributing good luck tokens and preventive-magic charms to all who would take them. Witches or no witches, the little folk argued, it never hurt to be sure. The charms could do no harm, and they might…

There was nothing for Rod to do there, either, so he rode in search of Gwendylon.

He found her seated in die midst of a knot of witches, old ones, as Gramarye witches went; they must have been into their twenties.

Gwendylon seemed to be explaining something to them with great earnestness, marking diagrams in the dust with a pointed stick. They were hanging on her words as though every syllable might mean life or death.

It didn't look like a good time to interrupt.

Rod turned and rode through a maze of scurrying forms, cooking smells, clamor of voices and discordant bugle calls, out past the pickets into Breden Plain.

The first rays of sunlight slanted through the meadow now, burning away the last tatters of mist. The long grass was moist and chill with the dew, the sky clear and blue.

And the glitter of spear-points flashed from the south verge of the field. Sun gleamed off burnished armor. The wind blew him the metallic din, the horse-cries, and the mutter of a war-camp awaking. The councillors, too, were awake early.

Hooves approaching; Rod turned to see a page pelting across the meadows toward him.

"How now, my lad?" Rod called, grinning and waving for appearances.

"Thou must come to the Queen, Master Gal-lowglass," the page gasped, out of breath, as he clutched at Rod's stirrup. "My Lord O'Berin and the Lords Loguire are there already before you. 'Tis a council of war!"

The council of war was quickly over, no more than a summary of existent plans, and a brief prayer, plus the news that Catharine wouldn't ride after all. Rod had noticed that Catharine had stood through the meeting.

Then they were up and away, each to his station: Sir Maris to the center, old Duke Loguire to the right flank, and Rod to the left flank. Brom would stay high on the hillside with Catharine and Gwendylon, to direct the whole battle, an innovation Rod had recommended, and which Brom had accepted without reservation: the little man was a mighty fighter, but his legs weren't long enough to hold his seat in a joust.

Tom, offered the option of fighting with the beggars or staying by Rod, had chosen the latter option, probably because he wanted to be in the thick of the battle.

Tuan, of course, would stay with his beggars.

As Tuan swung into the saddle, Catharine stopped him with a hand on his knee. Rod saw her tie a veil of silk about Tuan's upper arm.

Then her hands lifted to him, pleading. Tuan caught them and pressed them to his mouth, bowed to kiss her lips, then wheeled his horse away, rode perhaps ten yards forward, then wheeled again.

They stood frozen a moment, the young Queen and the white knight. Then Tuan reared his horse, pivoted,, and galloped after his ragtag-and-patchwork troops.

Rod smiled covertly.

"The time to feel smug is not yet, Rod," Fess reminded him.

Rod made a face. "Who do you think you are, Pinocchio's Cricket?"

He turned back for one last look at Gwendylon, standing near the Queen's tent; then he rode for the left flank.

He was the only horseman who rode without armor.

It was full, 14th Century plate armor, on both sides of the field; but the Southern armor was massed together in a solid, glaring wall, while Catharine's knights were spaced out, twenty yards apart, over the length of the enemy line.

Yes, there are a few holes, Rod thought. And the single line of foot soldiers behind the Queen's knights didn't compare too favorably with the packed masses that backed the rebel lords. No, it was not a sight to inspire confidence.

But the beggars weren't in sight. Nor, for that matter, were the witches. Or the elves.

The rebels were in for some very unpleasant surprises.

At the southern end of the field, a bugle called.

The rebel knights couched their lances.

The Queen's knights followed suit.

There was a long, straining, pause; then the horses plunged forward.

Horses' hooves muttered and rose to the roar of an avalanche as the two metal lines fell toward each other.

And as they fell, the North's line drew it upon itself till the knights rode shoulder to shoulder in the center.

A cheer went up from the rebel line as they saw easy victory coming; it would be easy for the rebel flanks to sweep around the Northern line and trap the Queen's forces.

The Queen's knights met the center of the rebel line with a grinding crash. Knights were unhorsed and blood spurted, but the center of the line held.

And with a victorious roar the rebels swung about to outflank the North…

The yell broke into wild screams as the ground fell away beneath their mounts.

Knights and horses floundered in a six-foot trench.

The elves had done a good night's work.

The footmen came running up to their masters' rescue; but now the beggars broke howling from the trees at the sides of the field, with knife and sword and bludgeon, and fell on the footmen with extreme good will.

Still, they were vastly outnumbered.

But now the aerial arm got into the action. Teams of four levitating, fuzz-cheeked warlocks supported a swinging basket beneath them; and in each basket was a telekinetic witch. The warlocks fired arrows into the scrimmage at random, their hands freed by the leather harness at their waists; and pebbles flew out of the baskets, guided by the witches, to strike with more than enough impact to stun. Arrows speared up at them out of the Southern ranks; but the witches deflected them, and sometimes even managed to turn them back on their owners.

The simple, orderly battle deteriorated into hand-to-hand chaos.

But the Southern knights were still overly busy. The Code dictated that only a knight could fight another knight—a foot soldier could be killed just for trying it, and Heaven help him if he tried and won!

So Catharine's knights worked their way outward from the center along the rebel lines a large percentage of them dying on the way. But the percentage of rebels was greater, for Catharine, like her father before her, had seen fit to give her knights a little extra in the way of training.

Toby, the young warlock, suddenly appeared in the air just above Rod. "Master Gallowglass! The Duke Loguire is sorely pressed; you must come to him!"

