"Christopher Stasheff - Warlock - 05 - The Warlock Wandering" - читать интересную книгу автора (Stasheff Christopher)

"NAY, PAPA! I AM too old to need one to guide and ward

me!"

Rod shook his head. "When you're fifteen, maybe—

maybe. But even then, you won't be old enough to take

care of an eight-year-old little brother—nor a ten-year-old,

for that matter. Not to mention a thirteen-year-old sister."

"I am ten already!" The little girl jammed her fists on

her hips and glared up at him with a jutting chin.

Rod turned to her, suppressing a smile, but Gwen was

already chiding gently. "Mayhap when thou art fourteen

years aged, my sweet, and thy brother Magnus is sixteen,

I'll dare leave the others in thy charge. Yet now..." She

turned to Big Brother. "... thou art but twelve."

" Tis a worthy age," Magnus declared. "Assuredly might

I care for myself." He turned back to Rod. "Many another

boy of my age doth already aid his father in plowing, and..."

"Other boys your age are pages, and taking squire lessons

from the local knight." Rod nodded. "But in both cases,

please notice the presence of an adult—and those boys

aren't taking care of little brothers and sisters!"

"Enough of such chatter!" A foot and a half of elf stepped

up beside Rod's knee, arms akimbo, frowning up at the

four children. "Be still and heed me, or 'twill be much the

worse for thee!"

Rod had a fleeting vision of coming home to four little

frogs in nightshirts and nightcaps. The children fell silent.

Glowering and truculent, but silent. Even though the small-

4              Christopher Stasheff

est of them was twice Puck's size, they all knew that the

elf's idea of fun could be more devastating than their par-

ents' notion of punishment.

"Thy parents do wish to take an evening to themselves,"

the Puck rumbled, "to think of naught but one another's

company. The coming-together that this allows them is as

much to thy benefit as to theirs—and well thou knowest

that they could not thus rejoice in one another's company,

an they were continually concerned over what mishaps might

befall thee. Yet my biding with thee will allow them as-

surance sufficient to ease their minds from care, for the

space of an evening."

By this time, four sets of eyes were cast toward the

ground. Cordelia was drawing imaginary circles with her

toe. Rod didn't say anything, but he eyed the elf with re-

newed respect.

"Bid them good night, then," Puck. commanded, "and

assure them thou wilt cheerfully bide in my care till they

return."

Reluctantly, and with ill grace, the children came up,

one by one, for a quick peck on the cheek and a perfunctory

hug, for Cordelia and Gregory, and a manly handshake, for

Magnus and Geoffrey (but with a peck on the cheek for

Mama).

"Go thy ways, now," Puck said to Rod and Gwen, "and

concern thyselves not with the fates of thy children. I war-

rant their safety, though a full score of knights ride against

them—for a legion of elves shall defend!"

"Not to mention that you, yourself, could easily confound

a dozen." Rod bowed in acknowledgement. "I thank you,

Puck."

"Bless thee, Robin." Gwen hid a smile.

Puck winced. "I prithee, lady! Be mindful of my sen-

sibilities!"

"'Tis myself who doth bless thee," Gwen assured him.

"I did not invoke any Other. Yet do I thank thee, too. Sprite."

"'Tis ever my pleasure." Puck doffed his cap with a

THE WARLOCK WANDERING       5

flourish, and bowed. "Ever, when the lady's so beauteous.

Go thy ways, now, free of care—and hasten, ere the gloam-

ing surrenders to Night!"

They followed his advice. Rod closed the door behind

them, and they walked five steps down the path, counting

under their breaths. Then, "Six," Rod said, and, "seven..."

On cue, four small faces filled the window behind them,

with cries of "God e'en!" "Good night. Mama!" "Well betide

thee!"

Rod grinned, and Gwen answered with a pursed smile.

They waved, then turned and strode off down the path.

"We're lucky," Rod reminded her.

"Indeed." Gwen sighed. "But 'twill be pleasant to have

some few hours to ourselves once more."

They wandered into the twilit forest, with his arm about

her, she with a dreamy, contented smile, he just contented.

"And wither wilt thou carry me away, my lord?" she

murmured.

Rod smiled down at her. "I ran into a little old lady who

was trying to haul some firewood home on her back—and

having very rough going, stumbling and cursing, and need-

ing to put it down every ten feet or so. So I let her ride

Fess, and I carried the wood as far as the crossroads where

her son was going to meet her. She thanked me a lot and,

favor for favor, took me on a short detour and showed me

a little glade with a beautiful mini-pond." He heaved a sigh.

"I swear I never knew there was something so pretty, so

close to home—except, of course, the ones who are in it."

She looked up at him, amused; but he saw the dreaminess

behind the smile, and shook a finger at her. "Now, don't

you dare try to tell me it's just like the days when we were

courting! We only got to know each other in the middle of

a minor civil war."                        ^

"Aye; yet did I bethink me of the days thereafter."

"Right after the war, we got married."

She snuggled her head up against his chest. "'Tis what

I did mind me of."

6              Christopher Stasheff

Rod stared at her for a moment. Then he smiled, and

rested his cheek against her head.

Suddenly the woodland path opened out. The branches

swung away, and they found themselves gazing at a perfect

pool, its waters like a gem. Terraced rocks came down to

its edge, festooned with flowers. Branches arched over it

like a sheltering dome.              *

Gwen drew in a breath. "Oh, 'tis beautiful!"

Then she saw the unicorn.

It stepped out of the shadows at the edge of the pond to

lower its dainty muzzle to the still water, drinking.

Rod held his breath, but even under the spell of the

moment, his mind automatically registered the fact that the

water must be extremely pure, if a unicorn was willing to

drink it.

Then the silver beast lifted its head, to look directly at

them.

Gwen gasped in wonder. Then, slowly, she moved around

the pool, entranced.

Rod followed right behind her, scarcely daring to breathe.

As Gwen drew close, the unicorn stepped back. Gwen

hesitated.

"Sorry, dear," Rod murmured.

"I will never regret," she answered softly. "But, my lord,

there is not only wariness in those eyes—there is imploring.

Could it need our aid?"

"Sought us out, you mean?" Rod frowned—then stiff-

ened, as alarm bells went off in the back of his mind.

"Gwen—even on Gramarye, unicorns don't exist..."

Gwen shook her head. "Be mindful of witch-moss, my

lord. On Gramarye, aught that an old aunt may imagine the

whiles she doth tell a tale, can come into being, an she be

a witch unknowing."

But Rod didn't answer. He was gazing about him with

every sense open, alert for the slightest thing out of place,

his awareness widening to encompass the whole of the glen,

the patterns of light that the sunset painted on the shrubbery,

THE WARLOCK WANDERING       7

the rustling of leaves, the whisper of leather, and the slight

chink of metal behind him...

He whirled about, sword whipping out; the pike smashed

past his shoulder and into the ground. "Look out!" he cried,

but even as Gwen turned, another cudgel cracked into her

skull. She crumpled, and Rod howled with rage, full ber-

serker madness. The glade about him seemed to darken with

the hue of blood. He bellowed as he leaped forward, chop-

ping with a sword that burst into flame. His opponent leaped

back, eyes alight and wary, but without fear.

His buddies closed in from three sides. Rod knew there

was one behind him, too, and he let a glance of his rage

dart backward. Flame burst, and somebody screamed. Rod

parried a blow from the center man while he glared at the

thug to his left. The man slammed back against a tree and

slumped to the ground, but the man to his right stepped in,

and swung down hard. A crack echoed through Rod's head,

filling the world with pain. Through the red mist, he felt

himself swaying. He swung his arm with the movement,

slashing, and the thug fell back with a howl, a red line

beginning to widen across his cheek. But Rod had forgotten

his back; rope hissed and burned across his neck, and yanked

his feet out from under him. A soft body plummeted against

him, knocking the breath out of him. Then they were drag-

ging, bumping, over rough ground, and he realized, dazed,

that the body was Gwen. He howled and slashed at the net

around them, but his sword caught in the ropes. He tugged

at it in fury, hearing somebody call, "We have them! Now—

heave! Two meters more!"

