The old nobleman rose, his jaw clamped tight under the grizzled beard, his liver-spotted fist palsied with barely-held anger.
He drew back the great, gilded chair, and Catharine rose. He stepped back to his place. Catharine turned away, and the great oak doors were thrown wide. Guardsmen fell in before and behind her.
She paused in the doorway, and turned. "Consider, my lords," she said, "and consent; for you cannot stand against me."
The great doors slammed behind her.
The council chamber burst into pandemonium.
"Oh, come off it! It's the classic pattern, right down to the last look of outrage!"
His day's duty done, Rod was ridingFess back to the inn, bent on picking up a little gossip and a lot of beer. Big Tom was tending the home fires at the Royal Castle, with orders to keep his ears open for juicy tidbits of information.
"I disagree, Rod. It's the classic pattern with something added."
"Bull! It's a simple, premature attempt at centralization of authority. She's trying to unify Gramarye under one law and one ruler, instead of twelve near-independent dukedoms. This business with the judges is that, and nothing more. Five'll get you ten some of those dukes have been playing god on their estates, forcing half the women to sleep with them and overtaxing everybody and anything else that occurred to them. Catharine's a reformer, that's all; she's trying to cure all the evils she can find by making herself the only law in Gramarye—and she won't make it. The noblemen just won't stand for it. She might have gotten away with the judges; but this business with the priests'll bring on a rebellion for sure. Priests have more influence over the people than any other officials in this kind of society. If she makes them responsible to her, and only her, she's really pulling the noblemen's teeth, and they know it. And they won't give up without a fight."
"So far, I'll agree with you," the robot said. "So far, it is the classic pattern, closely resembling the attempt of the English King John to centralize his nation before such a project could succeed."
"Yes." Rod nodded. "And we can hope that, like King John's noblemen, the great dukes will insist on a Magna Carta."
"But…"
Rod assumed a look of martyr-like patience. "But what, Fess?"
"But there is a foreign element: a group of councillors to the Great Lords, a group that seems to be very cohesive."
Rod frowned. "Well, yes. There is that."
"And from what you tell me of the scene after Catharine left…"
"Yü!" Rod shuddered. "It was just as though she'd thrown down a gauntlet, and all the dukes were out to see who'd get the honor of taking it up. The girl might know some elementary political science, but she sure doesn't know any diplomacy! She was just daring them to fight her!"
"Yes, and the councillors were egging them on very nicely—each one councilling his lord not to fight, because he was too weak… and then telling them that if he must fight, he'd better ally with the other lords, because each was too weak to stand alone. Expert use of reverse psychology. One would almost think the councillors were out to eliminate central authority completely."
"Yes…" Rod frowned, musing. "That's not quite normal to this kind of society, is it, Fess?"
"No, Rod. The theory of anarchy does not usually arise until the culture has attained a much higher degree of technology."
Rod chewed at his lip. "Outside influence, maybe?"
"Perhaps. And that brings us to the popular totalitarian movement: another anomaly. No, Rod, this is not the classic pattern."
"No, dammit. We've got three groups contending for power: the peasants, the dukes and their councillors, and the Queen and whoever supports her. That support seems to be limited to Brom O'Berin at the moment."
"Totalitarians, anarchists, and the Queen in the middle,"Fess murmured. "Which onedoyou support, Rod?"
"Catharine, dammit!" Rod grinned. "I'm out to plant the seeds of democracy; and it looks like the only chance to do that is to engineer a constitutional monarchy."
"I might be mistaken," Fess murmured, "But I do believe you're delighted to find you must support her."
Around them the few lights were dimmed by the night mist, a wall of fog thirty feet away. Rod rode alone through a world of smoke; Fess's hooves rang strangely weird in the echoing silence.
A long yell split the night, followed by the slapping clash of swords. "A rescue, a rescue!" a young voice cried.
Rod froze, hand on the pommel of his sword; then he dug his heels into Fess's metal sides, and the great black horse sprang toward the ruckus.
A torch smoldered red through the fog at the mouth of an alley. There, under its smoky light, one man battled three, his back against the wall.
Rod bellowed and landed horse and all in the middle of the melee. He laid about him with the flat of his sword, howling like an Indian studying to be a Confederate soldier. He yanked the dagger from the small of his back, just in time to catch a rapier coming at him from his left. His own sword swung in an arc over his head and clashed against steel as his opponent caught the blow.
Then steel points were jabbing up at him like saw-grass. Rod was forced back on the defensive, swatting the blades aside.
But the intended victim let loose a yell that would have shamed a banshee and waded in from the rear.
All at once the three swords fell away, their owners pelting down the alley. Rod sat a moment dazed; then he yelled, andFess sprang after the retreating figures.
But they gained the dark at the end of the alley; and when Rod caught up, the stones were empty. It was a dead end; they had gone through one of the shadowed, evil-smelling doorways.
Their would-be victim came running up behind, looked about, and panted.
"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."