He disappeared as abruptly as he had come. It might not have been the greatest form of military communication, but it was better than the rebels had.

Rod dispatched his current preoccupation with a parry and a thrust between breastplate and helmet and backed Fess out of the melee.

He ran around the lines to the other end of the line, where a spindly, armored-clad form with a glowing sword had just finished cutting its way through the troops to Loguire. One of the councillors was trying to save the day by eliminating the leadership. The sword had a strange, radiant quality. Rod didn't know what it was, but it was something mighty potent disguised as a sword.

Rod sailed into the ruckus, bulldozing his way through grappling pairs of beggars and soldiers, slipping in blood and loose heads.

Loguire saw the blow coming and threw up his shield to ward it off. The councillor's sword sheared through it silently, but missed Loguire. The old Duke yelled in pain as the heat was conducted through shield and armor to his skin and momentarily dropped his guard.

The councillor swung the sword up for the final blow.

Fess slammed full tilt into the councillor's horse. The animal went down and the councillor went flying with a scream of terror, sword flinging wide from his grasp.

Soldiers scurried back to be clear when the magic sword fell.

Rod, without the slightest tremor of conscience, wheeled about and trampled the councillor underFess's iron hooves. The man gave a bubbling scream, choked off; and the scream rang on in Rod's mind.

Now his conscience began to clamor; but he locked it away till the battle was done.

He whirled about toward the sword, hearing the soldiers gasp "Witchcraft!"

"No, just magic," Rod shouted as he swung down, caught the sword, and remounted. "That's not so strange, is it?"

He threw the sword to Loguire hilt-first; the old nobleman caught it and saluted him, and Rod broke out of the lines again.

The battle clamored about him, steel on steel and bone and gristle, no quarter asked. The locked armies lay in the middle of the field like some great, pulsing, obscene amoeba.

Overhead the esper-witches turned and wheeled home, no longer able to tell friend from foe.

Rod charged back and forth through the battle-lines—Fess plowing his way easily through mere mortal flesh—guarding the three generals and as many knights as he could, directing the clearing of the wounded when he could, adding the weight of his arm to break deadlocks.

The beggars seemed to have the soldiers hopelessly outclassed; this was their kind of fighting. Many of them were killed, but seldom without having first accounted for six or more of the enemy, with wooden staves, rusty swords, keen knives, and total disrespect for age and/or rank.

Rod thought of Karl Marx and winced.

Big Tom had long since gotten lost in the battle. Rod hoped he was all right.

Then at the back of the rebel line, Big Tom rose up roaring "To me! To me!"

A thousand beggars rallied to him and began to chop their way through the Southern ranks.

The idea spread; beggar groups sprang up all along the line, and began to press the amoeba of war in on itself.

Big Tom was hewing his way through to a very definite goal.

Rod frowned and stood up in his stirrups, trying to plot Big Tom's course.

There, in the center of the battle, twenty frantic scarecrows labored furiously to construct some sort of machine: a spidery tripod topped by a wasp-waisted contraption with alien curves. It was the councillors, with their last hope.

Rod rapped with his heels, and Fess leaped—but the robot had responded a touch slow. With a sense of dread, Rod realized that the strain of battle was beginning to tell on Fess.

The horse bounded over the heads of the army and plowed through to the force of councillors, just as Tom broke through from the other side, with only a fraction of his beggar troops.

A long, lurking moment of silence filled the little circle as the councillors saw their executioners.

Then the councillors howled, drawing back into a tight circle about the machine, the ferocity of despair in their eyes, their glowing swords leaping out.

Tom's boys circled out around the councillors and closed in.

The councillors' swords were deadly; but they had to hit to be effective, and the beggars were good at hitting and getting clear.

A lot of beggars dropped, cut in half; but a lot more lived. They outnumbered the councillors four to one. They whittled away at the ranks.

The councillors screamed, chopping, and died.

In the center of the circle, Rod could make out one lonely figure still working frantically at the machine—Durer.

Then, suddenly, there were only five councillors left.

Durer spun away from the machine with a shriek of despair and lugged something out of his wallet-pouch.

A laser-pistol.

Rod dropped down to Fess's far side, the bulk of the horse between him and the councillors, knowing that only a head shot could hurt the robot, and snapped open a hidden panel in his horse's side. In it was his last-ditch defense: the latest-issue DDT laser pistol.

He fumbled the weapon out, hearing the screams of the beggars as their legs were sheared off at the knee, and shot around under Fess's neck.

His shot creased Durer's leg. The scarecrow-man clasped his knee and fell, howling.

Tom bellowed.

The beggars stepped in. Oaken staves whirled, knocking the remaining councillors off their feet.

The staves rose high, poised a moment, and fell with a sickening, moist crunch.

Big Tom bellowed victorious laughter and scooped up a fallen councillor's sword.

Durer rolled back up to one knee and fired.

The red pencil of light caught Tom in the shoulder. He roared, spinning, and fell.

Half-crawling, half-leaping, Durer went for him, struggling to get a clear shot.

Rod snapped a shot at him, and missed.

Durer howled and dove behind a fallen body.

Rod slammed his heels into Fess. "Quick! Before he can recover to shoot!"

The horse leaped; the laser beam caught it in the belly—a hollow steel belly, no harm.

But the robot's legs stiffened, its head lolled forward, even while it was in the air.

Rod sprang free as Fess landed, crumpled, rolled.