Rod struggled frantically to get his feet under him. What-

ever lay at the end of those two meters, he wasn't going to

like.

Then, through the mesh, he saw it—a jury-rigged thing

of telescoping legs, framing a triangular arch that showed

only a blaze of sunlight, harsh on his eyes. He recognized

the transdimensional gate that had taken himself and his

8             Christopher Stasheff

family to the alternate universe of Tir Chlis, and he bellowed

in rage and panic, channeling every ounce of it at the

gadget....

He was an instant too late. The net cut into his back,

heaved up, and shot through, just as the contraption behind

him burst into flame.

Sickened, he struggled against the ropes, got his feet

under him, and surged up to stand. He thrashed the net off

him, and whirled about, wild-eyed.

In every direction, as far as he could see, grassland swept

away to the horizon. The air was filled with the fragrance

of growth, and the sunshine enveloped him with warmth.

It wasn't very far up—which was easy to tell, because the

land was flat as a chessboard. He turned, staring, amazed

at the silence, all the more vivid for the few faint bird-calls

and the murmurings of insects. The land rolled up behind

the net, up and up to a high ridge. Everywhere, everywhere

was grass, waist-high.

It wasn't Gramarye.

Rod glared about him, powerless to do anything about

it. They'd been very neatly caught, he and his wife....

Fury transformed into horror. The ambush had been ad-

mirably planned; they'd knocked Gwen out in the first few

moments. But how far out? He dropped to one knee, clawing

the net away from her, cradling her head in the crook of an

elbow, patting her face, caressing it, slapping very gently.

"Gwen! Come to! Wake up—please! Are you there? Wake

up!" He poised his mouth in front of her lips, felt for breath,

and relaxed with a sigh. She was alive. Everything else was

secondary—she was alive!

Belatedly, he remembered his psi powers—not surpris-

ing, since he'd only had them for a year or two. He stilled,

listening closely with his mind—and heard her dream. He

smiled, insinuating himself into it, asking her to wake, to

speak to him—and she did.

"Nay, I am well now," she murmured. '"Twas but a

moment's discomfort...."

THE WARLOCK WANDERING       9

"A little more than that, I think." Gently, Rod probed

the side of her head. She was still; then, suddenly, she

gasped. Rod nodded. "Goose egg already—well, a rob-

in's—but it'll be a goose egg."

She reached up to touch the spot tenderly, then winced.

"What did hap, my lord? I mind me thou didst turn, with

a war-cry..."

"A gang of thugs jumped us. They knocked you out on

the first swing—and they had me outnumbered. Caught us

up in a net, and dragged us through a dimensional gate."

She smiled. "A net? Nay, I must needs think they did

find thy skill too great for them."

"Why, thank you." Rod smiled down at her. "Of course,

there's also the possibility they were under orders not to kill

us—and fighting is more difficult when you have to knock

somebody out, but not kill him."

Gwen frowned. "Why dost thou think they abjured slay-

ing?"

"Because they used cudgels, not pikes. But, when they

couldn't take us alive, they settled*for kidnapping us out of

our own time and place." Rod frowned, looking around.

"Which means there should be somebody around, waiting

for a second try."

"Aye, my lord. If they wished us alive, they must needs

have had strong reason." She gazed up at him. "What is

this 'dimensional gate' of which thou didst speak? I catch,

from thy mind, memories of Tir Chlis."

Rod nodded. "Same type. But how'd they know where

to waylay us? That gate had to be set up ahead of time."

"The crone," Gwen murmured.

Rod smacked his forehead with the heel of his hand. "Of

course! The whole thing was a setup! She didn't really need

my help... she was a Futurian agent!"

"They knew thou wouldst not refuse to assist one in

need."

Rod nodded. "So good old helpful me gave an old lady

a hand, and she bit it! Told me right where to go—and set

10 Christopher Stasheff

up her trap." He shook his head. "Remind me not to do

anyone any favors."

"I would never wish that," Gwen said firmly. "Yet in

future, let us beware of all gifts."

"Yeah—we'll open them under water." Rod looked

around, frowning. "Wonder what alternate universe they've

shanghaied us into this time?"

A ululating cry slashed through the air, and thirty purple-

skinned fur-kilted men rose up out of the tall grass a hundred

yards away.

Rod and Gwen stared.

A spear arced through the air, to bury its head in the

earth half a meter from Rod's feet.

Rod snapped out of his daze. "Wherever we are, we ain't

welcome. Run, dear!"

They whirled and charged, Gwen gathering up her skirts.

"Our abductors could at the least have sent a broomstick!"

"Yes, very careless of them." But Rod chewed at the

inside of his lip. "Still, maybe you had the right idea there,

dear. Let's try it and see. Ready?" He slipped an arm around

her. "Up we go!"

They leaped into the air. Rod put all his attention into

staying up; the natives became secondary, dim and distant.

They rose up a good twenty feet.

"Turn," Gwen suggested.

Rod banked, worrying about the "why" later. Until he

got good at this game, he'd have to let Gwen do the steering.

She had novel ideas. They swooped back toward the

natives like avenging furies.

The savages screeched to a halt, partly from surprise,

mostly from alarm. Good little victims weren't supposed to

attack.

"Attempt a war-cry," Gwen advised.

Rod grinned, and let out a whoop that would have shamed

all the rebels in Dixie.

That was a mistake; it gave the savages something fa-

THE WARLOCK WANDERING      11

miliar. They snapped out of their shock and closed ranks in

front of the flying Gallowglasses.

"Wrong tactic," Rod decided. "Hold tight." He thought

up hard, and soared way high over the savages' heads,

thoroughly out of bowshot. Then they swung down.

"Wherefore so low, my lord?" Gwen asked.

"Just in case I run out of lift."

Gwen blanched. "If we are going to strike the earth, my

lord, I would prefer not to fly so swiftly."

"Don't worry, babe, I can stop on a dime. Of course, it

doesn't do the dime much good...."

The ground rose up beneath them. They rose with it,

too, of course—and the whooping barbarians were growing

smaller very quickly, behind them. Up, and over the rise—

and the savages disappeared below the curve of the ridge.

"Surely they must be the half of a mile behind us, now,

my lord," Gwen protested. "Will they not have given up

by now?"

Rod nodded. "If you say so, darling. I just hope they

were listening."

They slowed, and dropped gently to the ground. Gwen

smiled as her heels touched earth. "Thou dost progress

amazingly in thine use of thy powers, my lord."

"Oh, you know—just practice." But Rod felt a thor-

oughly irrational glow at her praise. "I must say, though,

I'm surprised it didn't put more of a shock into our hunters."

"Aye." Gwen frowned. "What manner of men were they?"

"Oh—just your average barbarians."

"But—they were purple!"

"The human race is amazing in its diversity," Rod said

piously. "On the other hand, you never know—the color

might wash off in a good rain."

Gwen stared. "Dost'a mean they do paint themselves

from head to toe?"

Rod nodded. "Not exactly unknown. In fact, if it weren't

for the color, I'd guess we were on the Scottish side of

12            Christopher Stasheff

Hadrian's Wall in a country called Great Britain, about 100

A.D."

"Were there truly such?" she asked, wide-eyed.

"Sure were, dear—check any history book, if you can

find one. Painted themselves blue, in fact." Rod frowned.

"Of course, that theme has been pretty well pict over by

now...."

Clamoring howls drifted down the wind again.

Rod's head snapped up and around.

Over the ridge they came—purple, waving spears, and

howling like the Eumenides.

