The Warlock Enraged-Warlock 4 (26 page)

Flaran was silent, but he stared at Rod, huge-eyed. Rod steeled himself against the look and picked up the reins. He slapped them on Fess's back, and the robot-horse started forward.

When the silence had grown very uncomfortable. Rod asked, "That fat little loudmouth, who was leading that mob—how did he figure out that Flaran was a warlock?"

"Why... he heard my neighbors speak of it. I would guess...."

"Doesn't seem likely," Rod said, frowning. "He was a stranger, after all. How would he find out about the local skeletons, so quickly?"

"I think," Simon said, "that Alfar doth have adherents, minor witches and warlocks who can do little but read minds, salted here and there about the duchy—and their prime duty is to espy those of Power."

"Oh?" Rod held himself still, kept his tone casual. "How'd you hear about that?"

"I did not; but now and again, I've felt the touch of a mind that quested, but did not seek anything, or anyone, of which it was certain. And, anon, I've caught snatches of thought clearly between warlocks, warning that suchand-such had some trace of Power."

"How did they not espy thee?" Flaran asked, surprised. Simon smiled. "I am, as we've said, rather weak at warlockery. And, too, I've learned to hide what poor weak powers I have, thinking like one who hath none at all, keeping the surface of my thoughts ever calm, and quite ordinary. "Tis the key to not letting slip the odd comment that doth reveal thee—to think like an ordinary man; then you'll speak and act like one."

Flaran nodded, gaze locked onto Simon's face. "I will hearken to that. I will heed thee."

"Do so; 'twill save thee much grief. Nay, begin to think like John Common even now, for we never know when Alfar's spies may be listening."

Flaran started, darting a quick glance over each shoulder, then huddled in on himself.

"And, friend Owen, there's naught to fear for thee," Simon reassured Rod, "no spy would even know thou'rt there!"

Flaran looked up, astounded. "Why! How is that?"

"Oh, I'm, er, uh—invisible. To a mind reader." Rod said it as nonchalantly as he could, and tried to throttle down a burst of anger. How dare Simon let slip information about him! Serves you right, he told himself, in an attempt at soothing. And it was true; he should've known better than to confide in a stranger. But Simon was so damn likeable. ...

"Ah, if only I could so hide me!" Flaran cried. "Nay, then, tell! How dost thou do it?"

"Nice question," Rod grated. "I really couldn't tell you. 186 Christopher Stasheff

But I think it has something to do with my basic dislike of all human beings."

Flaran stared at him, shocked.

"When you really get down to it," Rod admitted, "I guess I just don't really like people very well." That rather put a damper on the conversation for a while. They rode on northward, each immersed in his own thoughts. For his part. Rod couldn't help feeling that both of his companions were trying to become immersed in his thoughts, too. Not that they didn't both seem to be good people—

but Rod was beginning to be very suspicious. The talk about mental spies had made him nervous, and he found himself remembering that Simon and Flaran were both strangers, after all.

A wave of loneliness hit him, and he glanced up at the skies. In spite of the longing, he was relieved to see the air clear, with a singular dearth of winged wildlife. At least his family was safe from getting mixed up in the mess. Odd, though. He wasn't used to having Gwen listen to him.

12

He did notice the squirrel peering at him from the branches, and the doves stopping their preening to watch him from the roof of the inn, as they pulled the cart into an innyard. Rod climbed down and stood, surprised how much his joints ached from the four-hour ride. He tied the reins to a hitching post, and turned back to see Flaran climbing down from the cart also, and Simon stretching his legs carefully.

"Don't worry," Rod assured him, "they still work." Simon looked up, and smiled. "The question is, do I wish they wouldn't?"

"Just at a guess, I'd say you're still having fun." Rod turned into the inn. "Shall we see what the kitchens hold?" The question was as much good business as hunger; Rod was able to trade a bushel of produce for three lunches. Flaran insisted on paying Rod the penny he'd been planning to spend on beer, and Simon matched him. Rod protested, but wound up accepting.

Dinner came with a liberal supply of gossip. "Ye come off the road?" the landlord asked, as he set their plates in front of them. "Then say—is't true, what they say ofAlfar?"

"Uh—depends on what you've heard," Rod said, feeling wary. "Myself, I've heard a lot about the man."

