The Warlock Enraged-Warlock 4 (3 page)

"Romanov?" Rod stared, appalled. "One of the twelve great lords? How could he fall, without word of it reaching us?"

"I could accomplish it—and I am no wizard." Tuan shrugged. "'Tis simplicity—close a ring of iron around his castle under cover of night, then hurl an army 'gainst his barbican, and siege machines against his towers. Invest the castle, and trust to thy ring of knights and men-at-arms to see that not a soul wins free to bear off word." Rod shuddered at Tuan's sangfroid. "But he had a couple ofesp-uh, witches, guesting in his tower!"

"More than 'guesting,' as I hear it," Tuan answered, with a grim smile. "They were thoroughly loyal to Milord Duke, for he had saved them from the stake and embers. They've been of great service tending to the ill and injured and, I doubt not, gathering information for him."

Rod frowned. "They must have been very discreet about

it. We make it a practice, in the Royal Coven, not to pry into the minds of anyone except your enemies."

"Or those who might become so," Tuan amended. "Who's to say his witches did more? Nay, once Catharine showed them the way of it, and thou and thy good wife did aid her in forming that band into a battle-weapon, all the lords did leam, and followed suit."

"And Romanov's witches couldn't give him enough advance warning?" Rod pursed his lips. "This sorcerer is effective. But speaking of mental eavesdropping, that's a way to check on the rumors. Did you ask any of the Royal Witchforce to try and read Romanov's mind?"

"I did. They could not find him."

"So." Rod pursed his lips. "What minds did they hear, to the North?"

Tuan shrugged. "Only what should be. The plowman followed his oxen, the milkmaid coaxed her swain—naught was there to bring alarm, save that the warlock who listened, could not find the minds of any knights or barons."

"How about vile thoughts, from evil sorcerers?" Tuan turned his head slowly from side to side.

"So." Rod's gaze strayed back to the map. "On the face of it, nothing's wrong; it's just that the Duke of Romanov seems to have taken a vacation to parts unknown, with all his aristocratic retainers."

"Thou dost see why I do suspect."

Rod nodded. "Sounds fishy to me, too... not that I can't understand why the noble Duke would want to take off for a while, though. I've been feeling a bit too much stress lately, myself.... Gwen?" He turned, to find Gwen standing near. "Been listening?"

"I have." She smiled. "And I do think thou dost make a great coil of naught."

"Well, I wouldn't exactly say we're making a lot of fuss." Rod locked gazes with Tuan. "Where's the weeping and wailing? The yelling and hair-tearing?"

'"Tis even as thou sayest," Tuan turned to Gwen. "I do not see great danger here. Lady Gwendylon—only the abuse of witch-power, over those who have it not."

"And witches ganging up on normals," Rod added. "But that can all be cured by even more witches—from the good 76 Christopher Stasheff

guys. After all, we have a vested interest in the public's opinion of witches, dear."

"In truth," Gwen said firmly, "and we cannot have the folk afeard that witches will seek to govern by force of magic,"

"Of course not," Rod mumured, "especially when every right-thinking individual knows it has to be done by force of arms."

Tuan frowned. "How didst thou speak?"

"Uh, nothing." Rod turned to Gwen. "How about it, dear? A family vacation, wandering toward the North?" When Gwen hesitated, he added, "I don't really think there's any danger—at least, none that you and I can't handle between us."

"Nay, surely not," Gwen agreed, but her brow was still furrowed.

"What, then? The kids? I really don't think they'll mind."

"Oh, certes they will not! Yet hast thou considered the trials of shepherding our four upon the road?"

"Sure." Rod frowned. "We did it in Tir Chlis."

"I know," Gwen sighed. "Well, an thou sayest 'tis for the best, my husband, we shall essay it."

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Rod turned the key in the lock, pulled it out, set it in Gwen's palm, and wrapped her hand around it. "Your office, 0

Lady of the House." He studied her face for a second and added gently, "Don't worry, dear. It'll still be here when you get back."

"I know," she sighed, "yet 'tis never easy to leave it."

"I know." Rod glanced back at the house. "I'll get halfway down the road, and start wondering if I really did put out the fire on the hearth."

"And thou dost, but call it out, and an elf shall bear word to me," Brom O'Berin rumbled beside them. "Mere minutes after thou hast uttered it, an elf shall spring out of the ingelnook to douse thy hearth—if it doth need."