Rod rolled too, came up to see Durer, risen to one knee, level the pistol at him.

Tom's huge body smashed into him.

Durer caromed away, pistol flying wide from his hand.

The same had happened to Rod's. He cast about him, frantically searching.

Tom rolled, came to his feet, lurched after Durer, catching up a fallen councillor's sword… and tripped over a body.

Quick as an eel, Durer was up, catching Tom's fallen sword, chopping down…

Rod dove.

His shoulder caught Durer in the belly, whipped the little man around; the sword landed harmlessly in the earth.

Durer leaned on the sword, kept his feet, and swung the sword up, turning to Rod.

Rod rolled to his knees, saw the sword coming…

Tom bellowed, slammed into Rod, striking him out of the sword's path.

The glowing sword fell, shearing off Tom's shoulder and a third of his rib cage.

Rod screamed as he rolled to his feet and swung around. His arm locked aroundDurer's throat, his knee came up into the small of the back. Something snapped.

Durer screamed and went limp, screaming still, the sword falling from his fingers.

Rod threw him down.

Still screaming, the scarecrow groped for the sword.

Rod dropped to his knee and chopped down.

The callused edge of his hand smashed larynx and vertebrae.

Durer gurgled, convulsed, and lay still.

Rod stood, gasping, and turned, to see Tom's shoulder pumping blood in great gouts, the big man's face contorted in a silent grimace.

Rod was down again, groping frantically in the welter of blood and spare bodies.

He came up with the laser pistol and swung back to Tom.

The remaining beggars lurched forward, too slow; before they could reach him, Rod pulled the trigger and, holding it down, sliced off another half-inch along Tom's wound. Tom screamed.

Then they were on Rod, mauling and clubbing.

"Nay!" Tom rasped, a sickening parody of his former bellow. "Fools, let him be! Do y'not see! He stopped the blood!"

He sank back as the grasping hands hesitated, then loosened. Rod limped back to him, bruised on face and body, rubbing the worst of them—his scarcely-healed shoulder.

He sank to one knee by the gasping hilk of a man, face still wrenched with pain. The stink of cauterized flesh filled his head.

Tom forced his eyes open a fraction and tried to grin. " 'Twas… well meant… master. Two minutes ago, it… might ha' saved me."

Rod jerked off his cloak, balled it up, thrust it under Tom's head. "Lie back and rest," he growled through a tight throat. "You're a healthy hunk, you'll make it. You haven't lost all that much blood."

"Nay," Tom panted," too much… lost. And the… body's shock…"

His face twisted with a spasm of pain. Rod turned away to Fess, slapped the reset switch and fumbled in one of the horse's hidden pockets for an ampul.

He limped back to Tom, slapped the ampul against the burned flesh.

Tom relaxed with a huge sigh as the anesthetic took hold. "My thanks, master," he murmured weakly. "That hast given me, at least, painless death."

"Don't talk that way." Rod's face was frozen. "There's many a roll in the hay for you yet."

"Nay, master." Tom shook his head, closing his eyes. "My time is nigh."

"You're not going to die. You'll leave me in your debt if you do. I won't have it."

"A pox on what thou wilt or wilt not!" Tom spat, with a touch of life again. "I am not thine to command or deny now, lordling. He who now hath me in thrall is far more puissant than thou, and will one day command thee also."

He sagged back on the pillow, heaving gasps of air.

Rod knelt silent by his side.

Tom's remaining hand groped over his belly to catch Rod's forearm. "Aye, thou'rt now in my debt, though 'twas not of my choice."

"Not your choice?" Rod scowled. "What are you talking about? You saved my life!"

"Aye, and thereby lost my own. But I would never ha' done so with a clear head."

"Clear head?"

"Aye. In battle, one sees and one does, whatever comes first to mind. 'Twas thee, or living my life longer to serve the House of Clovis; and in the heat of the battle I chose thee, in my folly!"

He was silent a moment, breathing hoarsely; then his hands tightened again. "Yet while I die, thou wilt live in my debt! And what thou canst not pay to me, thou must pay to my people."

Rod tried to draw his hand back. "No!"

"Aye!" Tom's eyes flew wide, glaring, angry. " 'Tis the payment I demand! Thy life for mine, thy life spent here on Gramarye, to work for the good of my people!"

"I'm not my own master…"

"Nay, thou art." Tom sank back, weary. "Thou art, and if thou knowest it not, thou'rt true fool."

"The price is too high, Tom. My death in battle, yes, gladly. But living here, all my days, I cannot. I too serve a dream…"

" 'Twas my choice, also," Tom sighed, "the dream or the man. Nay, then, choose what thou wilt."

"I'm under a geas…"

"Then my geas also is on thee, freeing thee from the other. Thou must serve me and mine now…"

The dying face darkened. "I had thought I knew what was best for them… but now, as all darkens about me…"

He heaved up suddenly, body wracked with a spasm, coughing blood. Rod threw his arms about the big man, holding him up.

The spasm passed. Tom clutched weakly at Rod's arm, gasping. "Nay, then… thy mind is… clearer… thou must decide…"

"Be still," Rod pleaded, trying to lower him again. "Don't waste what little life is left—"

"Nay!" Tom clutched at him. "Let me speak! Es-pers… Tribunal… they'll make it… work…We…fightthem…here…inthe…"

"Be still," Rod pleaded. "Save your breath, I know what you're saying."