"Time to hit the woad!" Rod caught Gwen around the

waist again.

"Not so high this time, an it please thee, my lord."

"Anything to please, my dear." Rod frowned, concen-

trating. The scenery seemed to dim about him, and they

rose just to the tops of the grain.

"Forward," Gwen murmured.

They shot straight ahead, faster than a speeding spear

(just in case).

"They may not be much on technology, but they've got

Terrans beat all hollow on perverse perseverance."

'"Tis even so. How long can they endure?"

Rod looked back, letting the natives' style percolate

through the filters of his concentration. "Let's see—they're

doing a lope, not an all-out run.... Hey, those guys aren't

even trying! Not really."

"Scandalous. How long can they maintain such a pace?"

Rod shrugged. "As long as we can, I'd guess."

"And how long is that, my lord?"

Rod shrugged again. "I just had dinner. Six or seven

hours, at least." He looked down at Gwen. "Any particular

direction you wanted me to go?"

She shook her head. "All bearings are equal, when thou

knowest not thy destination."

Rod nodded. "I can sympathize with that; I was young

once, myself."

THE WARLOCK WANDERING      13

She glanced up at him. "Thou art not greatly anxious,

my lord."

"No, not really. These guys haven't invented anti-aircraft

guns yet.... How about you? Worried?"

"Nay." She leaned back in his arms with a peaceful sigh.

Vivid skins and violent yells erupted over the horizon in

front.

Rod stared. "How'd they get around there so quickly?"

"Nay, 'tis a different band. These are stained yellow-

green."

"Chartreuse, I think they call it—but you're right." Rod

frowned. "I don't feel like attacking again. Shall we?"

Gwen nodded. "Turn, an't please thee, my lord. I have

no wish to shed blood."

They banked around in a 180-degree turn—just as their

previous pursuers came over the rise behind.

"Turn, and turn again." Rod veered ninety degrees. "Pilot

to navigator. Setting course perpendicular to angle of pur-

suit. To the vector go the broils."

Gwen glanced back. "They do join forces in pursuit of

us, my lord."

"Too bad." Rod scowled, "I was hoping they might take

time out to fight each other."

"United they ran," Gwen sighed. "Why did we turn to

the left, my lord?"

"I'm a liberal."

"Wherefore?"

"Why not? Since I don't know where I'm going... Say,

what's that coming over the rise ahead?"

"More savages," Gwen answered.

"That's a good reason for a turn to the right." Rod veered

through a U-tum. "What color of paint were these boys

wearing, dear?"

"Orange, my lord."

Rod shuddered. "What a color scheme! Y' know, if any

more of them show up in front of us, we're going to be

boxed in."

14 Christopher Stasheff

"I prithee, do not speak of it my lord."

"Okay, I won't. I'll just get ready to climb. You sure

you can't fly?"

Gwen shook her head. "Without a broomstick, I cannot."

"Union rules," Rod sighed.

A spear arced over his head and buried itself in the grass

ten feet ahead. Rod watched it go by. "Maybe it's just as

well you're next to me. With their marksmanship, you're

better off with the target."

Gwen watched another spear arc overhead—by a good

twenty feet. "I think they do not regard us highly as enemies,

my lord. Certes, they cannot have sent picked troops to fight

us."

"Everyone here is a Pict troop. Would you mind a little

more speed, dear?"

"Certes, I would welcome it." Gwen glanced behind her.

"The air is clear of spears, my lord."

"Okay, now!" Rod thought hard, and they shot ahead

through the grass as though the ghost of Caracatus were hot

on their heels. The yells diminished behind them, very

quickly. But they boosted to howling level.

"Well, we're out of the trap," Rod sighed, "unless some-

thing comes up over the next rise."

They swung up and over the rise—and saw a clear,

straight plane sheering across the horizon.

"A wall!" Gwen cried.

"It can't be!" Rod stared. Then he frowned. "How close

can parallel universes get? Gwen, I'm taking care of the

flying chores; you do a little mind-reading and see what

language the people behind that Wall are speaking."

Gwen's eyes lost focus for a moment, then cleared. "They

do speak our tongue, my lord."

Rod's frown deepened. "Odd... but the Roman con-

querers weren't the only ones to build walls. There were

the Chinese—and, come to think of it, several of the planets

in the Terran Sphere, during their frontiering days..."

"I think I ken thy meaning...."

THE WARLOCK WANDERING      15

"I'll explain it when we're not being chased. See anything

resembling a gate?"

"Yonder, my lord." Gwen pointed. "Timbers."

A dark rectangle in the stone, lintel and leaves.

"Yeah, that. That's where we head for. Wonder what this

place is like?"

"We shall discover that directly," Gwen murmured.

The gate zoomed up at them.

"Pretend you're running." Rod started pumping his legs

like a veteran miler. Gwen gathered up her skirts and tripped

merrily along beside him.

Rod dropped the flying power and dug in his heels,

plowing to a stop right at the gate, and hammered on the

huge oaken leaves with his fist. "Hey! Help! Open up! Let

us in! Tear! Fire! Foes!' Especially the Toes' part!"

He stopped and listened. Silence, total silence—except

for the howling behind them, which was showing a definite

Doppler shift—the approaching kind.

Rod stepped back and scanned the top of the wall. "Some-

thing's wrong here. I don't see any sentries."

Gwen frowned, her eyes losing focus. "They are there,

my lord. Yet they feel great caution."

"Why? Just because they've never seen us before, and

this whole thing could be a ploy to con them into opening

their front door." He cocked his head to the side. "Come

to think of it, I suppose I do look a little like Ulysses...."

"Mayhap, my lord, but canst thou not convince them of

our honesty?"

"How about the direct approach?" Rod wound up a leg

and slammed a kick at the middle of the doors. "Hey! We're

being chased by wild Indians! Open up in there! Let the

cavalry out!"

"Cease your pounding, you panicking prat!" bellowed a

voice overhead.                          '"'

Rod stepped back and looked up.

A scowling, fleshy man in a loose shirt, with an unshaven

jaw, and a surly hangover glowered down at them. He pressed

16 Christopher Stasheff THE WARLOCK WANDERING 17

a hand to his head. "There, that's better. You were splitting

me head open." And he disappeared again. "Good idea!"

Rod yelled. "Come back here and let us in—or I will split

it open, and not just by yelling!"

"You'll have to wait till we finish the hand," the voice

growled faintly from above. Several other voices snarled

agreement.

"But... but... but..." Rod gave up and turned his at-

tention to his wife. "What kind of an outfit is this?"

"We are accompanied, my lord," Gwen murmured.

Rod whirled and looked behind him.

A long line of multi-colored men was drawn up at the

skyline, leaning on their spears, watching.

With a gnashing groan, the gate opened. The man who

had spoken from the wall above stood in the opening, grin-

ning. "Full house," he announced."My pot."

"It's considerable." Rod eyed the man's midriff. He looked

on up to a rum-blossom nose beside a livid scar, topped

with a black thatch. The shirt was white, or had been. The

belt underscored the midriff, holding up green uniform pants

which were tucked into black boots (in crying need of a

shine).

"Well," he growled, "don't just stand there gawking.

Come in, if your need's so frantic."

"Oh, yes." Rod shut his mouth and stepped through the

gateway, his arm carefully around Gwen.

The slob's eyes lit at the sight of her, but he waved a

hand in signal to someone on top of the wall anyway. The

gate started to swing shut, and the man waved at the savages

just before it closed. A great oaken bar, about of a size to

fit the huge iron brackets on the inside of the gate, lay on

the ground nearby, but the slob ignored it. He turned back

toward them, and caught sight of Gwen again. Interest

gleamed feebly through the hangover, and he looked her up

and down. Gwen flushed, and glared at him.

Rod cleared his throat loudly.