"I thank thee, Brom," Gwen said softly. The dwarf scowled, becoming more gruff. "Nay, have no fear for thine house. Elves shall guard it day and night. Ill shall fare the man who doth seek to enter." Rod shuddered. "I pity the footpad Puck catches! So come on, dear—there's nothing to worry about. Here, anyway. Time for the road." He grasped her waist, and helped her leap to Fess's saddle.

"May we not fly. Papa?" Cordelia pouted. Her hands were clasped behind her back, and a broomstick stuck out from behind her shoulder.

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Rod smiled, and glanced at Gwen. She nodded, almost imperceptibly. He turned back to Cordelia. "As long as you stay near your mother and me—yes."

Cordelia gave a shout of joy and leaped onto her broom. Her brothers echoed her, drifting up into the air.

"Move out. Old Iron," Rod murmured, and the great black robot-horse ambled out toward the road. Rod fell into step beside him, and turned back to wave to Brom.

"A holiday!" Geoffrey cried, swooping in front of him.

"'Tis ages since we had one!"

"Yeah—about a year." But Rod grinned; he seemed to feel a weight lifting off his shoulders. He caught Gwen's hand and looked up at her. "Confess it, dear—don't you feel a little more free?"

She smiled down at him, brightening. "I do, my lord—

though I've brought my lock and bars along."

"And I, my ball and chain." Rod grinned. "Keep an eye on the links, will you?... Magnus! When I said, 'Stay near,'

that meant altitude, too! Come down here right now!" The tinkers strolled into the village, gay and carefree, smudged and dirty. Their clothes were patched, and the pots and pans hanging from their horse's pack made a horrible clattering.

"This is rather demeaning. Rod," Fess murmured. "Additionally, as I have noted, no real tinker family could afford a horse."

"Especially not one fit for a knight. I know," Rod answered. "I'll just tell them the last stop was a castle, and the lord of the demesne paid us in kind."

"Rod, I think you lack an accurate concept of the financial worth of a war-horse in medieval culture."

"Hey—they had a lot of pots." Rod grinned down at his own primitive publicity agents. "Okay, kids, that's enough. I think they know we're here."

The four little Gallowglasses slowed their madcap dancing, and gave their pots and pans one last clanging whack with their wooden spoons. "You spoil all the fun. Papa," Cordelia pouted as she handed him the cookware.

"No, just most of it. Magnus? Geoff? Turn in your weapons, boys. Gregory, you, too—ah, a customer!"

"Canst mend this firkin, fellow?" The housewife was plump, rosy-cheeked, and anxious.

Rod took the little pot and whistled at the sight of the long, jagged crack in the cast iron. "How'd you manage that kind of break?"

"My youngest dropped it," the goodwife said impatiently.

"Canst mend it?"

"Yeah," Rod said slowly, "but it'll cost you a ha'penny." The woman's face blossomed in a smile. "I have one, and 'twill be well worth it. Bless thee, fellow!" Which sounded a little odd, since "fellow" was a term of semicontempt; but Rod blithely took out a hammer and some charcoal, laid a small fire, and got busy faking. Magnus and Gregory crouched on either side of him, obstensibly watching.

"This is the manner of the Grafting of it, Gregory," big brother Magnus said softly. "Let thy mind bear watch on mine. The metal's made of grains so small thou canst not see them..."

"Molecules," Rod supplied.

"Aye. And now I'll make those molecules move so fast they'll meld one to another. Yet I must spring them into motion so quickly that their heat will not have time to spread through the rest of the metal to Papa's hands, the whiles he doth press the broken edges together—for we'd not wish to bum him."

"Definitely not," Rod muttered.

Gregory watched intently.

So did Rod. He still couldn't quite believe it, as he saw the metal spring into cherry-redness all along the crack, brighten quickly through orange and yellow to near whiteness. Metal flowed.

"Now quickly, cool it!" Magnus hissed, drops of sweat standing out on his brow, "Ere the heat can run to Papa's hands!"

The glow faded faster than it had come, for Gregory frowned at it, too; this part was simple enough for a threeyear-old. Simple! When only witches were supposed to be telekinetic, not warlocks—and even the best of them could only move objects, not molecules.

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But there the pot stood, round and whole! Rod sighed, and started tapping it lightly with the hammer, far from where the crack had been—just for appearances. "Thanks, Magnus. You're a great help."

