The Warlock Enraged-Warlock 4 (28 page)

"Evil folk," Flaran answered quickly.

"And there you have it." Rod spread his hands. "Instead of saying, 'I'm second-rate,' they're saying, 'I'm evil'—

they'd rather be first-rate evil than second-rate good." Flaran stared, lost.

"Or!" Rod held up a forefinger. "Or you decide that you're not evil, and you're not second-rate, either—they're just picking on you because they're jealous. So their picking on you proves that you're better than they are. They're just afraid of the competition. They're out to get you because you're a threat to them."

Flaran's head lifted slowly, and Rod could see his eyes clearing with understanding.

Rod shrugged. "All the witch folk probably have that attitude to some degree—it's called paranoia. But they keep it under control; they know that even if there're wisps of truth attached to the notion, there's more truth in thinking of their neighbors as being basically good folk—which they are. And if the witch has even a grain of humility, she's as much aware of her faults as she is of her powers—so they manage to keep their feelings of persecution under control. It's a sort of a balance between paranoia and reality. But it does make them ready, even eager, victims, for Alfar's style of brainwashing—uh, persuasion."

Flaran turned away, staring at the table. The color had 200 Christopher Stasheff

drained out of his face, and his hands trembled. Rod watched him, shaking his head with a sad smile. The poor kid, he thought, the poor innocent. In some ways, Raran probably would have preferred to just go along from day to day for the rest of his life, feeling inferior and pickedon. And it must've been very demeaning, to find out that his feelings were, if not normal, at least standard for his condition—it was bad enough being born an esper, but it was worse finding out you weren't even exceptional. He turned away, to catch Simon's eye. The old man had a sympathetic look, and Rod smiled back, nodding. They both knew—it was rough, learning the facts of life. Back on the road. Rod and Simon tried to strike up a cheerful family topic conversation again; but the mood had changed, and it was an uphill fight all the way. When they each realized that the other guy was trying just as hard, they gave it up.

Of course, the ambiance wasn't helped much by Flaran riding along on Rod's other side sunk in gloom, glowering at the road.

So they rode along in silence, the unease and tension growing, until Rod'd had about as much as he could take.

"Look Flaran, I know it's hard to accept the idea that Alfar's turning the whole population into puppets—but that is what he's doing. So we have to just admit it, and try to go beyond it, to figure out what we can do about it. See? Feeling lousy won't do anybody any good."

Flaran looked up at Rod, and his attention came back, as though from a great distance. Slowly, his eyes focused.

"Nay. Nay, 'tis not that which hath me so bemused, friend Owen."

Rod just looked at him for a moment.

Then he said, "Oh." And, "Really?" He straightened in his seat and tilted his head back, looking down at Flaran a little. "What is bothering you?"

"These thoughts which the servingwench hath uttered."

"What—about witches being naturally superior?" Rod shook his head. "That's nonsense."

"Nay, 'tis good sense—or, if not good, at least sense."

Raran gazed past Rod's shoulder at the sky. "Truly, witches should rule."

"Oh, come off it! Next thing I know, you'll be telling me how Alfar's really a good guy, and is really freeing the peasants, not conquering them!"

Raran's eyes widened. "Why—that is true." He began to nod, faster and faster. "In truth, 'tis all true. He doth free the peasants from the rule of the lords."

Rod turned away, his mouth working, and swallowed heavily. He looked up at Simon. "Check him, will you?

Give him the once-over. He sounds as though the spell's beginning to creep over him."

"Oh, nay!" Raran said in scorn, but Simon frowned, gazing off into space for a moment. Then he shook his head.

"I do not read even so much as he doth utter. Master Owen—

only thoughts of how goodly seem the fields about us, and the face of the wench who served us." His eyes focused on Rod's again. "Still, those are not the thoughts of a spellbound mind."

"Spellbound? Nay, certes!" Raran cried. "Only because I speak truth, Master Owen?"

"Truth?" Rod snorted. "Somebody must have warped your mind, if you think that's truth!"

"Nay, then—lay it out and look at it!" Raran spread his hands. "It doth seem the common people must needs have masters..."

"I could dispute that," Rod growled.

"But not gainsay it! From all that I have seen, 'tis true!" Raran craned his neck to look over Rod's shoulder at Simon.

