The Warlock Enraged-Warlock 4 (27 page)

Rod's dagger was out before Simon finished the first sentence, its point touching the wench's midriff. She stared at the naked steel, horrified.

"Sit." Rod kept the smile, but it had turned vicious.

"Sir," she gasped, gaze locked on the blade, "I dare not."

"Dare not disobey me? No, you don't. Now sit." Trembling, she lowered herself to the empty stool. Rod took her hand, gave her a glowing smile. "Simon, dig around and see what you can find." He let the smile turn fatuous, clasped both hands around hers, and leaned forward, crooning, "Now, pretty lass, sit still and try to pay no heed to the fingers you'll feel in your mind—and if their touch disgusts you, be mindful that you would have spoken words with your mind, that would have sent soldiers to slay us." He lifted her hand to his lips, kissed it, then beamed at her again. "I know—you feel like nothing so much as leaping up and screaming. But if you do, my knife is close at hand—

and do not think that you can snatch it with your mind faster

than I can stab—for, in this case, the hand is quicker than the mind." He saw her glance at the knife, and warned, "I assure you, I've dealt with witches before." Which, he reckoned, was his understatement for the year.

Her gaze darted back to his face, terrified. "But... why dost thou kiss mine hand, when thou'rt mine enemy?"

"So that anyone watching... there, young Doln is staring at me—no, don't look!—and his gaze is anything but friendly. In fact, I think he favors my heart for the main course. No, don't hope—I assure you, I'm a better fighter than he, far better." He saw the flicker of fear in her eyes, and decided to press it. "Sit very still, now. You wouldn't want me to hurt him, would you?"

"Oh, do not!" she cried. Then, realizing she'd given away more than military secrets, she blushed and dropped her eyes.

"Aye, well done," Simon purred. "Gaze at the tabletop, there's a good lass, and naught else; think of naught but its grain, and its color... Now!"

The girl stiffened with a gasp, head flung back, eyes shut; then she slumped in her chair.

"Stand away from her!" Doln was on his feet, knife out. Rod stood slowly, his grin turning wolfish, knifepoint circling. "Why, it shall be as you say—I shall stand away from her. Shall I stand toward you, then?"

Harl scowled and stood up behind Doln, but the youth's eyes showed doubt. He stood his ground, though—swallowing hard, but he stood.

"Gently, now, gently," Simon soothed. "She sleeps, lad—

she but sleeps."

Doln glanced at him, then at the unconscious girl, and the white showed all around his eyes.

"Softly, lad." Rod followed Simon's lead. "We're not hurting her." He darted a quick glance at Simon. "Nay, unless I mistake, my friend seeks to aid her."

"What manner of aid is this, that steals away her sense?" Doln cried.

"What manner indeed!" Flaran huddled back in his chair, eyes wide with terror.

Kench's glare would have killed a viper, and Harl gathered himself and stepped up behind Doln. Christopher Stasheff

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The girl sighed, and her head rolled back.

"Ask her," Rod said softly. "She'll be awake in a minute." Doln's gaze darted to her. Her eyelids fluttered, then opened. She looked around her, uncomprehending, then suddenly realized where she was, and her eyes widened; she gasped.

"Marianne!" Doln dropped to one knee, clasping her hand. "What have these fellows done to thee!" Her gaze darted down to him; she shrank away. Then she recognized him, and relaxed a little. She looked around, and her gaze centered on Rod. Slowly, it turned to Simon, then back at Doln, and her lips quivered with a smile. "Nay, be not af eared for me, good Doln. I am well—aye, more well than I have been for some weeks." She turned back to Simon, frowning, then back to Doln. "These goodmen have aided me."

Doln looked from one to another wildly, "What manner of aid is this, that makes thee to swoon?"

"That, thou dost not need know," Simon advised. "Stand away, now, I beg thee, for we must have further converse with thy Marianne."

"I am not his," she said, with a touch of asperity, then instantly balanced it with a dazzling smile at Doln. "I did not know thou hadst concern of me."

Doln swallowed heavily, and stood, but his eyes were still on her. "I... I do care for thy welfare, Marianne."

