The Warlock Enraged-Warlock 4 (29 page)

13

A blowtorch, set on "low," was burning its way through Rod's brain. But it was a very poor blowtorch; it seemed to go over the same path again and again, in a regular, pulsing rhythm. He forced his eyes open, hoping to catch the bastard who was holding the torch.

Blackness.

Blackness everywhere, except for a trapezoid of flickering orange. He frowned, peering more closely at it, squinting against the raging in his head, and figured out that it was the reflection of a flame on a rock wall. There were stripes up and down—the shadows of bars, no doubt. There were a couple of other stripes, too, zigging and zagging—

the trails of water droplets. Then Rod became aware of fragile orange webs, higher up—gossamer niter, lit by the firelight.

He added it all up, and enlightenment bloomed—he was in a dungeon again. The firelight was a guard's torch, out in the hall, and the trapezoid was the shadow of the little barred grille in the door.

He heaved a sigh and lay back. This kept happening to him, time and again. There'd been the gaol in Pardope, the Dictator's "guest chamber" in Caerleath, the dungeon under 207

208 Christopher Stasheff

the House of Clovis, and the cell in the Duke's castle in Tir Chlis, where Father Al had taught him how to use his ESP

talents... and the list went on. He frowned, trying to remember back to the first one, but it was too much for his poor, scrambled brain.

He put the list away, and very slowly, very carefully, rolled up onto one elbow. The blowtorch shot out a fiery geyser that seemed to consume his whole head, right down his backbone, but only for a few moments; then it subsided, and fell into perspective as a mere headache. A real beaut, Rod had to admit—those soldiers hadn't exactly been deft, but they'd made up for it with enthusiasm. He pressed a hand to his throbbing forehead, remembering the chain mail under the peasant tunics. It was a very neat little trap he'd walked into—but he couldn't imagine a less appetizing bait than Flaran.

Not that it hadn't worked, though.

He lifted his head slowly, looking around him. Compared to the other dungeons he'd been in, this one was definitely second-rate. But, at least he had a couple of roommates, manacled to the wall across from him—though one of them had lost quite a bit of weight over the years; he was a pure skeleton. Well, not "pure"—he did have some mold patches here and there. The other one had some patches, too, but they were purple, shading toward maroon. It was Simon, and his chin was sunk on his chest.

Rod squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the headache, trying to think. Why should Simon be here? He wasn't a spy. Rod considered the question thoroughly, till the brainstorm struck: He could ask. So he cleared his throat, and tried. "Uh... Simon..."

The other man looked up, surprised. Then his face relaxed into a sad smile. "Ah, thou dost wake, then!"

"Yeah—kind of." Rod set both palms against the floor and did a very slow push-up. The headache clamored in indignation, and he fell back against the wall with a gasp—

but victorious; he was sitting up. The headache punished him unmercifully, then decided to accept the situation and lapsed into the background. Rod drew in a long, shuddering breath. "What... what happened? You shouldn't be here—

just me. What'd Flaran have against you?"

"He knew me for what I was," Simon sighed. "When the soldiers had felled thee, young Flaran turned on me, raging. "Who was this 'Owen?' Thou, vile traitor, will speak! Wherefore did this false, unminded man march northward into our domain?"

"Our?" Rod frowned.

Simon shrugged. "By good chance, I did not know the answers he sought. I said as much, and he whirled toward the soldiers, pointing back at me, screaming, 'Torture him!

Hale him down now, and break his fingers, joint by joint!'

'Nay,' I cried, 'I have naught to hide,' and I abandoned all pretence of cloaking my mind, casting aside all shields and attempts at hiding."

"What good could that do? As mind readers go, he was barely literate."

"Oh, nay! He was a veritable scholar!" Simon's mouth tightened. "Thou, my friend, wert not alone in thy deceptions. I felt naught, but I saw his face grow calm. Then his eyes lit with excitement—but they soon filled with disappointment, and he did turn away to the soldiers in disgust.

"There's naught here—naught but an old man, with some talent for spell-breaking. He could have gone free but, more's the fool, he hath come back North to seek to undo our work.' Then the auncient said, 'He's a traitor, then,' and the look that he gave me was venomed—yet there was that strange emptiness behind it."

Rod nodded. "Spellbound."

