"Gone, and no use to seek them further. They'll be five leagues away in as many minutes."
Rod swore and slapped his sword back into its scabbard. He winced, and touched his forearm gingerly; one of the rapier-points had slashed through his doublet and sliced his skin.
He turned to the stranger. "You all right?"
The young man nodded, sheathing his sword.
Rod looked down into an open, snub-nosed, blue-eyed face with a grin that flashed white through the fog. The cheekbones were high, and the eyes large and wide, with a look of innocence. Blond hair was cropped round in a bowl cut. It was a young, inexperienced, very handsome face—Rod felt a surge of resentment.
He swung down from his horse. The top of the youth's head was about on a level with Rod's eyes; but what the boy lacked in height, he made up in bulk. A barrel chest swelled into bull shoulders, a good six inches wider than Rod's. The arms would have looked more appropriate on a bear or gorilla; and the legs were too small tree trunks, rammed into narrow hips.
He wore a leather jerkin over a white shirt, a wide black belt, hose, and high, soft boots.
He frowned, seeing the blood on Rod's sleeve. "You're hurt."
Rod snorted. "A scratch," he said, and fumbled in Fess's saddlebag for an antiseptic bandage. He wound the bandage around his forearm, threw the youth a hard grin. "You can pay the tailor bill, though."
The boy nodded, blue eyes sober. "That will I gladly; for they would have cut my heart out, had it not been for your timely rescue. Tuan McReady stands in your debt."
Rod looked him up and down, nodding slowly. A good kid, he thought.
He held out his hand. "Rod Gallowglass, at your service; and there's no debt involved. Always glad to help one against three."
" Ah, but debt there is!" said the boy, clasping Rod's hand with a grip like a sentimental vise. "You must, at the least, let me buy you a tankard of ale!"
Rod shrugged. "Why not? I was on my way to an inn just now, anyway; come on along!"
To his surprise, Tuan hesitated. "By your leave, good Master Gallowglass… there is only one house in this town where I am welcomed. All others have known my custom of old, and"—the round face suddenly broke into a grin—"my manner of living does not please the peaceful and proper."
Rod grimaced, nodding. " Post jocundum juven-tutem . Well, one inn's as good as another, I guess."
The route to Tuan's inn was somewhat out of keep-ing with his well-bred looks. They dogged down two dark alleys, wriggled through a weathered brick wall, and came out in a wide, moonlit courtyard that had been elegant in its day. That day must have been a century or two in the past. The remains of a fountain burbled in the center of cracked flagstones, sending up a stench redolent of primitive plumbing. Weeds, themselves in a state of dire poverty, poked through the paving everywhere. The brick of the walls was cracked and split, the mortar crumbling. Heaps of garbage lay by the walls and in the corners, with stray mounds of refuse here and there about the yard.
The inn itself was a rotting granite block with tumbledown eaves. The overhanging second story was propped up with roughhewn timbers, not to be trusted due to the infirmities of age. The windows were boarded over, the boards split, moldy, and fungoid. The massive oak door was the only sound piece of wood in sight, and even it was sagging.
"Ah, they tolerate your behavior here?" Rod asked, surveying the stagnant courtyard as Tuan knocked on the door with the hilt of his dagger.
"Tolerate, yes," said Tuan, "though even their hospitality is sometimes strained."
Rod felt a chill between his shoulder blades and wondered just what kind of mild-mannered youth he'd run into.
Tuan knocked again. Rod wondered that he expected an answer; not a gleam of light showed through the sagging window boards. By the look of it, the place must be totally deserted.
But the door began to move, and groaned that it was going on strike for an oil break, till it was open just wide enough to admit the two men.
"Your host," said Tuan cheerily, "The Mocker."
A gnarled, hunched, dessicated travesty of a human being peered around the door, making gobbling sounds in its throat. One ear was cauliflower, and the other was gone; a few strands of greasy hair straggled over a scabby skull. The nose was bulbous, the smouth a slash in a mass of warts, the eye malevolent, gleaming slits. It was dressed in a collection of tatters and patches that might once have laid claim to being a doublet and hose, sagging badly on the scarecrow figure.