"I know it, now—and I thank thee." Her color had come back completely, now. She clasped his hand, and looked up at him through long lashes. "Most deeply do I thank thee. Yet I prithee, do as this goodman doth bid thee, and stand away, good Doln, for truly must I speak with them." Reluctantly, Doln backed away from the table—and bumped into Harl, who muttered a curse, and turned away to his stool. Doln did, too, gaze flicking from Simon to Marianne, then to Rod, then back to Marianne again. Then Kench muttered something, and Doln turned to him, frowning, then fell to muttering with Harl and the gaffer, casting frequent glares at Rod and Simon.

He didn't notice Flaran. But then, who ever did?

Marianne turned back to Simon with a happy smile,

patting her hair into place. "I must needs thank thee for more things than one. Nay, ask what thou wilt. I will most gladly answer."

Rod rubbed a hand over his face to cover a smile, then turned to Simon. "Mind telling me what went on there?"

"Only what thou hast seen aforetime," Simon answered.

"She labored under a spell. I have broken it."

"A spell?" Rod stared at Marianne, appalled. "A witch!.'?.'"

"Even so." The girl bowed her head in shame. "I see now that I must have been."

Simon reached out and caught her hand. "There's no shame in it, lass. 'Tis no fault of thine, that thou wert enchanted."

"But it is!" She looked up at him, wide-eyed. "For I hid my witch power from the goodfolk, full of guilt and embarrassment—till I began to believe that I was better than they, for I could read minds and make things move by mere thought, whilst they could not. Nay, it did come to seem to me that we witch folk were the true nobility, the new nobility, who could and should rule the world—aye, and better than the lords do!"

"This, thou dost count fault of thine own?" Simon asked, with a smile.

"Is't not?" She blushed, and looked down. "Alas, that ever I thought so! Yet I did—and no other witch did seem to feel as I did, no honest one; for I listened for their thoughts, and heard them afar. Nay, none thought to lead the witches to their rightful place—not even within the Royal Coven. Thus, when Alfar began to reach out for vassals, declaring he would lead the witch folk on to glory and to rule, I declared him my leader on the instant, and pledged him my fealty. All that he asked, I swore I would do."

"And the service that he asked of thee?"

"Only this." She gestured around at the inn in disgust.

"Here is my glory and rule! To work as I had done, and watch, then speak to them of any witchfolk I found who, in either deed or thought, did struggle 'gainst Alfar. So I did—and most joyously." She plunged her face into her 196 Christopher Stasheff

hands, "Eh, what a bitch I have been, what a vile, dastardly traitor! For three witches have I delivered unto them—poor, weak souls, who only sought to flee to safety!" She lifted tragic eyes to gaze at Simon. "Yet truthfully did it seem to me that any witch who did not acclaim Alfar, must needs be a traitor to her own kind. Therefore did I summon aid from Alfar's coven, and soldiers came, under the command of a warlock, to take those witches away, and..." She buried her face in her hands again. "Aiee! What did they to those poor folk!"

Her shoulders shook with weeping. Simon reached out to touch her, clasping her shoulder. "Nay, be not so grieved!

For thou didst these things not of thine own free will and choice!"

Her gaze leaped up to his, tears still coursing down her cheeks. "Yet how could it be otherwise?"

"When first thou didst begin to think thyself greater than thy neighbors, the sorcerer's folk had already begun their vile work on thee." Simon's smile hardened. "These first thoughts, that witches ought to govern by right of birth, were not truly thine. But they were oh, most gently and skillfully worked in, among thoughts of thine own, that thou mightst think them so."

'Truly?" she gasped, wide-eyed.

Simon nodded. "Be sure. I have myself slipped through thy thoughts, witch—I must ask they pardon—and I know."

"Oh, the pardon is instantly given!" she cried. "How can I thank thee, for breaking this spell?" Then her face lit up, and she clapped her hands. "I know! I shall wander northward, and myself seek to break spells that bind goodfolk!" Rod darted a quick glance at Simon, and saw the foreboding in his face. He turned back to Marianne. "Uh—I don't think that would be the best idea."

Her face fell. "Would it not? What, then..."

"Well, basically the same thing—just do it right here." Rod managed to smile. "What Alfar was having you do, but for our side. Keep working as a servingwench, and spy out witch folk who're going south. But when you find them, don't report them to Alfar's henchmen."

"But that is so small an aid!" she cried, disappointed.

"Those whom thou dost save will not think it so," Simon assured her.

