The Warlock's Companion (27 page)

"Softly, softly, son," Gwen called. "I do not think we can worsen matters for the lass, Cordelia, and we well might help. Yet her affairs aside, there's some small matter of our own interest."

Geoffrey looked up. "Why, how is that?"

"I do not mean to dwell in a house where ghosts do wander in the dead of night, to disturb our sleep," Gwen said, with finality.

"An excellent point," Rod agreed. "You're right in this, Cordelia—that if it didn't affect us, we should probably mind our own business."

"Nay, even then, we ought to seek to alleviate the poor damsel's suffering, out of simple humanity!" Cordelia cried.

"Thought you were the one who was saying we should back out. Well, since we're all agreed, we'll consider ways and means—and let's sleep on it, shall we?" He rolled up a little more tightly.

Slowly, Magnus lay tense but quiet again.

The hall was still, and a branch popped in the fire.

Cordelia tossed and turned, unable to sleep, even when the low, even breathing of her mother and brothers, and her father's snoring, told her that she alone remained awake.

The thought was frightening. There was a small sound, somewhere in the great room, and she lifted her head to peer around, eyes wide, heart hammering.

She saw only the forms of her sleeping family, and the dark silhouette of the great black horse, standing watch over them. Its eyes glistened in the firelight, ever vigilant.

Cordelia felt relief; she wasn't completely alone in her wakefulness. Very quietly, she slipped out of bed and came over to the robot. Fess lifted his head at her approach. "Lie still, Cordelia. Sleep will come."

"I have need of talk." She twined her fingers in his mane.

"Your charms avail you nothing, Cordelia—I am made of metal."

"I shall try the mettle of a man, when I am grown." She managed a small smile at her own feeble jest. "Speak to me, that I may sleep."

"Am I so boring a companion as that? No, do not answer. Tell me what you would have me speak of.''

She said nothing, only set to work making a plait in his mane.

"Of love, of course," Fess answered, with a sigh. "You are, after all, a young maiden."

"Aye. Wouldst thou, mayhap, recall Papa's manner when he first was moonstruck? Was he as Magnus is, this night?"

"Cordelia!" Fess reproved, in his softest tone. "I have told you before that your father's experiences are entirely confidential, and that it is for him alone to breach that confidentiality, not I."

"Oh, thou didst not even know when the Archer did smite him!"

"How should I, when I am only a thing of iron, with no feelings? How might I recognize romantic love?"

"Thou dost know it by its signs."

"Signs that can be hidden, with self-control. I will tell you only this: that when humans do suppress such evidence of love's coming, they cease to know clearly when they are in love."

Cordelia looked up, frowning. "Why, how couldst thou know such a thing?"

"I have studied humankind for five centuries, Cordelia. Go, now, and let your fancy play with the notion."

She smiled, taken with the idea. "Why, that I shall. I knew thou wouldst know cures for wakefulness, good Fess." And she turned away, going back to roll up in her blanket.

Of course, Fess
did
recognize the signs of infatuation, and remembered that the young Rod d'Armand had been worried because it had never happened to him. But Fess had seen the reason clearly, when he looked at the belles of Maxima—so he had not been surprised with the quickness of love's striking, once Rod left home. He remembered, with the clarity that only comes from permanent changes in the electrical patterns of molecules. It had been a time when Rod's joy and pain had been so clear to see that Fess was, for once, quite glad he had no emotions of his own. Rod's had been bad enough. Oh, yes, he remembered…

The lander jarred with a thud and a clash. Rod waited, excitement beginning to well up under his sadness at leaving home. The wall-patch next to the hatch glowed green. Rod opened it and stepped through into his new life.

The welcoming committee was a stocky man in a uniform too tight around the waist and a three-day beard on his jowls. "A rich boy!" he groaned. "With a private robot—preserve us! And shall I roll out a red carpet for you, me lord?"

"Not a lord," Rod said automatically.

"Well, ya know that much, at least," the man grunted. "But ya need a bit more, swabbie. When ya walked through that hatch, ya became the lowest of the low, boy. And close it behind ya!"

Rod turned, sure that he had. Yes, the hatch was dogged.

The jowly man pushed past him to check, and gave a reluctant growl. "Well, it's good enough."

