Sirens? Inthisculture?
The sound was coming from the left; he looked up, and saw the castle, there on its hilltop.
And there, at the base of the tower, something glowed, and keened like a paddy wagon lamenting the death of some squad cars.
The guests tumbled out of the inn to stand in the courtyard, staring and pointing.
" Tis the banshee!"
"Again!"
"Nay, all will be well. Hath it not appeared thrice before? And yet the Queen lives!"
"Fess," Rod said carefully.
"Yes, Rod."
"Fess, there's a banshee. On the castle battlements. A banshee, Fess."
There was no answer.
Then a raucous buzz snarled behind Rod's ear, swelled till it threatened to shake his head apart, and cut off.
Rod shook his head and pounded his temple with the heel of his hand.
"F in going to have to have that boy overhauled," he muttered. "He used to havequietseizures."
It would have been unwise for Rod to go to the stables to reset Fess while the inn-yard was full of gawkers; he would have been thoroughly conspicuous.
So he went up to his room, to lie down till things had quieted down a bit; and, of course, by the time the courtyard was clear, Rod was too comfortable to take the trouble of going down to the stables. No real reason to reset the robot, anyway; it would be a quiet night.
The room was dark, except for a long swathe of light streaming in the window from the largest moon. There was a subdued murmur and clatter from the common room—nightowl guests drinking late. Rod's chamber was very peaceful.
Not quiet, though. Big Tom, curled up on a pallet at the foot of the bed, snored like a bulldozer on idle, making more noise asleep than he did awake.
Now there was a riddle—Big Tom. Rod had never before been in a fight where he hadn't been hit at least once. Big Tom had left himself wide open, every time; and sure, he was big, but he didn't have to bethatclumsy. Big mencanbe quick…
But why would Big Tom have thrown the fight?
So Rod would take him on as a serving-man?
And what about Adam and One-Ear? Their talk would seem to indicate they'd been at the pep rally down by the wharf, which would mean they were members of the proletarian party. What had the young rabble-rouser called it? The House of Clovis, yes.
But if Adam and One-Ear were a representative sample, the House of Clovis was a house divided against itself. There seemed to be two factions, one backing the Loguire—the juvenile orator?—and one led by the Mocker, whoever that might be. The usual two factions, nonviolent and violent, tongue and sword.
Now, why would Big Tom have wanted a butler job ? Social climber, maybe? No, he wasn't the fawning type. Better wages? But he'd seemed to be moderately prosperous as the neighborhood heavy.
To keep an eye on Rod?
Rod rolled over on his side. Tom just might be a member in good standing of the House of Clovis. But why would the House want to keep tabs on Rod? They couldn't suspect anything, could they?
If Fess's guess was right, and the House was backed by an off-planet power, they definitely might suspect something—never mind how.
But wasn't Rod letting his paranoia show again?
He was wide awake, every muscle tense. He sighed and rolled out of bed; he couldn't sleep now. Better reset Fess and have a talk. Rod needed the robot's electronic objectivity; he had very little of his own.
Big Tom stirred and wakened as Rod lifted the rusty door latch.
"Master? Where dost thou go?"
"Just got a little worried about my horse, Big Tom. Think I'll run down to the stables and make sure the hostler's treating him right. Go back to sleep."
Big Tom stared a moment.
"Certes," he said, "thou'rta most caring one, master."
He rolled over and burrowed his head into the folded cloak he used for a pillow. "To be so much concerned for a horse," he muttered, and snored again.
Rod grinned and let himself out of the room.
He found a stairway a few paces away—dark and musty, but closer to the stables than the main door.
There was a door at the bottom of the stair, one that was not very often used; it groaned like a bullfrog in heat when he opened it.
The inn-yard was flooded with the soft, golden light of the three moons. The largest was only a little smaller than Terra's, but much closer; it filled a full thirty degrees of sky, a perpetual harvest moon.
"Great planet for lovers," Rod mused; and, because his eyes were on the moon, he didn't notice the gray strand of cord stretched a little above the doorstep. He tripped.
His arms swung up, slapping the ground to break his fall. Something hard struck the back of his head, and the world dissolved in a shoal of sparks.