"But they would be just as much saved if I were not here at all."

"Not so." Rod shook his head. "If you left this post, Alfar's men would find it out quickly enough, and they'd send some other witch here to do the job. The only way you can protect the fugitives, is to stay here and cover for them."

"Assuredly there must be work of greater import I can do!"

An imp pricked Rod with temptation. He grinned, and succumbed. "There is, now that you mention it. You can find another witch or two, who plan to stay."

"Others?" She stared, amazed. "How will that aid?"

"Because each of them can find two other witches," Rod explained, "and each of those, two more, and so on and on—and we can build up a network of witches opposed to Alfar, all throughout the duchy of Romanov." She frowned, shaking her head. "What aid will that be?"

"King Tuan will march North, sooner or later. When he does, we'll send word through the net, for the witches to gather where the battle's going to be, to help."

"Help in a battle?" Her eyes were round. "How?"

"Well send word about that, too. Just be ready to do it." Slowly, she nodded. "I do not fully comprehend—yet I do trust in thee. I shall do as thou dost bid."

"Good lass! And don't worry, you'll understand plenty. It won't be very complicated—just to gather at a certain place, and attack whatever part of the sorcerer's army you're assigned."

"An thou sayest it." She still seemed doubtful. "But how shall I know what to do, or when?"

"Someone will tell you. From now on, your name is, uh, 'Esmeralda,' to anyone else in the anti-Alfar network. So, if someone comes in and says he has word for Esmeralda, from Kem..." Again, Rod wished he hadn't chosen that name. "... you'll know it's a message from me."

"But wherefore ought I not to be called Marianne?" 198 Christopher Stasheff

"So nobody can betray you. This way, if they tell Alfar or his men they've a traitor named 'Esmeralda,' they won't know who it really is."

"And 'Kem' is thy false name?"

/ sure hope so. "It's as good a name as any. The whole idea is that we don't know each other's real names, remember. Will you do it—be Esmeralda, and watch for witches to not report?"

Slowly, she nodded. "Aye—if thou dost truly believe this is the greatest aid I can offer."

"Good lass!" Rod clasped her hand, relieved—she was too young, and really too sweet, to wind up in Alfar's torture chambers. Better to leave her where it was safe. "Now, uh—would you please go reassure your friend Doln, there?

I can't help this feeling that he's just dying to shove a knife between my ribs."

"Certes." She flushed prettily, and stood. "I thank thee, goodman." She turned away, becoming shy and demure as she neared her swain.

"I think she hath forgot thee quite," Simon said, with his small smile.

"Yes. And that's the way it should be, isn't it?" Rod was watching Doln, whose gaze was riveted to Marianne's face. He caught her hand, and Rod turned back to Simon and Flaran with a sigh. "Young love! Isn't it wonderful?"

"In truth." Simon watched the young couple over Rod's shoulder. "Yet I cannot help but think, friend Owen, that there's some truth to her words—not that her thoughts of overweening greatness were her own, nay, but that, shall we say, Alfar's seeds fell on fertile ground?"

"Oh, well, sure! People can't be hypnotized if they really don't want to be—and this particular kind of long-range telepathic hypnosis couldn't have worked so well if she didn't already have a bit of that resentful attitude—it's called 'feelings of inferiority.'"

"Inferiority?" Flaran stared. "Yet how can that be? Witch power makes us greater than other folk!"

Rod didn't miss the 'us.' "Yeah, but they don't feel that way. All they know is that they stand out, that they're different, and that if people find out just how different, nobody'll like them." He shrugged. "If nobody likes you,

you must be inferior. I know it doesn't really make sense, but that's how our minds work. And, since nobody can stand to think so little of themselves pretty soon, the warlock starts telling himself that he's not really inferior—it's just that everybody's picking on him, because they're jealous. And, of course, people do pick on witches—they've been doing it, here, for hundreds of years."

"Aye!" Flaran seized the thought. "'Tis not merely a matter of our telling ourselves others bully us—'tis true!"

"Oh, yeah, it's easy to feel persecuted, when you really are. But that must mean you're worse than inferior." He made a backwards arc with his forefinger. "If people're picking on you, and they're nice people, ones you ordinarily like, and all of a sudden, they're picking on you—then you must be worse than second-rate; you must be evil! But who can stand thinking they're outright evil?"