"Why, that he has dropped from sight!" A peasant leaned 787

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over from another table. "That none have seen him since he took Castle Romanov."

"Oh, really?" Rod perked up noticeably. "Now, that's one I hadn't heard!"

" Tis most strange, if 'tis true," the peasant said. "Here's a man who hath appeared from nowhere, conquered most of the duchy—and vanished!"

"Ah, but there's reason, Doln," an older peasant grinned.

"Some say he was stole away by a demon!"

"Eh, Harl—there's some as says he is a demon," chirped a grandfather.

"Well, that would certainly explain why he appeared out of nowhere," Rod said, judiciously.

The third peasant caught the note of skepticism, and looked up with a frown. "Dost'a not believe in demons?"

"Dunno," Rod said, "I've never seen one."

"Such talk of demons is nonsense, Kench," Doln scoffed.

"Why would demons take him away, when he's doing good demons' work?"

"Some say he's roaming the land, clad as a peasant," Harl grunted.

"Wherefore should he not?" Kench grinned. "He is a peasant, is he not?"

"Aye, but he's also a warlock," Harl reminded, "and they say he seeks through the land for folk who would aid him well in his governing."

Doln looked up, with a gleam in his eye. "That, I could credit more easily."

"Thou wilt credit aught," Kench scoffed.

"Belike he doth prowl unseen," Harl mused. "Would he not seek out traitors?"

Flaran and Simon stiffened, and Rod could feel little cold prickles running up his spine.

The peasants didn't like the idea, either. They glanced quickly over their shoulders, twisting their fingers into charms against evil. "How fell it is," Harl gasped, "to think that one could spy on thee, and thou wouldst never know it!" Rod thought of mentioning that spies usually tried very hard to make sure nobody noticed them, but decided not to.

"Take heed of those rumors, and thou dost wish it," the landlord chuckled. "For myself, I note only that the land is well-run."

The others turned to look at him, lifting their heads slowly.

"That's so," Doln nodded. "Dost'a say, then, that Alfar's still in his castle?"

"Belike," the landlord shrugged. "'Tis that, or his captains govern well in their own rights."

"That, I doubt." Rod shook his head. "I never yet heard of a committee doing any really effective governing. There has to be one man who always has the final say."

"Well, then." The landlord turned to Rod with a grin. "I must needs think Alfar's in his castle." And he turned away to the kitchen, chuckling and shaking his head. "Rumor!

Only fools listen to it!"

"In which case, most people are fools," Rod said softly to Simon and Plaran. "So, if there's a rumor going around that you don't want people to believe, the thing to do is to set up a counter-rumor."

"Which thou dost think Alfar hath done?" Simon had his small smile on again.

"No doubt of it. Just look at the results—anybody who might 'been thinking of a counter-coup while Alfar was gone, would be thoroughly scared off. On the other hand, he might really be roaming the countryside in disguise."

"Would that not make witch folk loyal to him?" Flaran grinned. "For would he not be most likely to choose his own kind, to aid him in his governing?"

With his usual unerring social grace, he had spoken a bit too loudly. Harl looked up, and called out, "All witch folk would be loyal to Alfar. Wherefore ought they not to be?"

Flaran and Simon were instantly on their guard.

Rod tried to pull the sting out of it. He turned to Harl, deliberately casual. "For that matter, wouldn't every peasant be loyal to him? The rumor's that he's looking for talented people for his, uh, reign."

"Why... 'tis so." Harl frowned, suddenly doubtful. Doln looked up, eyes alight. "Aye! He could not find witches enough to do all the tasks that are needed in governing, could he?"

"No." Rod repressed a smile. "He certainly couldn't." 790 Christopher Stasheff

Doln grinned, and turned to discuss the possibility with Harl and Kench. Rod reflected, with some surprise, that even a Gramarye peasant could have ambition. Which, of course, was perfectly natural; he should have foreseen it. He'd have to discuss the issue with Tuan when he went back to Runnymede; if it wasn't planned for, it could become dangerous.

He turned back to Flaran. "We can't be the only ones who've figured this out. Now, watch—the common people will all of a sudden start being really loyal, to Alfar—

because they're going to think they have a chance to rise in the world."