The slob looked up at him and saw the glare. The hang-

over struggled with lust, and lost. The slob grumbled, by

way of a face-saver, "Where'd you get the fancy clothes?"

"Where'd you get the booze?" Rod countered.

Caution flickered in the man's eyes, and they turned

opaque.

"Well, ye're in," he grunted, and turned away.

Rod stared. "Hey, wait a minute!"

The slob stopped, threw a despairing glance to the heav-

ens, and turned back. "What now?"

"Where are we supposed to go?"

"Wherever you want to," the slob grunted, turning away.

Rod stood a moment, gaping.

He shrugged and turned back to Gwen. "Might as well

follow him, I suppose."

"We might, indeed," she agreed, and they turned to climb

the long, sloping ramp that led to the ramparts.

As he climbed the ramp, he noticed that it was poured

plasticrete. So was the Wall. Weathered, and buttressed with

props here and there, but plasticrete nonetheless. "Well, so

much for the Romans," he muttered.

"My lord?"

"This stuff is plasticrete," he explained. "It wasn't even

invented until about 2040 A.D. So we can't be in Roman

Britain—that was a good sixteen hundred years earlier."

"I have no knowledge of this." Gwen frowned."'Tis for

thee to say. In what world would we be, then?"

Rod rubbed his chin, looking around him. "We might—

just might—be in our own universe, Gwen. No, not Gra-

marye, of course—another world, circling another sun."

He looked down at her. "It couldn't be Terra, of course."

"What is 'Terra'?"

For a moment, Rod was galvanized. That a Terran human

should not even know the name of the planet that gave birth

to her species... ! But he caught himself, remembering that

Gramarye had never exactly been strong on history. In fact,

its inhabitants didn't even know there were any worlds other

than their own.

18

Christopher Stasheff

THE WARLOCK WANDERING

19

"Terra is the world your ancestors came from, dear—

the planet that all human beings ultimately came from. It's

the home world of our kind."

Gwen was silent for a moment, digesting that.

As she did, they came out onto the top of the Wall. The

ramparts stretched away before them, dwindling into the

distance, a concrete channel cutting four feet down into the

plasticrete.

A group of men knelt and squatted around a fire near the

top of the ramp. Like the slob, they wore white shirts, green

trousers, and black boots—but most of them had green

jackets, too, fastened up to the throat. Their sleeves held

insignia—or patches of lighter color, where the emblems

had been. Uniforms, Rod realized, and right after that,

They're soldiers!

Gwen's eyes widened; she was listening to his thoughts.

They didn't seem to be very well-disciplined soldiers,

though. Either that, or there wasn't any war going at the

moment. Rod heard the rustle of cards and the click of

chips.

The soldiers looked up, saw Gwen, and looked harder.

She smiled, politely but firmly.

Something like a hungry purr arose from the soldiers.

The nearest, a sergeant, rose to his feet. He straightened

up to eight inches taller than Rod, and about four inches

wider, three-quarters muscle, the rest fat. He had an ugly

face and a leering grin, and a possessive manner as he

stepped towards Gwen.

Rod raised a hand, palm out. It jarred against the man's

chest, jolting him to a stop. He looked down at Rod's arm

in surprise. He pushed against it tentatively a few times,

then said in disbelief, "It holds!" He gave Rod a nod of

approval. "You're well enough muscled for such a small

fellow, ain't you?"

"Why, thank you." Irony in Rod's smile. "Now, just step

back to the game, why don't you?"

The other soldiers watched, buzzard-eyed.

The sergeant grinned wickedly and shook his head."Bear

ye not too rawly, lad." He took in Rod's doublet and hose.

"A juggler, belike, or a clown. Well, leam then, lad, that

women be property common on the Wall."

He turned away to Gwen, batting Rod's arm out of the

way.

It didn't bat.

Rod tightened his hold on the man's jacket. "Now, just

go on back to the game. Sergeant. Be a good fellow."

"Poor manners for a guest," the slob growled from the

sidelines.

"Poorer manners for a host," Rod retorted, "trying to

rape a guest's..."

"Rape??!!?" The big soldier stared.

He threw back his head, roaring laughter, then doubled

over, clutching his belly. "A woman on the Wall, needing

rape!"

"They couldn't," the slob explained. "They come, oh,

quite willingly, yes."

Rod lifted and shoved; the big soldier staggered back a

few steps, still laughing. Rod stepped back, too, relaxing

into a crouch. "This one," he said grimly, "doesn't."

The soldier quit laughing abruptly, and sobered into a

narrow-eyed glare.

"Teach him manners. Thaler," the slob growled.

My lord, Gwen's thoughts said in Rod's head, there are

loose stones on the ground nearby. I might...

No! Rod thought back. You want to start a witch-hunt?

The natives could handle seeing us fly—their culture still

believes in magic. But these boys are civilized! They have

to kill things they don't understand! Aloud, he said, "You

can pick up the pieces with the first-aid kit."

Thaler's eyes crinkled with amusement. He laughed once,

twice, chuckled, roared laughter, and fell to the ground,

doubled over, clutching his belly, howling mirth...

... and shot up like a spring, still laughing, his head

crashing up under Rod's jaw.

20

Christopher Stasheff

THE WARLOCK WANDERING

21

Rod fell back against the ramparts.

Thaler waded in, fists hammering.

Rod swiveled his head around under the man's fists and

dived to the side, flipping over onto his back.

Thaler snarled, and came after him.

Rod shoved hard, his whole body lashing out in a kick

that should have caught Thaler under the jaw, heel to chin.

But Thaler ducked under the blow, then leaned back,

lashing out with the side of his foot at Rod's chin. Rod

sidestepped, hooked his heel behind Thaler's calf, jerked,

and saw the edge of Thaler's hand swinging straight at the

bridge of his nose.

Rod managed to duck enough for the chop to crack across

his forehead instead, and went reeling back stunned; not

only by the blow, but also by a horrifying realization: Thal-

er's chop was the first half of a two-blow series that ended

in:

Death.

They really didn't like strangers here.

Thaler's hand slammed down again, in a chop that would

have crushed Rod's larynx; but he rolled to the side at the

last second, and Thaler's hand cracked into the plasticrete.

He howled with pain, and Rod rolled up into a crouch,

punching at the solar plexus with stiffened fingers. But

Thaler saw the blow coming, and rolled back just enough

to take most of the impact out of it. What was left was

enough to stiffen him with agony for a moment—and the

moment was all Rod needed.

He followed the punch with a series of quick blows that

Thaler just barely managed to block, retreating as quickly

as he could. Rod got just a touch too confident, let his right

foot lead just a little too far—and Thaler's knee snaked

around Rod's, and a fist the size of a comed-beef brisket

slammed into Rod's ear.

The sky reeled, and the plasticrete struck under him,

hard; but he tucked his chin in, and his head didn't hit too

hard.

As the world circled past, he noticed the sole of Thaler's

boot coming down. He grabbed the foot, twisted, and threw.

Thaler hopped back, howling and flailing for balance.

Rod gathered himself into a ball, rolled to his feet, and

saw the same damn foot coming at his face again.

Now, Thaler didn't look as though he were apt to win

any IQ prizes, but he did look very experienced—so he

couldn't be dumb enough to try the same trick a second

time, when it hadn't worked once already. So Rod caught

at the foot, but stayed alert for a trick—and sure enough,

there came the fist, swinging down at the back of Rod's

neck.

Rod let go of the foot, took a half step forward, and

straightened up hard, both fists over his head.

They caught Thaler right under the jaw.

Thaler swayed, glassy-eyed.

Rod stepped back and swung a haymaker uppercut.

Thaler's head snapped back, and his feet snapped up,

and his whole body slammed down flat on the plasticrete.

Rod stood, panting, a little wild-eyed, looking around

him, woozy, head splitting with pain, but alert for anyone

else to start swinging.