There was a ruddy glow about him, and a throbbing ache in his head. Something cold and wet moved over his face. He shuddered, and came wide awake.
He lay on his back; a limestone roof vaulted over him, glimmering with bits of captured light. Pinch-waisted limestone columns stretched from the roof to a green carpet—stalactites and stalagmites joined. The green carpet stretched away in all directions for at least a mile. He was in a vast underground cavern. The light seemed to come from everywhere, a dancing, wavering light, setting the sparks in the ceiling into an intricate ballet.
The green carpet spread under him; he could feel it, cold and springy, damp, under his back: moss, three inches thick. He tried to put out a hand to touch the moss, and discovered that he couldn't move his arms or legs. Lifting his head, he looked for ropes binding him, but there was not so much as a thread.
He shook his head, trying to get the ache out of it so he could think clearly.
"Fess," he muttered, "where am I?"
There was no answer.
Rod bit his lip. "Come on, iron horse! Are you asleep at the switch?"
Switch…
Fess had had a seizure. Rod had been en route to reset him.
Rod was on his own.
He sighed and lay back on the green moss carpet.
A deep voice began singing, off to his right. Rod looked.
A fire fluttered in a bare stone circle. A tripod stood over it, supporting a cauldron—a covered cauldron, bubbling merrily, with a tube leading from a hole in the cover. Drops of water fell from the roof, striking the tube; and a beaker sat under the far end of the tube, collecting drops.
A primitive still.
And a moonshiner, a moonshiner perhaps eighteen inches high, very broad-shouldered and generally stocky, clad in doublet and hose. He had a round, cheerful face, twinkling green eyes, a snub nose, and a very wide mouth curved in an impish smile. To top it off, he wore a Robin Hood hat with a bright red feather.
The green eyes looked up and caught Rod's.
"Ha!" said the little man in a buzzing baritone. "Tha'rt come to thy senses, warlock!"
Rod scowled. "Warlock? I'm not a warlock!"
"To be sure," said the little man, "tha'rt not. Thou comest in a falling star, and thou hast a horse made of cold iron…"
"Just a minute, there," Rod interrupted. "How'd you know the horse was made of cold iron?"
"We are the Wee Folk," said the little man, unperturbed. "We live by Oak, Ash, and Thorn, by Wood, Air, and Sod; and those who live by cold iron seek the end of our woodlands. Cold iron is the sign of all that cannot abide us; and therefore we know cold iron, no matter what form or disguise it may be in."
He turned back to the kettle, lifting the lid to check the mash. "Then, too, thou canst hear what is said a good half mile off; and thy horse can run as silent as the wind and faster than a falcon, when it has cause to. But tha'rt not a warlock, eh?"
Rod shook his head. "I'm not. I use science, not magic!"
"Assuredly," said the little man," and a rose by any other name… Nay, tha'rt a warlock, and as such tha'rt known already throughout the length and the breadth of Gramarye!"
"Gramarye? What's that?"
The little man stared in surprise. "Why, the world, warlock! The world we live in, the land between the Four Seas, the realm of Queen Catharine!"
"Oh. She rules the whole world?"
"Certes," said the elf, giving Rod a sidelong glance.
"And the name of her castle? And the town around it?"
"Runnymede. In truth, tha'rt a most untutored warlock!"
"That's just what I've been trying to tell you," and Rod sighed.
The little man turned away, shaking his head and muttering. He opened a pippet on the collection beaker and drained some of the distillate into a shot-glass-sized mug.
Rod suddenly realized he was very thirsty. "Uh, say—what're you brewing up there? Wouldn't be brandy, would it?"
The elf shook his head.
"Gin?Rum?v4gwaVitae ?"
"Nay; 'tis spirits of another sort." He bounced over to Rod and held the miniscule mug to the man's lips.
"Thanks." Rod took a sip. He looked up at the roof, smacking his lips. "Tastes like honey."
"Where the wild bee sucks, there suck If" The little man hopped back to the fire.
"Not bad at all. Could you spare the recipe?"
"Aye, assuredly." The elf grinned. "We would do aught within our power for a guest."
"Guest!" Rod snorted. "I hate to impugn your hospitality, but immobilizing me isn't exactly what I'd call a welcome."