Tom craned his neck to look up at him. "You…?"

Rod nodded. "Yes. You told me the last little bit I needed, just now. Now lie down."

Tom sagged in his arms. Rod lowered him gently, letting his head rest in the blood-soaked cape.

Tom lay panting. "Tell me… I must know… if you know…"

"Yes, I know," Rod murmured. "The DDT will win out. You can only fight it back here. And you fight each other as well."

"Aye." Tom nodded, a barely perceptible movement. "Thou… must decide… now… and… master…"

He mumbled, too soft to hear, and labored for another breath, eyes opening, anxious.

Rod bent forward, putting his ear to Tom's lips.

"Don't die for…a dream…"

Rod frowned. "I don't understand."

He waited, then said, "What do you mean,Tom?"

There was no answer.

Rod straightened slowly, looking down at the vacant eyes, the loose mouth.

He touched the base of the throat, the jugular.

He let his fingertips rest there long minutes, then slowly reached up to close the man's eyes.

He stood, slowly, and turned away, his eyes not seeing.

Then, slowly, his eyes focused. He looked around at the staring, pathetic beggars, their eyes fixed on the huge body.

A slight, slender shape stepped hesitantly into the ring. "M-master Gallowglass?"

Rod turned, saw, and stepped forward as the beggars began to move in, to kneel by Tom's body.

Rod moved away from them, head hanging heavily.

He raised his eyes. "What is it, Toby?"

"Milord…" Toby's face was strangely tragic in its confusion as he looked at the group of beggars, disturbed without knowing why. "Mlord, they… They cry for quarter, milord. Shall we give it them?"

"Quarter? Oh, yes. They want to surrender." Rod nodded, closing his eyes.

He turned and looked at the group of beggars. "Oh, I don't know. What does Brom say?

"My lord O'Berin says, aye, grant it them, but the Queen says nay. The Lords Loguire are with Brom."

"And still the Queen says nay." Rod nodded, bitterness tightening his mouth. "And they want me to break the deadlock, is that it?"

"Aye, milord."

The circle of beggars parted a little. Rod saw Tom's waxen, still face.

He turned back to Toby. "Hell, yes. Give 'em quarter."

The sun had sunk behind the hills, leaving the sky a pale rose, darkening to the east.

The twelve Great Lords stood, bound in chains, before Catharine.

Near her sat Loguire and Tuan, Brom and S ir Maris.

Rod stood a little distance away, leaning back against Fess, arms folded, chin sunk on his breast.

The old Duke Loguire's head was also bowed, deep misery in his eyes, for his son Anselm stood a pace in advance of the rest of the lords, directly before the Queen.

Catharine held her head high, eyes shining with triumph and pride, face flushed with the joy of her power.

Rod looked at her and felt a twist of disgust in his belly; her arrogance had returned with her victory.

At a sign from Brom O'Berin, two heralds blew a flourish. The trumpets whirled away from their lips, and a third herald stepped forward, loosening a scroll.

"Be it known to all by these presents, that on this day the miscreant vassal, Anselm, son of Loguire, did rise in most vicious rebellion against Catharine, Queen of Gramarye, and is threfore liable to the judgment of the Crown, even unto death, for the crime of high treason!"

He rolled the scroll and slapped it to his side. "Who speaks in defense of Anselm, chief of the rebels?"

There was a silence.

Then old Loguire rose.

He bowed gravely to Catharine. She returned his courtesy with a glare, astonished and angry.

"Naught can be said in defense of a rebel," Loguire rumbled. "Yet for a man who, in the haste of hot blood, rises to avenge what he may consider to be insults to his father and house, much may be said; for, though his actions were rash and, aye, even treacherous, still he was moved by honor, and filial piety. Moreover, having seen the outcomeof rash action, and being under the tutelage of his duke and his father, might well again realize his true loyalties and duties to his sovereign."

Catharine smiled; her voice was syrup and honey. "You would then, milord, have me enlarge this man, upon whose head must be laid the deaths of some several thousand, once again to your protection and discipline; to you who have, as this day has proved, failed once already in these duties?"

Loguire winced.

"Nay, good milord!" she snapped, face paling, lips drawing thin. "Thou hast fostered rebels against me before, and now seek to do it again!"

Loguire's face hardened.

Tuan half-bolted from his chair, flushed with anger.

She turned to him with a haughty, imperious look. "Has milord of the beggars aught to say?"

Tuan fought for calm, grinding his teeth. He straightened and bowed gravely. "My Queen, father and son have this day battled valiantly for you. Will you not, therefore, grant us the life of our son and our brother?"

Catharine's face paled further, eyes narrowing.

"I thank my father and brother," said Anselm, in a clear, level voice.

"Be still!" Catharine fairly shrieked, turning on him. "Treacherous, villainous, thrice-hated dog!"

Rage came into the Loguires' eyes; still they held themselves silent.

Catharine sat back in her chair, gasping, clasping the arms tight, that her hands might not tremble. "Thou wilt speak when I ask thee, traitor," she snapped. "Till then, hold thy peace!"

"I will not hold my peace! Thou canst not hurt me more; I will have my say! Thou, vile Queen, hast determined I shall die, and nothing will sway thee! Why, then, slay me!" he shouted. "The penalty for treason is death! I had known as much before I rebelled; slay me and be done with it!"

Catharine sat back, relaxing a trifle. "He is sentenced by his own mouth," she said. "It is the law of the land that a rebel shall die."