Rod knew it was a lot better than "good enough." People who grow up on asteroids become very used to hatches—by the time they're eight. But all he said was, "Thank you, sir."

The man's eyes narrowed. "Ya got that part right, too." He looked distinctly unhappy about it. "Well, 'sir' it is, to
anyone
ya see. I'm Albie Weiser, Second Officer of the good ship
Murray Rain
, and you have the lowest rating aboard. Anything you see, you 'sir,' because there's no one aboard who's lower than you—and ya salute a senior officer!"

Rod snapped to what he hoped was "attention" and touched his forehead.

"No, no!" Weiser seemed relieved as he reached out to boost Rod's arm and crank his wrist. "Elbow up, so your arm's parallel to the deck, and turn yer hand out t' face me!"

Rod clenched his jaw to keep from saying "ouch."

"Right enough, then," the officer growled. "Now, come on and see this berth y've signed on for." He pushed off against a wall and glided down the passageway, glancing back just once—to make sure his new charge was following, Rod supposed. He looked very disappointed, and Rod's spirits sank. Was he really doing
that
badly? He swallowed hard and plucked up his courage, resolving to become the best recruit Weiser had ever seen.

Fess followed, drifting silently in null-G. A bit less naive than Rod, he realized that Weiser had been hoping the young man would prove horribly clumsy in free-fall. Apparently the second officer hadn't realized that growing up on an asteroid, however large and however well provided with artificial gravity in dwelling areas, would still afford a young man a great number of low-G situations, and free-fall sports.

He was also aware that being faultless, when people were actively seeking faults to belittle you for, could prove dangerous.

They filed down a metal passageway, over the foot-high sill of a hatch, down a clanging ladder, and down a darker passageway. Rod's spirits sank with the altitude.

Then the hallway opened out into a large chamber filled with vague lumpen shapes, walls divided into metal boxes. Pipes festooned the ceilings, and the floor humped up into ridges here and there.

Weiser turned and pointed to a rectangular outline in the corner, about eighteen inches wide and three feet high. "There's yer locker. And there—" He pointed to a larger rectangle inscribed on the wall, "—is yer berth."

Rod stared at it in dismay, and the mate sneered, "What did ya expect for an engine wiper on a freighter—a stateroom with a private bath?"

"Oh, no, no! It's just that, uh, I don't know what I'm supposed to do."

"Stow your duffel, swabbie, and report to the engineer!" He looked at Fess with disgust and grunted, "Private robots, yet! Where're ya going to store
that
, laddie?" He gave Fess a slap.

"Hey, careful! He's an antique!"

"Oh, is he, now? And maybe I should dust yer china fer ya, too!" The mate swatted at Fess, and the robot stepped aside easily—a twentieth of a second was a quick punch for a human, but a long time for a computer. "Stand still when I'm swinging at ya!" the mate roared, and slammed another punch at the robot.

"Sir," Fess said as he dodged, "I have done nothing to merit your…"

"Hold on, now! That's
my
robot!" Rod leaped in, grabbing at the mate's arm. Weiser turned to aim a punch at him, and Fess darted forward to interpose himself between Rod and the mate's fist. Then he tried to dodge Weiser's kick, protesting, "I have done…" and went stiff as a board. The mate's kick caught him in the hip joint and sent him crashing against the wall.

Rod saw red. "You bastard! You made him have a seizure! And then when he was defenseless, you…" He couldn't finish; he leaped at the mate, swinging…

Swinging completely around in a circle and crashing into the wall. As he slid toward the bottom, a calloused hand grabbed him by the jumpsuit and yanked him upright. The jowly face loomed over him, mouth curved in a grin and vindictive satisfaction in the eyes. "The first thing ya must learn, swabbie, is to
never
talk back to a senior officer!" The calloused hand shot out, clenching into a shotput fist, and crashed into Rod's jaw.

Rod was only dizzy for a few seconds; then he was struggling up to his hands and knees and lurching over to grope at the base of Fess's skull for the circuit breaker. He pushed, and the robot sat up slowly. "Whatddd… didddd AAAeee…"

"You were defeated in a gallant attempt to save me," Rod rasped. "Sorry I got you into this."

"Thhhuh ffaullltt iz awwl…"

"All Weiser's," Rod grunted. "That bastard was doing everything he could to pick a fight. Help me up, will you?"

