The Warlock Enraged-Warlock 4 (11 page)

She was trying to think. Rod realized—and she'd have been trying very hard, if some mental lethargy hadn't prevented her. "Still wondering why your master is serving us more than kitchen scraps?"

Enlightenment crept over her face. "Aye. That is what I be thinking."

"Best of reasons," Rod assured her. "We paid in silver." She lifted her head slowly, mouth opening into a round.

"Oh. Aye, I see." And she turned away, still nodding, as she began to amble back to the kitchen.

"Why doth she not ask how mere tinkers came by silver money. Papa?" Magnus watched her go.

"I expect she'll think that one up just as she gets to the kitchen...."

"Why is she so slow. Papa?" Cordelia seemed concerned. 76 Christopher Stasheff

Rod shook his head. "Not just her, honey. That's what the innkeeper was like, too." He gazed after the scullery maid, frowning.

Two men in brocaded surcoats with grayed temples strolled past them toward the inn door. "Nay, but our Earl doth seek to rule all our trade," the one protested. "Mark my words, ere long he will tell to us which goods we may not sell, for that he doth grant patents on them to those merchants who toady to him."

"Aye, and will belike tax the half of our profit," the other agreed, but he spoke without heat, almost without caring. They passed on into the inn, leaving Rod rigid in their wake. "That is the most blatant lie I've heard since I came here! Earl Tudor is so laissez-faire-mmded, you'd almost think he just doesn't care!"

"Folk will believe any rumor," Gwen offered.

"Yeah, but businessmen check them out—and those two were merchants. If they stray too far from the facts, they go bankrupt."

A string of donkeys plodded into the innyard, heads hanging low, weary from their heavy packs. Their drovers bawled the last few orders at them, as the inn's hostlers strolled past the Gallowglass family toward the donkeys, chatting. "They say the sorcerer Alfar is a fair-minded man."

"Aye, and generous withal. Those who come under his sway, I hear, need never be anxious for food or drink." The first shook his head, sadly. "Our Earl Tudor doth care little for the poor folk."

"Are they crazy?" Rod hissed. "Tudor is practically a welfare state!"

"'Tis e'en as thou dost say," the second mused. "Yet at the least, our Earl doth not tax his peasants into rags and naught for fare but bread and water, as Duke Romanov doth."

"Oh, come on, now!" Rod fumed. "Nobody ever claimed Romanov was a walking charity—but at least he realizes the peasants can't produce if they're starving." But Gregory had a faraway look in his eyes. "Papa—I mislike the feel of their minds."

Gwen stopped ladling stew and gazed off into space. She nodded, slowly. "There is summat there..." Then her eyes

widened. "Husband—it doth press on me, within mine head!"

Instantly, the children all gazed off into space.

"Hey!" Rod barked in alarm. He clapped his hands and snapped, "Wake up! If there is something messing with people's minds here, it could be dangerous!" They all started, blinking, then focused on their father.

'"Tis as Mama doth say. Papa," Magnus reported. "Something doth press upon the minds of all the people here—

and at ours, too. Only, with us, it cannot enter."

"Then it knows all it really needs to know about us, doesn't it?" Rod growled. He frowned, and shrugged. "On the other hand, it already did. Here, I've got to have a feel of this."

It wasn't as easy for him as it was for Gwen and the kids. They'd grown up with extrasensory power; they could read minds as easily as they listened for birdsongs. But Rod's dormant powers had just been unlocked three years ago. He had to close his eyes, concentrating on the image of a blank, gray wall, letting his thoughts die down, and cease. Then, when other people's thoughts had begun to come into his mind, he could open his eyes again, and see while he mind read.

But he didn't have to look about him this time. He could feel it, before he even heard another person's thoughts. When he did, he realized that the thoughts resonated perfectly with the pressure-current. It was a flowing wave, rocking, soothing, lulling; but modulated on that lethargic mental massage was a feeling of vague unease and suspicion—and riding within that modulation, as a sort of harmonic, was the central conviction that the sorcerer Alfar could make all things right.

Rod opened his eyes, to find his whole family staring at him—and for the first time on this trip, fear shadowed the children's faces.

Rage hit, hot and strong. Rod's whole nervous system flamed with it, and his hands twitched, aching for the throat of whatever it was that had threatened his children.

"Nay, husband." Gwen reached out and caught his hand.