"Indeed. Then the auncient said further, 'Shall we flay him?' and cold nails seemed to skewer my belly. But Flaran gave me a measuring glance, and shook his head. 'Nay. He may yet prove useful. Only bind him and bring him.' Then he did fix his gaze upon me, and his eyes did seem to swell, glowing, to bum into my brain. 'An thou dost seek to break spells on these soldiers,' he swore. 'I will slay thee.'"

"So." Rod lifted his eyebrows. "Our young klutz wasn't quite the fool he seemed to be, was he?"

"Nay. In truth, he did command. He bade the soldiers march home, and all did turn to take up the journey. Some hundreds of yards further, we came to tethered horses. The soldiers untied them and mounted—and there were pack mules for myself and for thee, and a great chestnut charger 270 Christopher Stasheff

with a saddle adorned with silver for Raran." Rod watched Simon for a moment, then said, "Not exactly an accident we ran into them, was it?" Simon smiled, with irony. "In truth, 'twas quite wellplanned."

"Even to the point of rigging up a peasant mob to be chasing Flaran, at just the right time to run into us on the road." Rod's mouth tightened. "He knew that was a sure way to make us take him in. And he stayed with us just long enough to make sure we were what he thought we were, before he turned us over to his bully boys."

"He did give us the opportunity to turn our coats to Alfar's livery," Simon pointed out.

"Yes. Generous of him, wasn't it?" Rod scowled. "But how did he catch onto us?"

Simon sighed, and shook his head. "I can only think that some spy of his must have sighted us, and followed unbeknownst."

"Yeah—that makes sense." With a sudden stab of guilt, Rod realized that Alfar had probably had spies watching him from the moment he crossed the border. After all, he'd certainly had Rod in sight before then. Rod just hadn't counted on the sorcerer's being so thorough.

Nothing to do about it now. Rod shook himself—and instantly regretted it; the headache stabbed again. But he thrust it all behind him, and asked, "How far did they ride?"

"All the rest of the day, and far into the night," Simon answered.

"But it was only mid-moming." Rod frowned. "That must have been... let me see..." He pressed a hand against his aching head, and the clank of the wrist-chain seemed to drive right through from ear to ear. But he absorbed the pain and let it disperse through his skull, trying to think.

"Sixteen hours. And I was out cold all that time?" Simon nodded. "Whenever thou didst show sign of wakening, Flaran bade his soldiers strike thee again."

"No wonder my head's exploding! How many times did they hit me?"

"More than half a dozen."

Rod shuddered. "I'm just lucky I don't have a fracture. On the other hand..." He frowned, and lifted a hand to

probe his skull, then thought better of it. "I guess I'll have to hope. Why didn't he want me awake?"

"He did not say; yet I would conjecture that he did not wish to chance discovery of the range of thy powers." Rod felt an icicle-stab. "Powers? What're you talking about? I just happen to be invisible to any listening witches, that's all."

"Mayhap; yet in this, I must needs admit that, in Flaran's place, I would have done as he did. For whether thou dost shield thy mind by chance, or by intention, truly matters not—such shielding bespeaks great witch power. Nay, thou'rt a true warlock. Master Owen, whether thou dost know it or not—and a most puissant one, to be able to hide thy mind so thoroughly." Simon leaned back against the wall.

"And there is ever, of course, the chance that thou dost know it indeed, and dost hide thy thoughts by deliberation. And if that were the case, and if I were thine enemy, I would not wish to gamble on the extent of thy powers. I, too, would not chance thy waking."

Rod just gazed at Simon.

Then he looked away, with a sigh. "Well, I can't fault your logic—or his wisdom. But why did he bring you along?"

Simon shrugged. "Who can say? Yet I doubt not he'll seek to force thee to answer certain questions, whether thou dost know them or not—and if thine own pain is not enough to make thee speak, mayhap he'll think that mine will." Rod shivered. "That boy's a real charmer, isn't he?"

"In truth. He did turn to me, jabbing with a finger. 'Do not seek to hide thy thoughts,' he cried, 'nor to disguise them, or I shall bid them slay thee out of hand.' I assured him I would not, the more so since I saw no point in such disguising. For what could he learn from my mind, that's of any import?"

"And that he didn't learn from traveling with the two of us." Rod was glad that the light was too dim for Simon to see his face burning. "Or that he couldn't find out by, let us say, more 'orthodox' means? For example, if he's keeping tab on your thoughts, he knows I'm awake now."

"Aye. I doubt me not an we'll see him presently."