"Indeed they may." Flaran grinned. "Would not the lowborn have opportunity under the rule of an upstart?" Rod frowned; the comment was a little too Marxist for his liking. "Yeah, if they happen to be the lucky ones out of thousands, the ones he wanted."

"Yet I should think that he has these by him already," said Simon. "He hath chosen his people ere he began this madcap climb. I would not look for him to place any great trust in those new to his banner."

Flaran frowned; he had definitely not wanted to hear that.

"But the hope of it could make a lot of people like him," Rod pointed out. "Just the idea that a lowborn peasant's son has come to rule a duchy, will pull an amazing amount of support to him."

"Can rumor truly do so much?" Flaran breathed.

"That, and more," Rod said grimly. "Which is the best reason of all for thinking Alfar's still in his castle." Flaran stared. Then he closed his eyes, shook his head, and opened them again.

"I, too, am puzzled." Simon frowned. "How can a rumor mean..." His voice trailed off as his face cleared with understanding.

Rod nodded. "All he has to do is stay inside the castle and make sure the rumor gets started. Once it's running, it's going to keep building peasant loyalty on the one hand, and make everybody a little more wary about thinking disloyal thoughts, or doing any plotting, on the other—for fear Alfar himself might be listening in."

Flaran shuddered, and glanced quickly about the room—

and, suddenly. Rod had a sinking feeling in his stomach. Alfar could indeed be in that very taproom, could be one of the peasants, could be the landlord, lying in wait for one of Tuan's agents to come by—such as Rod himself. He could be about to spring the trap on Rod, any second.... Then chagrin hit, and hard on its heels, anger. This was just what Alfar wanted Tuan's agents to be thinking. It was called "demoralization," and it had almost worked. Rod's respect for the sorcerer went up, as his animosity increased. He was amazed that a medieval peasant could be so devious. On the other hand, maybe he had some help....

Simon leaned over to Rod and murmured, "Do not look, or disguise it if thou must—but yon wench hath kept her eye on us, since we came through the door."

"That is a little odd," Rod admitted. "None of us is exactly what you'd call a model of masculine pulchritude."

"True enough," Simon answered, with a sardonic smile.

"Yet 'tis not with her eyes alone that she's kept watch over us."

"Oh, really?" All of a sudden Rod's danger sensors were tuned to maximum—not that they'd done much good so far. He pulled out a coin, flipped it—and made sure it

"accidentally" flipped her way. As he turned to pick it up, he managed a quick glance at her, and decided it wasn't much of a surprise that he hadn't noticed her sooner. She was average size, no heavier than she ought to be, with a pretty enough face and dark blond hair.

Rod picked up the coin and turned back to Simon. "Not exactly your stereotyped witch, is she?"

Simon frowned. "A very ordinary witch, I would say."

"That's a contradiction in terms. She's also not very experienced at hiding her interest."

"Oh, she doth well enough," Simon demurred. "Yet I've more experience at this sort of hiding than most, Master Owen—and, when one of us doth say that which doth amaze her, her shield doth slip."

Rod frowned. "Then why didn't she head for the door as soon as we started talking about her?"

"Because thy mind is hid, let alone thy thoughts—and for myself, I'm thinking one thought and saying another." 192 Christopher Stasheff

He grinned at Rod's surprise. "Be not amazed—what women can do, we men may learn to do also. As for Flaran, I speak so softly that he cannot hear."

Rod glanced quickly at the klutz; he was looking rather nettled. Rod turned back to Simon. "Then there's no real danger, is there?"

"Oh, there is alarm in her." Simon glanced at the servingwench, then back at Rod. "We had best be on our way, Master Owen, and quickly, ere she calls another who doth serve Alfar."

Rod turned toward the girl, considering risks and coming to a quick decision. "No, I don't think that's really necessary." He beckoned to the wench. Fear leaped in her eyes, but she had no reason for it, and did need to keep her cover while she studied them—so she came. Slowly, as though she were being dragged, but she came. "What may I offer, goodmen? Ale? Or more meat?"

"Neither, just now." Rod plastered on a friendly smile.

"Tell me—does it bother you that I'm not here, when I really am?"

She stared at him in shocked surprise, and Simon muttered, "Well done; she is quite disarmed. Certes, Alfar's her master. She holds watch for witches."