"The law of the land is the Queen," rumbled Brom. "If she says a traitor shall live he shall live."

She spun to him, staring in horror. "Wilt thou, too, betray me? Will not one of my generals stand beside me this day?"

"Oh, be done with it!" Rod stormed, looming up over the throne. "No, not one of your generals will support you now, and it seems to me that might give you some slight hint you're in the wrong. But oh, no, not the Queen! Why hold a trial? You've already decided he'll die!" He turned away and spat. "Come on, get this farce of a trial over with," he growled.

"Thou too?" she gasped. "Wilt thou also defend a traitor, one who hath caused death to three thousand.

"You have caused the death of three thousand," Rod bellowed. "A noble man of low birth lies dead in that field, his right side torn away, the birds pecking at him, and why?To defend a willful child who sits on a throne, not worth the life of a beggar! A child who is so poor a queen she gave birth to rebellion!"

Catharine cowered back in her throne, trembling. "Be still!" she gasped. "Was it I who rebelled?"

"Who was it gave the nobles cause to rebel by too-hasty reforms and too-lofty manner? Cause, Catharine, cause! There is no rebellion without it; and who but the Queen has given it?"

"Be still, oh be still!" The back of her hand to her mouth, as though she would scream. "You may not speak so to a Queen.!"

Rod looked down at the cowering Queen. His face twisted with disgust.

He turned away. "Ah, I'm sick to the belly! Let them live; there has been too much death this day already. Let them live. They'll be loyal, without their councillors to needle them. Let them live, let them alKlive. They're schooled now, even if you're not."

"This cannot be true!" Catharine gasped.

"It is not!" Tuan stepped forward, his hand going to his sword. "TheQueen gave cause, aye, but she did not make the rebellion."

Catharine's eyes leaped up to him with a look of radiant gratitude.

"Speak truth," Tuan went on, "and you may chastise her. But when you charge her with that which she hath not done"—he shook his head slowly—"I cannot let you speak."

Rod ached to spit in his face.

Instead, he turned again to Catharine, who sat straight again, regaining her haughty look.

"Do not forget," he said, "that a queen who cannot control her own whims is a weak queen."

She paled again, and "Walk wary!" Tuan snapped.

Rage surged up in Rod, higher and higher as he stood rigid against it, till it broke some bond within him and drained away, leaving an icy calm and a great clearity, a clarity in which he saw what he must do and why… and what the consequences to himself must needs be.

Catharine was almost smiling now, smug and haughty again, seeing Rod hesitate at Tuan's threat.

"Has more to say, sirrah?" she demanded, lifting her chin.

"Yes," Rod said between his teeth. "What kind of queen is it who betrays her own people?"

His hand whipped out and slapped her.

She screamed, falling back in the chair, and Tuan was on him, fist swinging square into Rod's face.

Rod ducked under the blow and grappled Tuan to him, shouting "Fess!"

Tuan's fists slammed into his belly, trip-hammer blows; but Rod held on, seeing the other generals rushing up.

But Fess got there first.

Rod tried to forget what a nice, clean young kidTuan was and drove his knee into Tuan's groin.

He let go and leaped to the saddle as Tuan fell, doubled with pain, rattling in his throat.

Fess spun and leaped over the heads of the approaching Guardsmen.

He landed and stretched into a gallop. Rod heard Catharine screaming Tuan's name and grinned savagely.

Then his grin stretched into a silent scream as pain exploded in his wounded shoulder.

Turning, he saw the nock of a crossbow bolt sticking out of his shoulder.

And, beyond the bouncing shoulder, in the midst of the circle of Guardsmen around the throne, Catharine bending over Tuan, who knelt, still curled around his pain, with a Guardsman's crossbow dropping from his hand.

They came back to a hill overlooking the field as dusk gathered, having run a long circle through wood and field and waded a mile of stream to hide their trail.

Rod slumped out of the saddle as Fess came to the edge of a grove. He limped to a large tree and sat, leaning back against the trunk, hidden from eyes in the field below by the gathering gloom.

He looked down over the glowing fires on the field, listening to the faint sounds of the victory merrymaking .

He sighed and turned to the problem at hand, or more accurately, at shoulder. He opened his doublet and probed the shoulder gently, wincing with the pain that he felt even through the anesthetic he'd applied on the run.

The barbed bolt-head seemed buried just in front of collarbone and joint; by some miracle, it had missed both bone and artery.

There was a faint puff of air, like a miniature Shockwave, and he looked up to see Gwendylon bending toward him, tears welling from her eyes. "My lord, my lord! Art badly hurt?"

Rod smiled and reached up to pull her head down to his. He held her against him for a good, long time.

"Nay, then," she said, blushing as she drew away, "I warrant thou'rt not so sorely wounded as I had feared."

"Ah, lass, lass!" Rod leaned back, cradling her in his arm. "I was lonely, on that ride."

"I'd ha' come to you sooner, lord," she said apologetically, "but I must needs wait till you'd come to rest.

"Now to that shoulder." She took on a brisk, almost businesslike air. " 'Twill hurt some, my lord."

Rod ground his teeth as she stripped the blood-soaked tunic off his shoulder. "Bandages in the saddlebag," he gritted as she finished.

She turned toFess, brought out the small metal box, frowned. "What is this red cross here, my lord?"

"Just a symbol," Rod wheezed. "Means it's a, uh, healing kit."

She knelt by his side again, very still.