But they stayed where they sat, glowering up at Gwen,

and nursing their jaws.

Rod looked up at her, incredulous.

Gwen glared about her in indignation. They have no sense

of honor, my lord! They would seek to molest me whiles

thou didst defend me!

In spite of his aches, Rod couldn't help grinning. He

pitied any man who had tried to lay a hand on his sweet

wife. "What did you do to them?"

"Only a slap for each, my lord."

A slap with its force multiplied by telekinesis. Rod

guessed. He was surprised none of the men were heading

for the hospital.

"Most excellently done," said a cool, amused voice.

Rod looked up, startled.

22            Christopher Stasheff

A tall, slender young man leaned against the outer wall.

His uniform was crisply pressed, and he wore a cap with a

polished black visor. His sleeves were bare of insignia, but

his shoulder boards were decorated with tiny brass razors.

Obviously an officer.

He turned his head, inclining it toward the slob. "Ser-

geant."

"Sir." Incredibly, the slob came to attention.

"You are out of uniform, and what you do have is more

fatigued than fatigues. And your personal grooming doesn't

exist."

"Yes, sir." Then, defiantly, "At least I'm here."

"Indeed you are—so you've only a dozen demerits, not

fifty."

The slob winced. "Sir! That's me whole next paycheck!"

"Are you paid so little? My, my. But courage, old chap—

a little extra spit and polish can win it back for you, over

the next few months." He turned away, and stepped up to

nudge Thaler with a boot-toe and a smile. "Poor chap. But

what can you expect, really?"

At last, the officer turned to Rod. "You're really quite

skilled, you know."

Rod shrugged. "Just a little special training. Your, ah,

discipline, is rather, shall we say, remarkable."

The officer shrugged. "It's actually not bad at all, when

you consider that our Wolmar was a prison planet, up 'til

nine years ago. Nearly everyone here is a convict of one

sort or another."

Rod stood stiff with shock, partly at discovering all these

soldiers were criminals, and partly from the name of the

planet. He didn't know that much about it, but he remem-

bered it from his history books. After all, he was an agent

for the Society for the Conversion of Extra-Terrestrial Nas-

cent Totalitarianisms, and before they'd sent him out search-

ing for Terran-colonized planets whose governments were

shaping up to become totalitarian, they'd told him a little

about all the colonies that had been out of touch while PEST

THE WARLOCK WANDERING      23

ruled the Terran Sphere. Wolmar had been one of them—

one of the furthest from Terra. And it had stayed a prison

until PEST cut it off from contact, and supply.

Which meant they were in their own universe, after all,

but five hundred years before either of them had been born.

Gwen had been listening to his thoughts, of course. She

stepped closer to him, clinging to his arm. He was glad; he

needed the contact. Suddenly, their cozy little cottage seemed

much, much farther away, and the wind of loneliness blew

about their souls.

Thaler rolled over with a groan, opening his eyes to a

painful squint. The officer looked down at him, shaking his

head and clucking his tongue. "Intolerable, sergeant! Two

unarmed civilians, seeking our protection—and what do

their rescuers do? Attack them!"

Thaler sat up with a groan. "He wasn't unarmed. Lieu-

tenant."

The lieutenant glanced at Rod's sword and rolled his eyes

up. "That oversized toothpick? Don't be ridiculous, man!

Report to your quarters until your hearing!"

Thaler blanched, but he managed to keep looking bel-

ligerent as he struggled to his feet and turned to go. As he

passed by, he gave Rod a quick glare of hatred. Rod watched

his retreating back, deciding that he always wanted to know

when Thaler was around.

He turned back to the lieutenant, relaxing a little. Thaler's

resentment was what he'd have expected from any sergeant

talking to a fuzz-cheeked lieutenant—but this lieutenant

wasn't extremely young anymore, and he bore himself with

the self-confidence that can only come with experience.

There was something about him, the way he held himself,

that said he didn't need to rely on military rank to enforce

his orders.

"My apologies. Sir and Madam." He bowed courteously

to Rod, and a bit more courteously to Gwen. "I beg you to

pardon that outburst. Please be assured of your welcome,

regardless of what you have witnessed here."

24 Christopher Stasheff

"Why, thank you." Rod inclined his head in return, won-

dering why the lieutenant hadn't stopped the fight. Maybe

because it didn't look as though anyone was apt to be killed.

"Thou art most considerate." Gwen dropped a small curtsy.

The lieutenant's eye held a gleam, but he buried it quickly.

Rod gave him points for self-discipline—and wondered if

it was really from self. "May I have your names, sir and

madam?"

"Rodney Gallowglass." He was tempted to use his real

name, "d'Armand," but decided against it. He caught Gwen's

hand. "And this is my wife, Gwendylon."

Gwen looked up at him in surprise, and he heard her

unspoken thought: Wherefore didst thou not use thy title?

Other countries, other customs, he answered silently.

People like this are as likely to resent a lord as to honor

him.

"Lieutenant Corrigan, at your service." The young officer

clicked his heels and bobbed his head. "Now, Citizen Gal-

ti  lowglass, I would appreciate your explaining to me the

presence of our honored antagonists." He nodded toward

the outside of the main gate. Rod looked down, and saw a

crowd of Wolmen, chanting the same word over and over

again. With a shock. Rod realized it was, "Justice! Justice!

Justice! Justice!"

"Not that they're unwelcome, you understand," Stuart

explained, "but 1 would like to know the issue I'm going

to be discussing."

"I'm afraid I don't really know," Rod confessed. "We

were just standing there in the middle of the plain, minding

our own business, when they came up over the ridge and

started chasing us."

"Ah." The Lieutenant nodded. "A simple question of

remuneration, no doubt. If you'll excuse me, I'll go discuss

the issue with them." He bowed slightly with a click of the

heels, and turned away.

Gwen's voice sounded in Rod's mind: Is he noble, then?

No, Rod answered. / don't think anyone here is. But

THE WARLOCK WANDERING      25

someone has to do the jobs that the lords would do, if they

were here—and he's been given that kind of authority. About

as much as a knight.

By what right did he claim it?

Training, Rod answered, knowledge and intelligence.

Sometimes even experience.

The great gates swung open, and the young officer stepped

out to confront the wild savages.

He crossed both arms, fingertips touching his shoulders,

and bowed slightly. One of the yellow-green men stepped

forward, and returned the gesture.

"I think it's a salute," Rod muttered.

The lieutenant's words carried clearly. "I greet you,

Scouting-Master."

The Scouting-Master returned the salute. "Have-um sun-

filled day. Lieutenant."

"The sentiments are appreciated." The lieutenant's voice

switched into crispness. "But though I am honored by your

presence, I also wonder at it. For how long have noble

warriors been attacking civilians?"

"Them not so civil. Them flew!"

"As I would, if I saw your valiant warriors pursuing me.

Why did they?"

The Scouting-Master grinned, and his warriors chuckled.

"Not for real. Just good fun."

"Fun!" Gwen gasped.

"Well, be fair." Rod shrugged. "It was, kinda, wasn't

it?"

"Indeed?" The lieutenant's voice had become distinctly

chilly.

The Scouting-Master's grin widened. "We could see-um

was couple greenhorns. Why not have good time with-um?"

The lieutenant gave a wintry smile. "No harm intended,

eh?"

"None." The Scouting-Master frowned. "But them have

no business outside Wall! Them not traders!"

"A p.pint well-taken, I must admit. Still, I cannot help

26            Christopher Stasheff

but think your mode of contact was something less than

honorable."

The natives scowled, muttering to one another, but the

Scouting-Master only shmgged. "Could've done much

worse, within-um rights. Could Shacklar gainsay?"

The lieutenant was silent a moment, then heaved a sigh.

"The General-Governor would say that no lasting harm was

done, so no hard feelings should last."

Rod frowned. 'General-Governor?' Didn't they have that

the wrong way around?