Slowly, the robot climbed to its feet, then reached down. A hard hand grasped Rod's arm, helping him up. "How… how long were we out?"

"I have been unnn-ckon-shus form… no morrrre than… threeee minutes."

Rod gave his head a shake, blinked, and managed to see that Weiser wasn't there. "He didn't have to do that…"

"He would have con-tin-ued to be off-offensive until he managed to… pro-voke you into attac-king, mas-ter. He was seeking to… e-sta-blish his au-tho-ri-ty."

Rod's mouth tightened. "Are you telling me I shouldn't have reacted, no matter
what
he did?"

"Short of attack with lethal intentions, no. I certainly was not damaged; I am considerably more durable than that."

Rod remembered childhood tales about accidents when Fess had been building the castle. "All right, so I shouldn't have worried."

"But I am delighted by your wish to defend one you regard as a friend, boss—it shows that my moral teachings have taken firm hold. Nonetheless, please remember that it is
I
who am supposed to be loyal to
you
, not the reverse."

''Point noted,'' Rod grumbled. "People don't help robots.''

"Of course, my own loyalty is reinforced by such firm evidence of your own."

"But you would have suffered a major breakdown if I'd been really hurt. Yeah, yeah, I know."

"Well… I did note that you seemed to have forgotten your boxing, boss."

"I don't know what that guy was using, but it sure wasn't boxing." Rod pushed his jaw back into place and blinked at the pain. "Whew! And you'd better not call me 'boss' around here; I'm beginning to see that it could bother my fellow crewmen."

"How shall I address you, then?"

"How about 'Rod'?" Rod said sourly.

"If you insist," Fess sighed.

"I do. After all, I've learned my first lesson—that the universe is a nasty place. Let's see if I can't make my way in it anyway, shall we?"

"One human is not the universe, Rod."

"So I've got a negative attitude. I can hardly wait to meet my chief."

"According to Mr. Weiser's instructions, you must 'stow your duffel' first."

"Oh, yeah." Rod frowned, turning to the little locker. "How do I get it open, do you suppose?" He started running his fingers along the outline, pressing as he went. The left edge gave under pressure, so Rod pushed harder. The panel rotated outward, revealing small shelves on its other side, and a compartment three feet deep.

Rod stared, appalled. "There's no way you'll ever fit in there!"

"I can if it is necessary, Rod."

"Yeah, well, let's try and get by without it first, shall we?" Rod tossed his bag in and pushed the panel shut. "You just stand in the corner here and do your best to turn into a statue. Okay?"

"Certainly, Rod." Fess stepped into the corner and became just what Rod had ordered—a modernistic sculpture of a human being.

"You gonna be okay if the ship changes direction?"

"The floor is an iron alloy, Rod, and I have electromagnets in my feet. We found them quite useful, during Maxima's construction phase. And I notice ringbolts within reach, if the change in velocity is really strong."

"Well, okay, then…"

"Report for duty, please, Rod."

"Oh, all right. Now, let me see—where's
my
boss?"

Rod wandered away into the cubistic environment of the engine room. Fess boosted the gain on his microphones, to make sure he would be able to hear Rod if he was needed.

The light was dim but adequate, and all from ahead. Rod followed it, around shapes that he assumed had something to do with powering the engines. Then he began to hear the cursing. That made it easier—he simply followed the sound.

Whoever it was had a really remarkable vocabulary. Rod made mental notes of the more exotic terms, planning to ask for their definitions, after he got to know their author a little better. He rounded a large metal housing and saw somebody in a dirty, baggy coverall, hair tied back in a club, laboring over a machine with a wrench.

What was he supposed to do? Obviously, the guy thought he was alone. Rod swallowed, screwed his courage to the molly-bolt, and stepped forward, stiffening to attention and saluting. "Recruit Rod d'Armand reporting for duty,
sir
!"

His new boss whirled, almost dropping the wrench, saw him, then relaxed. "Hellfire, boy, don't
do
that! I thought I was alone down here." The engineer laid the wrench aside and stood, face coming into the brighter light of an overheard —and Rod caught his breath. The hair wasn't really clubbed, it was caught in a net, and the face under the grease smudges was oval and smooth, with delicate features. "You're the new swabbie, right?" The voice was a lovely alto, the eyes were large, green, and long-lashed, and Rod was in love.