"Wouldst thou not say so. Master Simon?"

"Someone must govern," Simon admitted reluctantly.

"And if one must govern—why, then, one must be master!" Raran slapped his knee. "And is it not far better for the peasant folk to have masters who were born, as they were, peasants? Who know the pain of poverty, and the grinding toil of the common folk? Is that not far better for them than the rule of those who are born to silver plates and ruby rings, in castles, who have never known a hard day's work, nor a moment's want? Nay, these lords even look down from their high towers, and speak of we poor 202 Christopher Stasheff

folk as though we were chattels! Things to be owned! Cattle!

Not men and women!"

Rod stared, horrified. "Where'd you hear that line of rubbish?"

Flaran reddened. "Can there be truth in rubbish?"

"I don't know who you've been talking to," Rod said,

"but it sure wasn't a lord. Most of 'em don't say things like that—and where would you have had a chance to hear 'em talking, anyway?"

"Mine ears do be large. Master Owen. I may be foolish in my speaking, but I am wise in my listening. I have spoken with folk who serve the lords, and thus have I learned how they speak of us. And, too, I have hearkened to my neighbors , to their groans and cries of grief under the lords' rule —

and I cannot help but think that they do not serve the best of masters." Plaran shook his head. "Nay, the words of that servingwench do make most excellent sense—for who could better know the people's wants, than those who can hear their thoughts? And who can better guard them in their labors, than one who knows what it is to labor so?"

"Excuses," Rod growled. He turned away, and saw, in the distance, a party of peasants coming out of a side road, clad in rough homespun and bowed under the weight of huge packs. "There!" He stabbed a finger at them. "That's the kind of sense you've been making! Poor people, wandering the roads, lost and alone, because their homes have been destroyed in battle! Folk bereft, whose villages still stand, but who have packed what they can carry and have fled, because they fear the rule of an upstart they don't trust!"

"Yet peasants' homes do ever bum in wars," Flaran cried,

"ever and aye, when the lords do seek to resolve some private quarrel with their armies! This time, at the least, the war may bring them some benefit, for he who wins will have been born among them!"

"Excuses," Rod said again, "rationalizations!" He turned to look squarely at Flaran. "Let me tell you what that is—

a rationalization. It's giving something the appearance of rationality, of reason, when it doesn't have the reality of it. It's finding a way to justify what you want to do, anyway. It's finding an excuse for something you've already

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done—a way to make it seem to be good, when it really isn't. That's all you're doing here—trying to find a way to make the wrong things you want to do, seem right. All your arguments really boil down to, 'I want power, so I'm going to take it.' And the real reasons are envy and revenge!" He noticed, out of the comer of his eye, that the peasants had stopped, staring up at them, on both sides of the cart. All the better—let witnesses hear it!

"Yet how canst thou speak so?" Flaran frowned, cocking his head to the side. "Thou hast thyself an enormous power!" Rod froze. How had he let his cover slip? "What... power... is... that?"

"Why, the talent of not being seen by the mind! Our friend Simon hath said it—to a thought-hearer, thou dost not seem to be here at all!"

"Nay, then!" the younger man cried, "even I have noticed it, weak though my powers are!"

Rod shrugged; that was explanation enough, for the moment.

"How great a talent that is!" Flaran cried. "What great advantage must it needs give thee, if one doth seek thee with evil intent! If thou wert of Alfar's band, he would surely create thee Duke of Spies!" He smiled, leaning forward, eyes glittering. "Would that not be most excellent, Master Owen? Wouldst thou not be delighted to be a duke?"

"I'd say it would be horrible," Rod grated. "Do you realize what that would mean? I'd be helping to enforce one of the harshest tyrannies humanity has ever known! Stop and think!" He held up a forefinger. "Even under the tightest dictatorships Old Terra ever knew, people have still been able to have one thing that was theirs, alone to themselves—

their minds. At least their thoughts were free. But Alfar's trying to change that; he's trying to set up a tyranny so complete that nobody can even call his thoughts his own!"

"How small a thing that is!" Flaran waved away the objection. "Thoughts are naught, Master Owen—they are gossamer, mere spiders' webs! What are free thoughts against a filled belly, and an ease of grinding toil? What is freedom of thought, against freedom from want? What worth hath the secrecy of the mind, when weighed against the knowledge that the King doth hold every least peasant to be his 204 Christopher Stasheff

own equal? But think!" He gazed off into space, eyes glittering. "Think how sweet this land could be, an witches ruled it! What an earthly paradise we could make here for ourselves, an folk of good heart could labor freely with their minds, to build it!"