"Even so." The Scouting-Master's forefinger stabbed up-

ward, and his smile vanished. "Agreements hold. Me file-

um complaint—formal! For trespassing!"

The lieutenant stood still for a moment, then sighed,

pulled out a pad and began writing. "If you must. However,

these two are civilians. That will necessitate a meeting with

the General-Governor."

"Sound great." The Scouting-Master grinned. "Him al-

ways serve good coffee." He turned to his warriors, making

shooing motions. "Go patrol again!"

"Boring," one of the warriors grumbled.

"Want-um soldiers stamp-urn all over planet?" the

Scouting-Master snapped. "Besides—good for-um! Build-

um character!"

The warrior sighed, and the troops turned away. The

Scouting-Master turned back, a grin spreading over his face

again. "We go see Shacklar now, hm?"

The lieutenant ushered them into a thirty-by-thirty office

with large windows (outside, Rod had noticed steel shut-

ters), a desk at one end, and several padded armchairs at

the other. All the furniture had a rough-and-ready look about

it, as though it had been built out of local materials by an

amateur carpenter. But it was made out of real wood. Rod

thought that implied status, until he remembered that wood

was cheaper than plastic on a frontier world. The floor was

THE WARLOCK WANDERING      27

polished wood, too, most of it covered by a plaid carpet,

woven of orange, purple, chartreuse, and magenta fibers.

Rod winced.

The man who sat behind the desk seemed out of place.

He was in full uniform, bent over paperwork, but was sur-

prisingly young to be top kick; he couldn't have been much

more than forty. He was lean, lanky, brown-haired, and the

face that looked up at them as they came in was mild and

quizzical, with a gentle smile. There was some indefinable

air of sophistication about him, though, that made him seem

incongruous with his rough surroundings.

He is a lord, Gwen thought.

She just might be right. Rod realized. Maybe a younger

son of a younger son?

"General Shacklar," the lieutenant informed them, "the

Governor."

Well. That explained the inverted title.

The General rose with a smile of welcome, and came

around his desk toward them. The lieutenant snapped to

attention and saluted. The General returned his salute and

stopped in front of the native, crossing his arms and bowing.

"May your day be sun-filled, Scouting-Master."

"And yours," the native grinned. "Coffee?"

"Of course! Lieutenant, will you serve, please?" But, as

the young officer turned away, the General stopped him

with an upheld palm. "A moment—introductions?"

"Certainly, sir." The lieutenant turned back to them.

"Master Rod Gallowglass and his lady, Gwendylon."

"Charmed." The General took Gwen's hand and bowed.

She smiled, pleased.

The lieutenant stepped away toward the coffeepot.

"I don't remember your arrival." The General gave Rod

a keen glance,                          -^

Rod had a notion this man knew every single person who

arrived on his planet—especially if he was, well, basically,

warden. Of a planet-wide prison. And Rod and Gwen

28

Christopher Stasheff

THE WARLOCK WANDERING

29

weren't exactly inconspicuous. "We were, uh, stranded,

General. Landed out in the middle of the plains. No way

to get back home."

Shacklar frowned. "I don't recall any report of a distress

signal."

"We couldn't transmit." So far. Rod hadn't really told

any lies. He hoped it would last.

It did. Shacklar gave him the keen glance again; he was

definitely aware of the holes in the explanation; but he

wasn't about to push them. "My sympathies. Just this mom-

ing, was it?"

"Soon after dawn," Gwen explained. "We had scarcely

collected ourselves when these..."

She hesitated, and Shacklar supplied, "Wolmen. That's

what they call themselves. Their ancestors were counter-

culture romantics, who fled Terra to live the life of the Noble

Savage. They invented their own version of aboriginal cul-

ture, based largely on novels and screenplays."

Well. That explained some of the more bizarre aspects.

"I take it they discovered you almost immediately, and

began to chase you?"

"Aye. We did fly from them."

Rod stiffened. Did she have to be so literal?

Yes, she did, now that he thought of it. When the Wolman

talked about them flying, now, Schacklar would assume he

was speaking metaphorically. Very clever, his lady. He

glowed with pride.

Fortunately, the General didn't notice. He shook his head

sadly. "Most unfortunate! My deepest regrets. But really,

you see, by the terms of our agreement with the Wolmen,

no colonist is supposed to be outside the Wall unless he's

on official or commercial business, so you can understand

why they would react in so precipitous a manner. And, truly,

they did no harm—only enforced their rights under our

treaty."

"Aye, that is easily understood." Gwen shrugged. "I

cannot truly blame them."

"Most excellent." Shacklar beamed. "Now, if you'll ex-

cuse me, I must hear what the Scouting-Master wishes to

say."

He turned away. Gwen turned to Rod, speaking softly.

"Doth he say that these people but play at being savages,

my lord?"

"No—but their ancestors did, so now they're stuck with

it. But I get the feeling there was a real war when the Terran

government decided to use this planet for a prison. Appar-

ently they didn't consult the Wolmen first—and they re-

sented it. Forcibly." He shrugged. "Can you blame them?"

The General had turned now, facing them again. "The

Scouting-Master understands your predicament, but none-

theless charges you with trespassing." He sighed. "Actually,

he's shown a considerable amount of forbearance in this

matter. He could have taken any number of more or less

lethal measures against you, rather than merely herding you

to the Wall, as he did."

Herding?

Gwen, did you know we were being herded?

Nay—yet now, I can See it clearly enough.

The General frowned, concerned. "What's the matter,

old man? Hadn't you guessed you were being driven?"

"As a matter of fact, I hadn't." Rod found himself smiling

back in spite of himself. "Uh, ah—General, please convey

my apologies and great thanks to the Scouting-Master."

"Oh, you may convey them yourself, in just a moment!

But, ah—" Shacklar looked down at the carpet, rubbing the

tip of his nose with a forefinger. "I wouldn't truly recom-

mend it. A simple apology and expression of thanks—no,

the Scouting-Master would take it as a sign of weakness."

"Oh." Rod pursed his lips. "I see. Exactly what form

should the apology take?"

"Precisely, Master Gallowglass." The General smiled

warmly. "It's always a pleasure to deal with a man who

understands the true nature of diplomacy!"

"Does he want his diplomacy in gold, or Terran bills?"

30

Christopher Stasheff

THE WARLOCK WANDERING

31

"Gold would be pleasant, but I'm sure I.D.E. kwaher

bills will suffice." The General smiled sadly. "However,

I'm afraid P.E.S.T. bills would not be acceptable; the Wol-

men don't have much faith in them."

"I understand." Rod smiled. "Primitive cultures tend to

be conservative."

"Indeed." The keen glance again. "Well! In this case,

the apology should consist of, ah..." Shacklar slipped a

small leather-bound pad out of his pocket and flipped it

open. "... five hundred kwahers."

Rod stared. "Five... hundred..."

Is the amount so great, my lord?

Not unless you don't nave it. How are you at turning

lead into gold, dear?

A sudden, faraway look came into Gwen's eyes.

The General was watching them carefully, but with his

gentle smile. "I take it you find yourselves temporarily

embarrassed?" The General smiled. "We can certainly ar-

range a temporary, interest-free loan. Master Gallowglass.

There is a Bank of Wolmar, and it's solvent at the moment."

"Oh, no! Money's never a problem with us. Uh—is it,

Gwen?" Rod reached into the purse that hung at his belt.

It held only a few Gramarye coins. The silver in them would

be perfectly negotiable, but it might be a little difficult to

explain Tuan's and Catharine's portraits.

"Nay, money was never our care," Gwen agreed, giving

him a sidelong glance. "Indeed, it hath been so long since

I have seen it, that I quite forget the look of it!"

Rod froze.

He swallowed, hugely. Of course, Gwen couldn't know

what I.D.E. bills looked like; she had never seen any money

but Gramarye's.