Rod frowned, wondering what she was doing.

Then pain lanced him again, and he felt the bolt-head receding, withdrawing slowly along the channel it had cut on its way in, and, seemingly, all of its own accord.

Through a pain-blurred haze, a random thought bur-rowed: these witches were the answer to the surgeon's prayer.

The bolt-head eased itself past his skin, then suddenly whirled spinning through the air to smash itself against a stone.

"Thus," she hissed, "may I serve all who would harm thee, my lord."

Rod shivered as he realized the extent of the power he'd been dallying with.

She reached for the bandages.

"No, no!" Rod touched her arm with his good hand. "The powder in the silver envelope first. It'll stop the bleeding."

"I would rather use compress of herbs," she said dubiously. "But as thou wilt have it, my lord."

Rod shuddered as the sulfa bit into him.

Then the pain numbed, and she was winding the bandage.

"It seems you're always bandaging that shoulder," Rod muttered.

"Aye, my lord. I would that thou wert more chary of it."

Someone coughed, somewhat delicately, nearby.

Rod looked up and saw a squat silhouette lurking in the shadows.

Rod's mouth tightened. "Well, if it isn't the Atrophied Ajax himself!"

Gwendylon laid a reproving finger gently on his lips.

Rod gave a short riod, irritated at himself; the fingers lifted away.

He beckoned with his good arm. "Well, come on and join the party, Brom. But be careful; the fruits of victory are sour tonight."

Brom came forward, hands locked behind him, head bowed, and sat on a nearby root.

Rod frowned. There was something sheepish, almost furtive, in the dwarf's manner. "What's eating you?" he growled.

Brom sighed and rested his hands on his knees. "Thou hast caused me much heartache this day, Rod Gallowglass."

Rod smiled, one-sided. "Sounds more like a bellyache. I take it you weren't too pleased at the way things went?"

"Oh, nay, I was most enormously pleased! And yet"—Brom rested his chin on his clenched hands, looking sheepish again—"I confess that at first I was somewhat wroth with thee."

"You don't say!"

"Aye; but that was before I realized your plan."

"Oh?" Rod raised one eyebrow. "But you did figure out what I was up to?"

"Nay. I grow old, Rod Gallowglass…"

Rod snorted.

"My thanks." Brom inclined his head. "But 'tis truth; I grow old, and must needs be shown."

"And what were you shown?"

"Oh, 'twas a most touching scene!" Brom smiled with a touch of sarcasm. "At first Catharine could but cry, 'My love, thou'rt hurt!' and call for doctors and herbs, tillTuan managed to rise, saying his hurt was but slight; and then she fell to weeping on his shoulder, the while crying him her lord and protector and the guard of her honor, and would not be comforted till he'd swore he would wed her!" Brom's smile softened, "Aye, 'twas most tender to look upon."

Rod nodded wearily, closing his eyes. "When's the wedding?"

"As soon as they shall be thrice called in a church. Catharine would have had it right then, butTuan cried no, that she was Queen and the flower of womanhood, and must be wed as befitted her estate."

"A promising beginning."

"Oh, 'twas more promising still! For Tuan then turned to the twelve lords and, quoth he, 'And how shall we deal with these?' And Catharine cried, 'Oh, as thou wilt, my lord, as thou wilt! But be done with them right quickly, and come away!' "

"Very auspicious," Rod agreed. "What did he do with them?"

"Struck off their chains, and bade them once more take up the care of their demesnes. But he required of them each a hostage, of twelve years old or less, of their blood and body and legitimate household, to dwell in the Queen's castle."

Rod frowned, nodded. "Should work. He gets a deterrent, and a chance to raise a new generation very loyal to the throne."

He leaned back against the rough bark, feeling totally drained. "Glad it worked."

"Aye." Brom's eyes glowed "This land shall stand ever in thy debt, RodGallowglass. Thou hast saved us our Crown, and banished the ghost of a long and full bloody civil war; and, moreover, thou has given us a King."

"And a Public Enemy No. 1," Rod said bitterly.

A shadow darkened Brom's face.

Rod lifted an eye to him. "You must admit that I'm slightly persona non grata."

"Aye," Brom growled, "yet ever wilt thou find sanctuary in the land of the elves."

Rod smiled weakly. "Thanks, Brom."

"Yet tell me!" Brom hunched forward, frowning. "How is it thou hast come? When all looked bleak in our land, and hope had been exiled, then did you come, falling from the skies like an answer to prayer—you, who had no stake in our countryside, no manor to defend. Our cares were not yours, yet you made them so."

He thrust his head forward, eyes burning. "Why hast thou saved us?"

Rod's smile soured. "For the Dream."

Brom frowned. "How… ?"

Rod looked up at the stars. He hesitated a moment, then said, "Fess, record this."

He turned to Brom, then to Gwendylon, lifting his good arm to point to the sky.

"Look up there. See those stars? Each one has worlds circling about it, worlds like this one, where lovers meet and men feud, and kings topple.

"But most of them are united under one rule, one government—the Decentralized Democratic Tribunal. And the voice that commands is that of the people themselves."

"Nay!" Brom boomed. "How can that be?"

"Because each man's voice can be heard, his opinions adding weight to those of his fellows. That's the key, communications. You can't have that kind of government here because your communications are lousy, which is strange, because you've got the potential for the best system, if you'd just use it."