"Oh, we shall make amends ere long." The little man lifted the cauldron lid and stirred the mash.
Something clicked in Rod's mind. The hairs at the base of his skull began to prickle.
"Uh, say, uh…I don't belive we've been introduced, but… your name wouldn't be Robin Good-fellow, would it? Alias Puck?"
"Thous speakest aright." The elf replaced the lid with a clang. "I am that merry wanderer of the night."
Rod fell back onto the moss carpet. It'd make a great story to tell his grandchildren; nobody else would believe it.
"Say, Puck—you don't mind if I call you Puck?"
"Oh, nay."
"Thanks, uh… I'm Rod Gallowglass."
"We ha' known it."
"Well, just thought I'd make it official. Now, you don't seem to spare me any particular ill-will, so, uh, may I ask… uh… why am I paralyzed?"
"Ah, that," said Puck. "We must find if you are a white warlock, or black."
"Oh." Rod chewed the inside of his cheek for a moment. "If I'm a white warlock, you'll, um… let me go?"
Puck nodded.
"What happens if you decide I'm a black warlock?"
"Then, Rod Gallowglass, you shall sleep till the Trump of Doom."
Rod felt as though a weak electric current had been applied to his jaw. "Great. The Trump of Doom. And I never was much good at bridge."
Puck frowned. "How…?"
"Skip it. 'Sleep till the Trump of Doom.' A very neat euphemism. Why don't you just come right out and say you'll kill me?"
"Nay." Puck thrust his lower lip out, shaking his head. "We would not kill you, Rod Gallowglass. Thou shouldst but sleep forever, and with pleasant dreams."
"I see. Suspended animation?"
Puck's brow wrinkled. "I know not that word. Yet rest assured, thou shalt not be suspended. The Wee Folk have no fondness for a hanging."
"Well, I suppose that's something of a comfort. So how do I prove I'm a white warlock?"
"Why," said Puck, "by our enlarging you."
Rod stared. "How's that again?
"Aren't I big enough already?"
The elf's face split into a broad grin. "Nay, nay! Enlarging you! Removing the spell that binds you!"
"Oh." Rod lay back with a sigh of relief. Then he jerked back up. " Freeingme? That's going to prove I'm a white warlock?"
"By itself, no," said Puck. " 'Tis a question where we free you."
He clapped his hands. Rod heard the scurrying of scores of small feet coming from behind him; a fold of dark cloth was drawn over his eyes, knotted behind his head.
"Hey!" he protested.
"Peace," said Puck. "We do but bear you forth to your freedom."
A host of tiny hands lifted Rod. He resigned himself and lay back to enjoy the trip.
It was a rather pleasant way to travel, actually—like an innerspring mattress with four-wheel drive.
His feet tilted up higher than his head and the pace of the scuttling feet under him slowed—they were mounting an incline.
Damp night air struck his face; he heard the breeze sighing in the leaves, accompanied by a full complement of crickets, with an owl and maybe a curlew providing the harmony.
He was dropped unceremoniously; the blindfold was whipped from his eyes.
"Hey!" he protested "What do you think I am, a sack of potatoes?"
He could hear a stream gurgling off to his left.
"Tha'rt free now, RodGallowglass," Puck's voice husked in his ear. "May God be with you!" And the elf bounded away.
Rod sat up, flexing his limbs to make them realize they could move gain. He looked about.
It was a moonlit forest glade, with a silver stream trickling past on the left. The trees were bright steel trunk and tinsel leaf, and black shadow among the trunks.
One of the shadows moved.
It stepped forward, a tall figure in a dark, hooded monk's robe.
Rod scrambled to his feet.
The figure moved slowly toward Rod, halted ten feet away, and threw back the hood.
Wild, disordered hair over a long, thin face, with hollows under the cheekbones and caves for eye sockets, with two burning coals at their backs—and the whole face twisted, curdled with bitterness.
The voice was flat and thin, almost a hiss. "Are you, then, so tired of life that you come to a werewolf's cage?"
Rod stared. "Werewolf!"
Well, why not! If elves were a basic assumption…
Then Rod frowned. "Cage?" He looked around.