"We need thy wisdom now, not thy mayhem." He resented her touch; it pushed his anger higher. But 78 Christopher Stasheff

he heeded her words, and concentrated on the feel of that beloved hand, whose caresses had brought him so much of comfort and delight. He let it anchor him, remembering how his rage had made him do foolhardy things, how his wrath had played into the hands of the enemy. He took slow, deep breaths, trying to remember that he was really more dangerous when he was calm, trying to regain the harmony of his emotions. He concentrated on his shoulders, relaxing them deliberately, then his back, then his upper arms, then his forearms, then his hands. Anger wouldn't help anybody now; anger would only destroy—everything but the enemy. He shivered as he felt the rage loosen, and drain away; then he swallowed, and closed his eyes, nodding. "I'm... all right, now. Thanks, darling. Just... be careful about grabbing me when I'm like that, okay?"

"I will, my lord." She released him, but held his gaze with her own.

"Okay." He took a deep breath, and looked up at the children. "You know what hypnosis is."

"Aye, Papa." They stared at him, round-eyed.

"Well, that's what we're facing." Rod's lips drew back into a thin, tight line. "Somebody's sending out a mental broadcast that's putting everybody's conscious minds asleep. This whole town is in the early stages of mass hypnosis." The children stared, appalled.

Rod nodded. "Someone, or something, up there, is a heck of a lot more powerful a projective telepath, than we've ever dreamed of."

"But it hath not the feel of a person's mind, my lord!" Gwen protested. "Oh, aye, the thoughts themselves do—

but that lulling, that pressure that doth soothe into mindlessness—'tis only power, without a mind to engender it!" Rod had a brief, lurid memory of the genetically altered chimpanzee he'd had to fight some years ago. Actually, it was its power he'd had to fight; the poor beast had no mind of its own. The futurians, who were continually trying to conquer Gramarye, had just used it as a converter, transforming minute currents of electricity into psionic powerblasts that could stun a whole army. When they'd finally found the chimp, it had been one of the ugliest, most obscene things he'd ever seen—and one of the most pitiable. Rod

shuddered, and looked into his wife's eyes. "I don't know what it is—but I don't like the climate. Come on—eat up, and let's go."

They turned back to their food, with relief. But after a bit, Cordelia looked up. "Not hungry. Papa."

"I know the feeling," Rod growled, "but you will be. Choke down at least one bowlful, will you?" He turned to Gwen. "Let's take the bread and sausage along." She nodded, and began to wrap the food in his handkerchief. Rod turned back to his children—and frowned. There was something wrong, some flaw in their disguise... Then he found it. "Don't forget to bicker a little, children. It's not normal, to go through a whole lunch without being naughty."

They passed the last house at the edge of the village. Rod muttered, "Not yet, kids. Another hundred yards; then we're safe."

For a moment, Geoffrey looked as though he were going to protest. Then he squared his shoulders like his siblings, gritted his teeth, and plowed on for another three hundred feet. Then Rod stopped. "Okay. Now!"

With one voice, the whole family expelled a huge sigh of relief. Cordelia began to tremble. "Papa—'tis horrid!" Gwen reached to catch her up, but Rod beat her to it. He swept the little girl into his arms, stopping her shuddering with a bear hug. "I know, I know, baby. But be brave—

there'll be worse than this, before we're done with Alfar." Or he's done with us; the thought fleeted through his mind, but he helped it fleet on out; a father whose children could read minds couldn't afford defeatist thinking. Talk about thought control.... Rod cast an appealing glance over Cordelia's shoulder, at Gwen. "Don't you think it's time for you folks to go home now?"

Gwen's chin firmed and lifted. Below her, three smaller chins repeated the movement. "Nay, my lord," she said firmly. "'Tis eerie, and doth make one's flesh to creep—

yet for us, there is, as yet, no greater danger than we saw last night, and thou mayest yet have need of our magics."

"I can't deny that last part," Rod sighed, "and I suppose 80 Christopher Stasheff

you're right—that village may have been nasty, but it wasn't any more dangerous than it was last night. Okay—we go on as a family."

The boys broke into broad smiles, and Cordelia sat up in Rod's arms and clapped her hands together. Rod set her down, set his fists on his hips, and surveyed his children with a stem eye. "You do realize what's going on back there, don't you?"