"No doubt at all; I'm sure he's still in charge of our case. 272 Christopher Stasheff

... So he was giving the orders, huh? To the soldiers, I mean."

"Aye. There was no doubt of that."

Rod nodded. "Then he's probably the one who arranged the ambush."

Simon gazed at him for a moment, then nodded slowly.

"That would be likely."

"So he's not exactly the simple half-telepath he claimed to be."

Simon's lips curved with the ghost of his smile. "Nay, Master Owen. He is certainly not that."

"He didn't happen to let out any hints about his real self, did he?"

Simon shook his head. "The surface of his thoughts stayed ever as it had been. For aught that I could hear from him, his name was ever Flaran; yet his thoughts were all extolling Alfar, and how greatly advantaged the land was, since he'd taken power."

Rod frowned. "Nothing about the job at hand?"

"Aye; he did think how greatly thy capture would please Alfar."

"I should think it would." Rod closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the wall, hoping the cold stone might cool the burning. "No matter what else we might say about our boy Plaran, we've got to admit he was effective." A key grated in the lock. Rod looked up at a slab of dungeon warder with a face that might have been carved out of granite. He didn't say a word, just held the door open and stepped aside to admit a lord, gorgeously clad in brocade doublet and trunk-hose, burgundy tights and shoes, fine lace ruff, and cloth-of-gold mantle, with a golden coronet on his head. His chin was high in arrogance; he wore a look of stem command. Rod had to look twice before he recognized Flaran. "Clothes do make the man," he murmured. Plaran smiled, his lips curving with contempt. "Clothes, aye—and a knowledge of power."

The last word echoed in Rod's head. He held his gaze on Flaran. "So the rumor was true—Alfar was wandering around the country, disguised as a peasant." Flaran inclined his head in acknowledgement.

"Well, 0 Potentate Alfar." Rod leaned back against the

wall. "I have to admit you did a great job of disguising yourself as a peasant. Could it be you had experience to draw on?"

Alfar's eyes sparked with anger, and Simon seemed to shrink in on himself in horror. The sorcerer snapped. "Indeed, I was numbered 'mongst the downtrodden till a year agone."

"But that's all behind you now, of course." His voice was a little too innocent. Alfar's gaze hardened.

"Be not mistaken. Think not that I'm a peasant still—for thou dost lie within my power now, and thou wilt find it absolute."

Rod shrugged. "So you're a powerful peasant. Or did you honestly think you could be something more?"

"Greatly more," Alfar grated, "as thou wilt discover."

"Oh?" Rod tilted his head to the side. "What, may I ask?"

"A duke—Duke Alfar, of the Northern coast! And thou, slave, shall address me as such!"

"Oh." Rod kept his lips pursed from the word. "I'm a slave now, am I?"

"Why?" Alfar's eyes kindled. "What else wouldst thou call thyself?"

Rod watched him for a second, then smiled. "I'm a peasant, too. Aren't I?"

"Assuredly," Alfar said drily. "Yet whatsoever thou art, thou art also a most excellent thought-hearer, an thou hast been able to probe 'neath my thoughts to discover who I truly am."

"Oh, that didn't take mind reading. None at all. I mean, just look at it logically: Who, in all the great North Country, would be the most likely one to go wandering around disguised as a schlemazel peasant, supporting Alfar's policies with great verve and enthusiasm, and would have authority to command his soldiers?"

"One of my lieutenants, mayhap," Alfar said, through thinned lips.

Rod shook his head. "You never said one word about having to refer a decision to someone higher up—at least, not from Simon's reports about what happened while I was out cold. But you did mention 'our' domain, which meant 214 Christopher Stasheff

that you were either one of the lieutenants, viewing himself as a partner—and from what I'd heard of Alfar, I didn't think he was the type to share power..."

"Thou didst think aright," Flaran growled.

"See? And that left the 'or' to the 'either'—and the 'or'

was that the 'our' you'd used was the royal 'our.' And that meant that Flaran was really Alfar." Rod spread his hands.

"See? Just common sense."

"Scarcely 'common.'" Alfar frowned. "In truth, 'tis a most strange mode of thought."

"People keep telling me that, here," Rod sighed. He'd found that chains of reasoning were alien to the medieval mind. "But that was the royal 'our,' wasn't it? And you are planning to try for the throne, aren't you?" Alfar's answer was an acid smile. "Thou hast come to the truth of it at last—though I greatly doubt thou didst find it in such a manner."