"Willingly, Papa." The eldest wiped his brow.

"Papa," Gregory piped up, "Thou dost know that elves do 'company us..."

"Yeah." Rod grinned. "Nice to know you're not alone."

"Truth. Yet I've thought to have them ask for word from their fellows in the North...."

"Oh?" Rod tried not to show it, but he was impressed. Three years old, and he'd thought of something Tuan and Rod had both overlooked. "What did they say?"

"The goodwives no longer call warnings to the Wee Folk ere they empty garbage out upon the ground," Gregory's eyes were large in his little face. "They no longer leave their bowls of milk for the elves, by their doors. Each house now hath cold iron nailed up over its door, whether it be an horseshoe or some other form, and hearths go unswept at eventide."

Rod felt a chill and glanced at a nearby tree, but its leaves were still. "Well, I guess no housewife there is going to find sixpence in her shoe. What are the elves doing about it?"

"Naught. There is some spell lies o'er the plowed land there, that pushes against all elfin magic. They have turned away in anger, and flitted to the forests." Rod struck the pot a few more times, in silence.

"Is this coil in the North so light as thou hast told us, Papa?" Gregory finally asked.

Rod reflected that, for a three-year-old, the kid had one hell of a good vocabulary. He put down his hammer and faced the child squarely. "There's no real evidence, yet, that it's anything major."

"But the signs..." Magnus murmured.

"Are not evidence," Rod answered. "Not firm evidence—but I'm braced. That's why we're travelling in disguise—so we can pick up any rumors, without letting people know we're the High Warlock and Company."

"Thou dost not wish our presence known, for fear the evil folk will hide till we've gone by?" Magnus asked.

"No, because I don't want to walk into an ambush. Not that I expect to, mind—I just don't want to take any chances." He gave the pot a last tap and held it up to admire. "You boys did a good job."

"We shall ever do our best, for thee," Magnus responded.

"Papa... if thou dost gain this firm evidence that thou speakest of... What then?"

Rod shrugged. "Depends. If it's nothing major, we'll fix whatever's wrong, and go on to the northern seacoast for a couple of weeks of swimming and fishing. You've never tried swimming in the ocean, boys. Let me tell you, it's very different from the little lake near our house."

"I shall hope to discover it," Gregory piped. "Papa... what if the evidence is of great wrongness?"

"Then you three boys will turn right around, and take your mother and your sister right home," Rod said promptly.

"And thou... ?"

"I'm the High Warlock, aren't I?" Rod grinned at them.

"They gave me the title. I've got to live up to it." Gregory and Magnus looked at each other, and locked gazes.

"I prithee, my lord, calm your heart," Gwen eyed him anxiously as she laid the campfire. " 'Twas not the forester's fault that we may not hunt."

"Yeah—but the way he dragged Magnus in, as though he were some kind of criminal!" Rod folded a hand around his trembling fist. "He should only know how close he came to disaster! Good thing Magnus remembered his disguise."

" 'Twas not the child's self-rule that troubled me." Gwen shuddered. "My lord, if thou couldst have but seen thine own face...."

"I know, I know," Rod snapped, turning away. "So it's not surprising he reached toward his knife. But so help me, if he had touched it..."

"He would have died," Gwen said simply, "and men-atarms would have caught us on the morrow."

"Oh, no, they wouldn't," Rod said grimly. "They wouldn't've dared touch the High Warlock!"

"Aye—and all the land would have known we ride north." She sighed. "I rejoice thou didst throttle thy temper." 22 Christopher Stasheff

"No, I didn't, and you know it! If you hadn't butted in and taken over, raining thanks and praise on the forester, as though you were a waterfall..."

Gwen shrugged. "'Twas naught but his due. A less kind man would have beaten the child, and haled him off to his knight's gaol."

Rod stared, appalled.

Gwen nodded. "Oh, aye, my lord. And the law allows it. Nay, more; for this good warden who did find our son, might be censured if his lord did know of his forbearance." Rod shuddered. "I'm glad I let him go, then. But, my lord! It's not as though the boy'd been trying to bring down a deer! All he was after was a rabbit!"

"Even so, the Forest Laws would say 'twas theft," Gwen reminded him. "Every hare and goose—nay, each mouse and sparrow—doth belong unto the manor's lord; and to hunt them is to steal!"