Come to think of it. Rod didn't know what they looked

like, either. The I.D.E. government had fallen five hundred

years before he was born. "On second thought, General, I

think I will take you up on that offer. Could you let me

have, say, a twenty-kwaher bill for, oh, about two minutes?"

The General frowned, but reached for his wallet. "At

least the interest won't be prohibitive." He passed Rod the

bill.

"Thanks very." Rod handed it to Gwen. "Yes, money.

That's money, dear."

Gwen stared, thunderstruck. "Paper, my lord? This is

money?"

"Uh, yes, dear." Gwen had never seen anything but coins,

of course, medieval cultures having a rather elemental view

of economics. "That's money. Here, anyway." Rod forced

a grin. "Uh, sorry. General. We're not used to, ah, using

cash, you know how it is."

"Credit cards." The General nodded with understanding.

Rod would've hated to shatter his illusions.

"Now, I just had some, right here." Rod fumbled in the

purse again; it was still mostly empty.

"My lord," Gwen murmured, "I cannot..."

"That's okay, dear, just try." Rod patted her hand. "Never

know just how much you can do, until you give it a try ...

I know... I had..." Rod dug in the purse as though it were

a ten-mile pit, a bead of cold sweat trickling down his brow.

Something rustled.

His fingers touched paper. Lots of paper.

He drew it out slowly, with a grin of relief. "There we

are, General, twenty-five twenty-kwaher bills." He plucked

the original from Gwen's numbed fingers. "Oh, and the one

you loaned us, of course."

The General's eyes widened slightly, but he accepted the

cash without comment.

"I don't like to carry large denominations," Rod ex-

plained.

"But I thought you said..." Shacklar clamped his lips

shut. "No, really. Not my affair at all..." He gave Rod the

keen glance again. "Don't you find it troublesome to carry

so many bills about?"

"Well, yes," Rod admitted, "but there wasn't time to

have them changed."

32            Christopher Stasheff

The General squared the bills into a neat stack. "I take

it you left home in a bit of a hurry."

"You might say that, yes."

The General turned to step over to the lieutenant and the

Scouting-Master, who broke out in an ear-to-ear grin and

hurried over to seize Rod's hand, pumping it. "Glad you

one of the good guys!"

"Oh, my pleasure," Rod murmured. "Thanks for under-

standing."                         /

"Sure, sure! Come outside Wall again, anytime!" The

Scouting-Master crossed his arms and bowed, then turned

away to the door the lieutenant was holding, licking his

thumb and counting the bills. "Nice chasing you!"

"Anytime." Rod waved, feeling slightly numb.

The lieutenant closed the door behind him with relief.

Rod turned back to the General, shaking his head. "Funny

how underdeveloped societies always leam the same aspect

of our culture first, isn't it?"

"Quite." The General turned away, going back to his

desk. "Well! At least that's done!"

"Yeah. Nice to have it over with, isn't it?" Rod grabbed

Gwen's arm and made for the door. "Thanks for straight-

ening things out for us. General. If there's anything we can

ever do for you..."

"As a matter of fact," Shacklar murmured, "you could

answer a few questions...."

Rod's body jerked as his feet stopped and his shoulders

tried to keep going. He glared at Gwen.

"We must observe the rules of courtesy, my lord."

"Next time just stop me with a word, okay?" Rod turned

back. "Why, sure. General. What kind of questions did you

have in mind?"

The General's mouth was pinched at the corners with

hidden amusement.

Rod frowned, noticing something he'd missed before.

He stepped up to the General's desk, peering at Shacklar's

THE WARLOCK WANDERING

33

corps insignia. It was the staff of Aesculapius. "You're a

doctor!"

"Psychiatrist, actually." The General smiled. "Surely that

is an appropriate profession for the chief administrative of-

ficer of a former correctional colony?"

"Uh ... yeah, I guess it is." Rod frowned. "I just wasn't

expecting anything so logical."

"I'm not certain it was, in its genesis." Shacklar's smile

hardened. "But I do think it's worked out for the best. I've

quite a sense of purpose here."

"Yeah, I can see that you would have." Rod straightened,

clearing his throat. "Well! About those questions. Gen-

eral ..."

"Yes, indeed. Would you mind telling me how you came

to be shipwrecked on Wblmar?"

"No, not at all." If I can think of it.

Shacklar looked up over steepled fingers. "Touch of am-

nesia?"

"Oh, no, no," Rod said quickly. "Not amnesia, really;

it's just that, uh..." He took a deep breath and began

improvising at top speed. "Uh, I know this is going to sound

strange, but, uh ... we were on our way to a costume ball,

aboard a passenger liner from, uh..." He tried to remember

a ship that had disappeared without a trace, about the end

of the I.D.E. era. He could only think of the most famous

one, and cursed mentally, then followed it with a quick

thought-apology to Gwen. "We were on the, uh, Alfreda,

outbound from Fido—you know. Beta Canis Minor's fourth

planet—on our way to Tuonela, the fifth planet of 61

Cygni..."

"But you never attained your destination?"

Rod nodded. After all, the Alfreda had left Fido with a

remarkable number of famous people aboard, but had never

been heard from again. That gave Rod scope for consid-

erable poetic license. "We felt this huge lurch—horrible, I

wound up with caviar all over my doublet—and the crew

34 Christopher Stasheff

started hollering for all of us to get into suspended-animation

pods, and aimed us at random, hoping we'd strike Terran-

colonized planets sooner or later."

"Which, fortunately, you did." Shacklar pulled out a pipe

and clasped it high on the stem, hiding his mouth; but the

comers of his eyes crinkled.

"So here we are," Rod finished. "Our pod landed out in

the Wolmen's territory, and... uh... you... don't... be-

lieve me..."

"No, I didn't say that at all." The General leaned forward

to prop his elbows on his desk.

"But it's the best entertainment you've had all week?"

"All year, in fact." Shacklar smiled warmly. "They don't

have tales like that on the 3DT any more."

"Well, if you doubt my word, you can check the records.

The Alfreda did disappear en route from Beta Canis Minor

to 61 Cygni..."

"Yes, I remember the incident well; there were so many

politicians aboard that it was quite a scandal." Shacklar gave

him an amiable smile. "That much, at least, is quite true,

I'm certain. As to the rest of it, though... Ah, well, I'm

not one to press. Master Gallowglass. We rather make a

policy of not being too insistent about a man's past, on

Wolmar. However, I do appreciate the finer aspects of nar-

rative creativity. I was especially impressed with the piece

about the costume ball."

"Oh, yes! She's supposed to be Nell Gwynn, and I'm,

uh—Cyrano de Bergerac!"

"And I'm the King of England," Shacklar murmured,

fighting a smile. "But as I say, a man's past is his own

affair, on Wolmar. No one is here without a reason, and it's

generally one that he'd rather weren't known." He shrugged.

"Of course, in my own instance, I'm not terribly concerned

about secrecy. Ultimately, I'm here because, in addition to

being a psychiatrist, I'm also a masochist."

Rod stared, then caught himself. "Oh, really?"

"Yes." Shacklar smiled. "Quite well-adjusted—but it does

THE WARLOCK WANDERING

35

create certain problems within the chain of command. Here,

though, my men don't seem to care terribly."

Rod nodded, slowly. "I begin to understand why you

don't mind staying."

"There is some feeling of being appreciated." Shacklar

smiled brightly. "But the mild exhibitionism involved in

telling you that is part of my disorder, you see. I certainly

don't ask that of anyone else."

He leaned forward to glance at his desk readout. "How-

ever, I'm keeping you overlong; after so great a time in

suspended animation, you must be ravenous. You'll find an

excellent tavern just down the street."

"Uh... thanks. General." Rod managed a smile. "You've

been very helpful."

He turned away to the door, holding it open for Gwen.