He folded his arms and leaned back. "But they've got bad trouble up there. They're growing, you see. Every day, at least one new world joins the Tribunal. At that rate, they'll have reached the limit of their communications. After that, they'll start running downhill to dictatorship."

"But how is this thy concern?" Brom growled.

"I work for them. I'm the salesman. I'm the boy who goes out and gets new planets ready for membership.

… if they want it, which they always do, once they're ready!"

"And what is this readiness?" Brom smiled, fighting for tolerance.

"Communications, as I told you, but even more than that, learning. Education."

He sighed. "The education, we've got licked. Took a long while, but it's licked. Communications, though, that's another matter.

" 'Cause there's one other ingredient to freedom:a frontier. It prevents a stratified society—never mind what that is, my Lord O'Berin, King of the Elves—and a stratified society is another road to totalitarianism.

"So the Tribunal's got to keep growing. But if it grows much more, slowing communications will be its death. And I, very personally, don't want that. Because the Dream has a name, you see—Freedom. That's my Dream. And that's why Gramarye means so much to me."

Brom scowled. "I do not comprehend."

Rod turned to him, smiling. "The witches. Their power to hear thoughts. That's the communications system we need."

He watched understanding, and a certain dread, dawn in Brom's face, then turned away.

"We need them," he said, "we need lots of them. Up till now, their numbers have been growing slowly. But, under Catharine's protection, they'll grow faster; and from their winning in today's battle, they'll begin to be respected, and before too long, every parent will be hoping for a witch to be born in the family. Then their numbers will soar."

Brom scowled. "But how is it this world alone, of all the ones you speak of, hath witches?"

"Because the men who brought life to the land, your ancestors, who dropped from the skies, selected only those persons who had at least a trace of witch-power in them, to come here. They didn't know they had it, it was too little, and hidden too deeply, to be seen; but as the generations rolled and they married one another again and again, that little bit grew and grew, until at last a witch was born."

"And when was that?" Brom smiled tolerantly.

"When the elves appeared. Also the banshees, werewolves, and other supernatural fauna. Because there's a strange substance on this planet, called witch-moss, that shapes itself to the forms a witch thinks of. If the witch thinks of an elf, the moss turns into an elf."

Brom paled. "Dost thou say…"

"Don't feel bad about it, Brom," Rod said quickly. "All men were once just pulsing blobs floating in the sea; it's just that in your remote ancestor's case, the process was speeded up a trifle, through the witches. And it was your first ancestor, not you; my guess is that the critter formed out of the moss is such a perfect copy, it can breed true—and even cross-breed with mortal men."

He leaned back and sighed. "Be proud, Brom. You and your people are the only ones who can claim to be real native citizens."

Brom was silent a long moment; then he growled, "Aye, then, this is our land. And what wouldst thou do with it, warlock from the skies?"

"Do?" Rod cocked an eye. "Only what you yourself are trying to do, Brom, through the reforms you've suggested to Catharine. Equality before the law, isn't that your aim?"

"It is, aye."

" Well, it's mine, too. And my job is to show you the least bloody road to it, which job I have just finished."

He scowled, suddenly brooding.

Brom studied him. Gwendylon touched his head, stroking the hair, worried.

Rod looked up at her and tried to smile.

He turned to Brom. "That's why I fought for Catharine, you see: because she protects the witches, and because she's a reformer; and so is Tuan, thank Heaven.

"And that's why the councillors and the Mocker fought against her."

Brom scowled. "I am old, Rod Gallowglass. Show me."

Rod looked up at the stars again. "Someday the Tribunal will govern all the stars you can see, and a lot more that you can't. And almost all the people who live on those worlds will be witches, because they'll have the blood of Gramarye flowing in their veins.

"How's that for a laurel wreath, Brom? 'Father to a Galaxy…'

"But some people won't be witches. And because they're not, they'll hate the witches, and their government, more violently than you can imagine. That kind is called a fanatic.

"And they'll go for any system of government, any, as long as it isn't democracy. And they'll fight democracy with every breath in their bodies."

"If it is to be as you say," growled Brom, "these men will lose; for how could they fight so many worlds?"

"They can't," Rod answered, "unless they kill it before it's born."

"But how shall they do that? For to kill the witch in the womb, they must come to the womb, here to Gramarye, and try to… why… to slay…"

Brom stared, horrified.

"Catharine," Rod finished for him, nodding sourly.

"Right, Brom. The councillors and the leader cadre of the House of Clovis are somebody's great-great-fifty-times-great-grandchildren ."

"But how could that be?" Brom gasped. "What man can visit his ancestors?"

"They can. They've got a thing called a time machine. There's one of them hidden somewhere in the House of Clovis, and another in the haunted tunnels of the Castle Loguire.

"So guard those four men in your dungeon very carefully, Brom. They might have a few surprises in store."

"Be assured that I will!"

"And the councillors are all dead." Rod leaned back, eyes closing. "Which nicely wraps up the report. Send it home, Fess. Oh, and corroborative material: a description of the time machine, and descriptions of the witches' main tricks—you know, telekinesis, levita-tion, telepor—"

"I do know, Rod," the robot's voice reminded him.

"Umph. Some self-effacing retainer you are. Well, send it home."

The warp transmitter deep within Fess's basketball brain spat a two-second squeal at the stars.

All was silent a moment; then Gwendylon said, hesitantly, "My lord?"

Rod lifted an eyelid and smiled. "You shouldn't call me that. But I like it."

She smiled, shyly. "My lord, you ha' finished your work here…"

Rod's face darkened.