The troll scurried away into the foul-smelling dark of its lair. Tuan strode through the door, following. Rod took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and looked back over his shoulder to make sure Fess was still standing there, by the fountain, head lowered in a good imitation of a horse grazing. For a moment, Rod envied the robot his ability to cut off his olfactory receptors.
Then, lifting his chin, he followed Tuan into the inn.
The door ground shut behind him; there was a scurrying sound as the Mocker ran ahead to open another door.
This one opened easily, slammed back against the wall, flooding them with a blaze of torchlight and gales of coarse, bawdy laughter. Rod stared.
They stepped through the door, and Rod looked about him. It was a great common room, with four roaring open fires and score upon score of torches bracketed along the walls. Roasting meat hung over the fires; waiters wove their way through the crowd with tankards of ale and wine from two huge, flowing kegs that dominated the far side of the room.
The clientele were the lees of the city. Their clothes were crusted, patched castoffs. Their bodies bore the marks of primitive justice: this one was missing an ear, that one an eye. Their faces were disfigured and scarred by disease. Yet here in their own den they roared merrily; all of them grinned, though malice glinted in their eyes as they looked at Rod.
But the malice faded, was transmuted into something almost like worship, as they looked at young Tuan.
"It is said," and the boy smiled, "that there is no honor among thieves; but there is at least kinship here, among the beggars of Gramarye. Welcome, Rod Gal-lowglass, to the House of Clovis."
The hair at the base of Rod's skull prickled. He remembered the torchlight mob he had seen on the waterfront the night before.
His eyes widened; he stared at Tuan. He couldn't be. He couldn't be.
Oh, but he could. Yes, he could.
Tuan McReady was the young rabble-rouser who'd been haranguing the mob to march on the castle.
This apple-cheeked, wholesome youth was top rat in the local sewer.
The crowd broke into a raucous, cheering clamor, welcoming their Galahad. Tuan grinned and waved. A slight flush crept up from his collar. He seemed almost embarrassed by the reception.
He led Rod to a dark corner at the back of the hall. He hadn't said a word to the Mocker, but two steaming mugs of mulled wine thumped down on the table almost as they sat. The landlord scuttled away without pay.
Rod watched him go, one eyebrow lifted in cynicism. He turned to Tuan. "You don't use money here?"
"None." Tuan smiled. "All who come to the House of Clovis bring what little money they have. It is put into a common chest, and meat and wine given out to all according to their needs."
"And a place to sleep, I suppose?"
"Aye, and clothing. It is poor fare by a gentleman's standards; but it is great wealth to these my poor brethren."
Rod studied Tuan's face and decided the boy might have meant it when he said brethren.
He sat back and crossed his legs. "Would you call yourself a religious man?"
"I?" Tuan tried to choke back a laugh and almost succeeded. "Oh, nay! Would that I were; but I have not seen the inside of a church for three score and more Sundays!"
So, Rod noted, his motive for helping the poor probably wasn't too hypocritical, whatever else it might be.
He looked into his mug. "So you feed and clothe all these people out of the pennies they bring you, eh?"
"Nay, that is but a beginning. But with that much earnest proof of our good intentions, our noble Queen found us worthy of a livelihood."
Rod stared. "You mean the Queen is putting the lot of you on the dole?"
Tuan grinned with mischief. "Aye, though she knows not whom she aids. She knows not the House of Clovis by name, knows only that she gives the good Brom O'Berin moneys to care for her poor."
"And Brom gives it to you."
"Aye. And for his part, he is grateful that there are fewer thievings and murders among the dark alleys."
Rod nodded. "Very shrewd. And this whole setup is your idea, is it?"
"Oh, nay! 'Twas the Mocker who thought of it; but none would give ear to him."