They all nodded, and Magnus said, "Aye, Papa." Geoffrey explained, "Alfar doth prepare the town for conquest." Rod nodded, his gaze on his second son. "How will he take them?"

The boy shrugged. "In peace. He will march in, and they will acclaim him as their friend and master, and bow to him—and all of this without a ever a drop of blood shed." There was a definite note of admiration in his voice. Rod shook his head. "Good analysis—but be careful, son. Don't start thinking that ability implies goodness."

"Oh, nay. Papa! Ne'er could I think so! He is a worthy enemy—but that's just to say, he would not be worthy an he were not able; but he would not be an enemy were he not evil."

Rod took a deep breath and stilled, with his mouth open, before he said, "We-e-e-11... there are enemies who might not be really evil—they'd just be trying to get the same thing you're trying to get."

But Geoffrey shook his head firmly. "Nay, Papa. Such be rivals, not enemies."

Rod stilled with his mouth open again. Then he shrugged.

"Okay—as long as you make the distinction." He took a deep breath, looking around at his family. "So. I think we've got a better idea, now, about how Alfar works. First he takes over most of the population with long-range hypnosis. Then he sends his minions in to intimidate anybody who didn't hypnotize easily."

"There be such. Papa?" Cordelia asked in surprise. Rod nodded. "Oh, yes, dear. That particular kind of magic isn't exactly foolproof; there'll always be a few people who aren't terribly open to letting somebody else take over their minds—I hope."

"And there be those who will not bow to him from fear, either," Geoffrey said stoutly.

"Oh, yes. And if any of those happen to be knights, or lords, and march against him with their men-at-arms—by the time they get to Alfar, he'll have most of the soldiers convinced they don't want to win."

"Aye. 'Tis the way of it." Geoffrey looked up at his father with a glow of pride.

"Thanks, son." Rod smiled, amused. "Just adding things up." Then his smile faded. "But what the heck kind of projective telepath does he have, that can reach out over a hundred miles to hypnotize a whole village?" They set up camp, with trenches for beds and pine boughs for mattresses. The kids rolled up in their blankets, and were instantly asleep—at. least, as far as Rod could see. He didn't trust them. "What child is this who, laid to rest, sleeps?" he asked Gwen.

She gazed off into space for a moment, listening with her mind. He decided to try it, himself, so he closed his eyes and blanked his mind, envying the ease with which she did it. After a few seconds, he began to hear the children's low, excited, mental conversation. He rolled his eyes up in exasperation and started to get up—but Gwen caught his arm. "Nay, my lord. Let them speak with one another, I prithee; 'twill lull them to sleep."

"Well..." Rod glanced back at her.

"Yet what will lull us?" she murmured. He stared down at her, drinking in her beauty. Her femininity hit him with physical force, and he dropped back down beside her, one arm spread out in return invitation.

"I'm sure I'll think of something, dear—but it takes some creativity, when the kids are watching."

She turned her head to the side, watching him out of the comers of her eyes. "Their lids are closed."

"But not their minds." Rod pressed a finger over her lips.

"Hush up, temptress, or I'll put you back in your teapot."

"And what wilt thou do with me, once thou hast me there?" she purred, nestling up against him. The contact sent a current coursing through him. His 82 Christopher Stasheff

breath hissed in. "I said a teapot, not a pumpkin shell!" He reached out to caress her gently, and it was her turn to gasp. He breathed into her ear, "Just wait till they fall asleep...."

"Beshrew me! But they have only now waked from several hours' rest!" Gwen gazed up at him forlornly.

"Hmm!" Rod frowned. "Hadn't thought of that..."

"Aye di me!" Gwen sighed, snuggling a little closer.

"E'en so, the comfort of thy presence will aid me greatly, my lord."

"Fine—now that you've made sure / won't sleep!"

"Yet must not a husbandman be ever vigilant?" she murmured.

"Yeah—waiting for my chance!" He rested his cheek against her head. "Now I know why they call you a witch...."

"Papa-a-a-a!"

Rod waked instantly; there'd been tears in that little voice. He opened his eyes and saw Gregory leaning over him clutching his arm, shaking him. "Papa, Papa!" Tears were running down the little boy's cheeks. Rod reached up an arm to snake around him and pull him down, cradling him against his side. The little body stayed stiff, resisting comfort. Rod crooned, "What's the matter, little fella? Bad dream?"