"If there's anything we can ever do for you, just give us a

yell."

"As a matter of fact, there is one small thing your lady

could do for me. Master Gallowglass."

Rod stopped in mid-stride, a sinking feeling in his belly.

He turned around again. Gwen turned with him, wide-

eyed. "And how may I aid you, sir?"

"Slap me," said the General.

Rod set down a small tray, and laid a plate of boiled

sausage and buns in front of Gwen, with a tankard of ale

to flank it. "Not much, my dear, but I'm afraid that's about

the best Cholly's Tavern runs to." He sat down and took a

sip of his beer. His eyes widened in surprise. "Not bad,

though."

She sipped, carefully. "Indeed, 'tis not! Yet wherefore

is't so chill, my lord?"

"Huh?" Rod looked up, surprised. "Oh, ,yh—they just

like it that way, honey. That's all." He leaned back and

looked about him, at the unfinished boards and the rough-

and-ready chairs and tables. "Sure not what I was planning

on when I took you out for an evening alone."

36            Christopher Stasheff

Gwen smiled. "Nay, assuredly 'tis not! Yet—oh, my

lord! Tis all so new, and marvelous!"

"It is?"

"Indeed." She leaned over the table. "Yet tell me—what

mean all these strange manners and artifacts? Why do all

wear leggings, even though they have no armor to cover

them? What were those odd, bulbous engines each man did

wear at his hip, upon the Wall? And wherefore do they not

wear them in this place? How do the lights within this inn

come to glow? And where are the kegs from which they

draw their ale?"

Rod held up a hand. "Hold it, dear. One at a time." He

hadn't realized how strange and new the technological world

would seem to Gwen—but she did come from a medieval

culture, after all. Secretly, he blessed the fate that had brought

them to a frontier planet, instead of one of the overly-

civilized, total-technology worlds nearer Terra.

How to explain it all to her? He took a deep breath,

wondering where to start. "Let's begin with power."

"There's naught so new in that." She shrugged. "Once

thou hadst told me there were no nobles, it was truly clear

the peasant folk must needs set up orders within their own

ranks, even as those Wolmen, who did chase us this mom,

have done. Or the wild folk, who do war upon the cities—

even as the Beastmen did to our Isle of Gramarye, ten years

agone."

The time-lapse hit Rod like a shockwave. "My lord! Was

it really ten years ago?" He took a shuddering breath. "But

of course. We only had one child then, and we have four

now—and Magnus is twelve." He studied her face intently.

"You don't look any older."

She blushed, lowering her eyes. "'Tis good of thee to

say it, my lord—yet I do see the wrinkles, here and there,

and the odd strand of gray in mine hair."

"What's odd about it, with our four? But they certainly

must be rare; I haven't noticed one yet! And as to wrinkles,

I've always had my share of those."

THE WARLOCK WANDERING      37

"Yet thou art not a woman," Gwen murmured.

"So sweet of you to notice... But back to the ins and

outs of this world we're on. Government wasn't exactly the

kind of 'power' I'd had in mind, dear."

"Indeed?" She looked up, surprised. "Yet assuredly thou

didst not speak of magicks!"

"No, no. Definitely not. I was talking about force—the

kind that makes things move."

Gwen frowned, not understanding.

Rod took a deep breath. "Look. In Gramarye, there are

four kinds of power that can do work for us: muscles, our

own or our animals'; wind, which pushes ships and turns

windmills; water power, which turns mill wheels; and fire,

which heats our houses, boils our water, and cooks our food.

And that's about all."

Gwen frowned. "But what of the power of a crossbow,

that speeds a bolt to slay a man?"

Rod shook his head. "Just muscle power, stored. When

a crossbowman pulls a bowstring, see, he's just transferring

power from his arm and shoulder into the springy wood of

the bow. But the crossbowman takes several minutes to put

that power in, by winding the bowstring back. Then, when

he pulls the trigger that releases the string, all that energy

is released in one quick burst—and that's what throws the

arrow so much harder than an ordinary bow can."

Gwen nodded slowly, following every word. "And 'tis

thus, too, that a common archer's bow can throw an arrow

so much farther than a man-at-arms can hurl a spear?"

"Why, yes." Rod sat up straighter, surprised at how quickly

she had understood. "Of course, the arrow's lighter than the

spear, too. That helps."

Gwen frowned. "And 'tis also that the ends of the bow

are longer than the spearman's arms, is't not? For I do note

that the longer (he bow, the farther it doth hurl the arrow."

"Why... yes," Rod said, startled. "The longer the lever,

the more it multiplies the force—and the two ends of a

bow, and a spearman's arm, are all levers."

38

Christopher Stasheff

THE WARLOCK WANDERING

39

"And the longer bow can therefore be stiffer, but can

still be bent?"

"Uh... yeah." Rod felt a faint chill along his back. She

was understanding too quickly. "And the crossbow is more

powerful, because it's so much stiffer."

"But the man who doth shoot it, can bend it by winding."

Gwen nodded, seeming almost angry in the intensity of her

concentration.

"Right." Rod swallowed heavily. "Well. Uh... in this

world, there're other sources of power—but the most im-

portant one is the kind called 'electricity.' It's like..." He

groped, trying to find an explanation. "It's invisible, but it

flows like water. Only through metals, though. It's..."

Then inspiration struck. "It's like the force you wield when

you make things move with your mind." He waved a hand.

"Even though you can't see it, you can feel it, if you touch

the wire it's flowing through. Boy, can you feel it!" He

frowned. "Though I shouldn't say you can't see it, really.

Have you ever looked at a lightning bolt, darling? No, of

course you have! What's the matter with me?" He could

remember one occasion especially vividly—they had hud-

dled inside a cave, watching the lightning slam the thunder

about the skies. And when the storm's fury had thoroughly

dazzled them... He cleared his throat. "Lightning's elec-

tricity—one kind of electricity, anyway."

"Thou dost not say it," she breathed, wide-eyed. "Have

these people chained the lightning, then?"

Rod nodded, thrilled (and chilled) by her quickness.

"They've figured out how to make it do all sorts of tricks,

darling."

Her eyes were huge. "This glow, then, is lightning

leashed?"

"That's one way to look at it." Rod nodded slowly. "But

they use it for other things, too. Those bulbous things on

their hips—they call them 'blasters,' and they use electricity

to tickle a ruby into making a sword of light."

Gwen stared, aghast. Rod nodded again. "And there are

other things they can make it do—lots of other things. Think

of any job, darling, and the odds are these folk have figured

out a way to make electricity do it."

"Caring for others," said the mother, immediately.

Rod sat still for a moment, just staring at her.

Then he smiled, and reached out to take her hand. "Of

course. I should have known you'd think of the one thing

they can't do. Oh, don't get me wrong—they do have

machines that can take care of people's bodies-^ all their

physical needs; Electricity runs machines that can wash

clothes, cook food, clean houses. But to give the feeling

that somebody cares about you, that another human being

is taking care of you?" He shook his head. "No. They might

be able to come up with a convincing illusion—but

deep inside, everyone knows it's not real. Only people can

really care for people. They haven't invented a substitute

yet."

She gazed into his eyes for a long moment—and hers

were filled with excitement, but warmed with her prime

preoccupation — him.

Maybe that was why her eyes were so mesmerizing. They

seemed to fill Rod's whole field of view, inviting, crav-

ing ... "I remember the story about the monkey and the

python," he said softly.

"In truth?" she murmured.

"Yeah. I just can't figure out which one I am..."

A shaggy figure moved into his range of vision, far away.

Rod stared, stiffening. "Who's that, who just came in the

door?"

Gwen heaved a martyred sigh and turned to look. "The

soldier with the thatch of brown hair?" Her eyes widened.

"My lord! It cannot be!"

"Why not? We know he's a time traveller.—and don't