Rod stared. "The Mocker? You mean that twisted fugitive from the late show is boss of this operation?" Tuan frowned, shaking his head. "Men will not follow him, friend Gallowglass; there is nothing of governance in him. He is host, keeping the inn, doling out goods as they are needed — a steward, and only a steward, but a good one. You will find him a sharper clerk than any; aye, even the Queen's Lord Exchequer."
"I see, just a steward."But also the man who holds the pocketbook , Rod added mentally.The brains of the outfit, too. Tuan might know how to make people do what he wanted; but did he know what he wanted ?
Yes, of course he did. Hadn't the Mocker told him? Which made the Mocker the local political economist, and probably Tuan's speech-writer.
Rod leaned back, rubbing his chin. "And you manage to keep them in this decadent luxury with only the alms the beggars bring in?Plus the Queen's shilling, of course."
Tuan grinned sheepishly and leaned forward, nodding. " Tis not easy done, friend Gallowglass. These beggars are loath to let any man rule them. It is tedious labor, cajoling, threatening, flattering—a man grows a-weary of it. Yet it is well worth the doing."
Rod nodded. "It would take a man with no false pride, and less false humility, and one who could see into his fellow's heart."
Tuan blushed.
"Such a man," saidRod, "could make himself king of the beggars."
But Tuan shook his head, eyes closed. "No, there is no king here, friend Gallowglass. A lord of the manor, perhaps, but naught more."
"You don't want to be king?"
Tuan's shoulders shrugged with a snort of laughter. "The beggars would not hear of it!"
"That wasn't what I asked."
Tuan's eyes locked with Rod's, the smile fading from the boyish face. Then Tuan caught Rod's meaning, and his eyes hardened. "Nay!" he spat. "I do not seek the throne."
"Then why are you trying to lead the beggars against the Queen?" Rod rapped out.
The smile eased across Tuan's face again; he sat back, looking very satisfied with himself. "Ah, you know of my plotting! Then may I ask of you outright, friend Rod, will you join with us when we march on the castle?"
Rod felt his face setting like plaster. His eyes locked with Tuan's again; his voice was very calm. "Why me?"
"We shall have need of as many friends in the Queen's Guard as we may have…"
"You must already have quite a few," Rod murmured, "if you know already that I joined the Queen's Guard today."
Tuan's grin widened; his eyelids drooped.
A stray fact clicked into place in Rod's mind.
"If I were to search through this hall," he said carefully, "would I find the three men who attacked you tonight?"
Tuan nodded, eyes dancing.
"A put-up job," Rod said, nodding with him. "A small performance, arranged solely for my benefit, with the single purpose of maneuvering me in here for a recruiting lecture. Youdoknow how to manage people, Tuan McReady."
Tuan blushed, and looked down.
"But what if I don't want to join you, Tuan McReady? Will I leave the House of Clovis alive this night?"
Tuan's head came up, eyes boring into Rod's.
"Only," he said, "if you are an excellent swordsman, and a warlock to boot."
Rod nodded slowly, the events of the past two days whirling through his mind. For a moment, he was tempted to join; he had no doubt that he could maneuver himself into the throne after the revolution.
But no; what Tuan said was true. It took a man with an inborn gift of mass hypnotism to control the beggars. Rod might take the throne, but the beggars—and the Mocker, and whoever was behind him—would not let him keep it.
No, the power structure had to stay the way it was; a constitutional monarchy was the only hope for democracy on this planet.
Then, too, there was Catharine…
Then the jarring note in the score of events caught Rod's ear. He was hung up on Catharine, probably; she was the Dream.
But he had liked Tuan at first sight. How could he like them both if they were really working against one another?
Of course, all Tuan's forthright charm might be an act, but somehow Rod doubted it.
No. If Tuan had really wanted the throne, he could have wooed Catharine, and could have won her—Rod had no doubt about that.
So Tuan was supporting the Queen. How he figured his demagoguery could help her, Rod couldn't figure, but somehow it made sense that Tuan believed he was.
Then why the elaborate plot to get Rod into the House of Clovis?
To test Rod, of course; to find out if he was to be trusted next to the Queen.