He turned away, glowering down at the earth.

"Where will you go now, Rod Warlock?" Brom murmured.

"Oh, cut it out!" Rod snapped.

He turned away again, sullen. "I'm not a warlock." he growled. "I'm an agent from a very advanced technology, and as such have a bag of tricks like you wouldn't believe, but they're all cold iron and its breed. I haven't a witch trick to my name, and I certainly don't have the tiniest shred of witch power."

He lifted his eyes to the stars again. "I'm not a warlock, not the slightest bit, not so much as the meanest of your peasants. I don't belong here."

He felt a tearing in him as he said it.

"I chose this life," Rod growled. "I take orders, yes, but I do it voluntarily."

"A point," Brom admitted, "but a weak one. By choice or not by choice, thou'rt still enslaved."

"Yes," Rod admitted. "But some must give up their freedom, so that their children may have it."

But it didn't even sound convincing to him.

Brom gusted a sigh and slapped his thighs, standing. He gazed at Rod, his eyes weary and old.

"If thou must go, thou must go; a geas is a thing no man can deny. Go on to the stars, Rod Gallowglass, but be mindful: if ever thou seekest a haven, 'tis here."

HeHurned and strode away, down the hillside.

Gwendylon sat quietly beside him, clasping his hand.

"Tell me," she said after a little while, "is it only one dream that takes you away from me?"

"Yes. Oh, yes." Rod's hand tightened on hers. "You sort of blotted out any other dreams."

She turned, smiling tremulously, tears glittering on her lashes. "Then may not I accompany you to the stars, good my lord?"

Rod clamped down on her hand, throat tightening. "I wish that you could; but you'd wither and die there, like an uprooted flower. You belong here, where they need you. I belong there. It's as simple as that."

"No." She shook her head sadly. "You go not for belonging, but for a geas. But, good my lord"—she turned, tears flowing now—"is not my geas as strong as your dream?"

"Look," he said tightly, "try to understand. A man has to have a dream. That's the difference between animals and man, a dream. And a man who's lost his dream is something less than a man, and worthy of no woman. How could I dare claim you if I wasn't a man?

"A man has to prove his worth to himself, before he can claim a woman, and the dream is the proof. As long as he's working for it, he's got a right to her, because he's worth something. I could stay here and be very, very happy with you. But in my depths I'd know I didn't deserve you. Because I'd be a drone, a male with no purpose. How could I father children if I knew their mother was more valuable to the world than I am?"

"Then it wouldst be thou who wouldst wither and die?" she murmured.

Rod nodded.

"But the geas, my lord, if not mine alone, is not Big Tom's geas added to it, and the old Duke Loguire's enough to balance the geas of the stars?"

Rod sat rigid.

"They bade you watch over their people," she murmured. "And what would become of them, lord, if these fiends from tomorrow come again? As surely they will, if they hate as deep as thou say."

Rod nodded, very slowly.

"And what of the Dream then, my lord?" she murmured.

Rod sat rock-still for a moment.

"Fess," he said quietly.

"Yes, Rod?"

"Fess, send them my resignation."

"Your what?"

"My resignation!" Rod snapped. "And hurry it up!"

"But Rod, your duty… the honor of your house…"

"Oh, stuff it! The councillors might be back, Fess, even if we smash the time machines. They did it once, they can do it again. Send it!"

Fess obediently beeped at the stars.

Then, slowly, Rod's head lolled forward.

"My lord?" Gwendylon gasped.

Rod raised a hand weakly. "I'm all right. I've done the right thing, and the one that'll make me happiest. For the first time in my life, I'm working on my own.

"And that's it. I've cut myself off. They're not backing me anymore—the house, the clan, Big Brother watching over me…"

"Thou hast a house here, lord," she murmured.

"I know, I know. And in a little while this'll pass, and I'll be happier than I ever have been. But now…"

He looked up at her, smiled weakly. "I'll be all right."

"Rod," Fess murmured.

He lifted his head. "Yes, Fess?"

"They have replied, Rod."

Rod tensed. "Read it."

"Report accepted. Request send coordinates for veryifying expedition."

Rod nodded, mouth twisting back with bitterness. "Send 'em. Goon."

"Request you reconsider resignation. Accept permanent assignment planet Gramarye guard against further infiltration-subversion."

Rod straightened, staring. "What?"

"They would like to make your chosen position official, Rod," the robot replied.

"What is it, my lord?"

"They want me to stay on," Rod answered mechanically.

He turned to her, life replacing the stunned look. "They want me to stay on!"

"Stay on where, my lord?" she asked, catching the first traces of his enthusiasm.

"Stay on here!" he bellowed, jumping to his feet and flinging his arm wide to include the whole planet. "Here onGramarye! As an agent! Gwen, I'm free! And I'm home!"

He dropped to his knees, spinning to face her, hands biting into her shoulders.

"I love you!" he bellowed. "Marry me!"

"At once and forever, my lord!" she cried, clasping his face in her hands, and the tears poured.

He grabbed for her, but she held him off with a palm over his lips. "Nay, my lord. Only a warlock may kiss a witch."

"All right, I'm a warlock, I'm a warlock! Just kiss me, will you?"

She did.

He locked his hands in the small of her back, grinning.

"Hey," he said, "is it true, what they say about farm girls?"

"Aye, my lord." She lowered her eyes and began unbuttoning his doublet. "You'll never be rid of me now."