Rod stared, astounded by the younger man's enthusiasm. Then he leaned back, letting his mouth twist to show his skepticism. "All right—tell me."

"Why! What could they not do, an witches could use their power openly? Never would there be drought or flood, for witches could move the storms about so as to water all the land! Never would murrain slay cattle or other stock, for witches could be open in their curing! Nor, for that matter, would folk need to die from illness, when witchphysicians could be by to aid them! Never would the peasants go hungry, to give their substance unto their lord, that he might deck himself with finery, or gamble through the night! Never would the people grumble in their misery, unheard, for a warlock would hear their thoughts, and find a means of ending that which troubled them!"

"Yeah, unless those peasants were grumbling because the king-warlock was doing something they didn't like! Then he'd just shut them up, by hypnotism!"

"Oh, such would be so few!" Flaran gave him a look of disgust. "Why trouble thyself for a mere handful of malcontents? Ever will some few be discontented with their lot!"

"Right—and Alfar's one of them! But it wouldn't be just a few malcontents, if the witch folk ruled—it'd be the vast majority, the normals, who'd be feeling like half-humans, because they didn't have any witch power! And they'd resent the governing ones who did—but they'd know the witches would wipe out anybody who dared utter it! So they'd keep quiet, but live in terror, and their whole lives would be one long torture! Just ordinary people, like these men around us!" He gestured at the peasants, who were pressing close all about them, eyes burning. "Better move along, boys. I'm having trouble keeping my temper; and when warlocks fight, bystanders may get hit with stray magic."

"Ah, art thou a warlock, then?" Flaran cried.

Rod ground his teeth in frustration, furious with himself for the slip he'd made; but he made a brave try at covering.

"According to you, I am. Didn't you just say my invisible mind was a great talent?"

"In truth I did—and if thou art a warlock, then art thou also a traitor!" Flaran leaped to his feet, face dark with anger, suddenly seeming bigger—almost a genuine threat. Rod wasn't exactly feeling pacific, himself. "Watch your tongue! I'm a King's man, and loyal to the bone!"

"Then art thou a traitor to witchhood!" Flaran stormed.

"Naught but a tool for hire, and the King's pay is best! Nay, thus art thou but a tool of the lordlings, a toy in their games—but it is we who are their pawns and moved about the land for their mere amusement! And thou dost abet them!

Thou, who, by blood, ought to join with Alfar and oppose them! Nay, thou'rt worse than a traitor—thou'rt a shameless slave!"

"Watch your tongue!" Rod sprang to his feet, and the cart rocked dangerously. But Flaran kept his footing easily, and, for some reason, that ignited Rod's anger into a blowtorch. "Beware who you're calling a slave! You've fallen so far under Alfar's spell that you've become nothing but his puppet!"

"Nay—his votary!" Flaran's eyes burned with sudden zeal. "Fool thou art, not to see his greatness! For Alfar will triumph, and all witch folk with him—Alfar will reign, and those self-sold witches who do oppose him, will die in torments of fire! Alfar is the future, and all who obstruct him will be ground into dust! Kneel, fool!" he roared, leaping up onto the cart-seat, finger spearing down at Rod.

"Kneel to Alfar, and swear him thy loyalty, or a traitor's death shalt thou die!"

The thin tissue of Rod's self-control tore, and rage erupted.

"Who the hell do you think you are, to tell me what to swear! You idiot, you dog's-meat gull! He's ground your ego into powder, and there's nothing left of the real you!

You don't exist anymore!"

"Nay—I exist, but thou shall not!" Flaran yanked a quarterstaff from the peasant next to him and smashed a two-handed blow down at Rod.

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Rod ducked inside the swing, coming up next to Flaran with his dagger in his hand, but a dozen hands seized him and yanked him back, the sky reeled above him, framed by peasant faces with burning eyes. He saw a club swinging down at him—and, where the peasants' smocks had come open at the necks, chain mail and a glimpse of green-andbrown livery. Then pain exploded through Rod's forehead, and night came early.