"Thou hast been long in coming," the little man growled. His face was beet-red with anger, but fear haunted the backs of his eyes.
"I came as fast as I could," Rod panted. "Is she in danger?"
Brom grunted. "Aye, in danger, though there is as yet no sign of it. Thou must stand watch at her bedside this night, warlock."
Rod stiffened. "I," he said, "am not a warlock. I am a simple soldier-of-fortune who happens to know a little science."
Brom tossed his head impatiently. "This is a poor time to bandy words. Call yourself what you will, cook, carpenter, or mason, thou hast still warlock's powers. But we waste time."
He rapped back-handed on the door; it swung in, and a sentry stepped out. He saluted and stood aside.
Brom smiled grimly and went through the door. "Still don't trust me behind your back, eh?"
"Nearly," said Brom.
"That's what I said."
The sentry entered behind them and closed the door.
The room was large, with four shuttered slit windows on one side. The floor was covered with fur rugs; the walls were hung with silk, velvet, and tapestries. A fire crackled on a small hearth.
Catharine sat in a huge four-poster bed, covered to the waist with quilts and furs. Her unbound hair flowed down over the shoulders of a velvet, ermine-trimmed dressing gown. She was surrounded by a gaggle of ladies-in-waiting, several serving-girls, and two pages.
Rod knelt at her bedside. "Your Majesty's pardon for my tardiness!"
She gave him a frosty glance. "I had not known you were called." She turned away.
Rod frowned, looked her over.
She sat back against eight or ten fluffy satin pillows; her eyelids drooped in languid pleasure; there was a half-smile on her lips. She was enjoying the one spot of real luxury in her day.
She might be in mortal danger, but she sure didn't know about it. Brom had been keeping secrets again.
She held out a hand to one of her ladies; the woman gave her a steaming goblet of wine. Catharine brought it to her lips with a graceful flourish.
"Whoa!" Rod jumped to his feet, intercepted the goblet on its way to her lips, and plucked it away with his left hand while his right brought out his "unicorn's horn."
Catharine stared, amazed; then her eyes narrowed, her face reddened. "Sirrah, what means this?"
But Rod was staring at the "unicorn's horn" dagger-sheath; Fess's voice spoke behind his ear: "Substance with the analysis unit is toxic to human metabolism."
But Rod hadn't poured the wine into the horn yet. There was nothing in it.
Except air.
Rod pressed the stud that turned the horn purple.
Catharine stared in horror as the violet flush crept over the surface of the dagger-sheath.
"Sirrah," she gasped, "what means this?"
"Poison air," Rod snapped. She shoved the goblet at a servant-girl and looked about the room. Something in here was emitting poison gas.
The fireplace.
Rod crossed to the hearth and held the horn upside-down over the flames; but the color of the sheath dimmed to lavender.
"Not there," Rod spun about, coming to his feet. He paced about the room, holding the horn before him like a candle. It stayed lavender.
He frowned, scratched at the base of his skull. What would be the best place to put a poison-gas cartridge?
As close to the Queen as possible, of course.
He turned, moving slowly to the four-poster. As he came to Catharine's side, the horn's color darkened to violet.
Catharine stared at the horn in fascination and horror.
Rod knelt, slowly. The horn's color darkened to purple and began to shade toward black.
Rod threw up the bedskirts and looked under the four-poster. There before him, on the stone floor, steamed a warming-pan.
Rod grabbed the long handle and yanked the pan out. He inverted the horn over one of the holes in the cover—if his memory was correct, warming-pans didn't usually have holes…
The hom turned dead black.
He looked up at Catharine. She had the knuckles of one hand jammed between her teeth, biting them to keep from screaming.
Rod turned, holding the pan out to the sentry. "Take this," he said, "and fling it into the moat."
The sentry dropped his pike, took the warming-pan, and rushed out, holding it at arm's length.
Rod turned slowly back to Catharine. "We have cheated the banshee again, my Queen."
Catharine's hand trembled as she took it away from her mouth. Then her lips clamped shut, her eyes squeezed tight, little fists clenched so hard the knuckles were white.
Then her eyes opened, slowly; there was a wild light in them, and a faint smile crept over her lips. "Master Gallowglass, stay by me. All else, remove yourselves!"
Rod swallowed and felt his joints liquefy. She was, at that moment, the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.
The Guardsmen, ladies, and pages were already in motion, heading for an incipient traffic jam at the door.
Brom bawled orders, and the jam failed to develop. In thirty seconds, the room was clear, except for Rod, the Queen, and Brom O'Berin.
"Brom," Catharine snapped, eyes locked on Rod's face. Her teeth were beginning to show through her smile. "Brom O'Berin, do you leave us also."
Brom stared a moment, outraged; then his shoulders slumped, and he bowed heavily. "I will, my Queen."
The door closed quietly behind him.
Slowly, Catharine lay back against the pillows. She stretched with a luxurious, liquid grace. One hand snaked out to clasp Rod's. Her hand was very soft.
"It is twice now you have given me my life, Master Gallowglass." Her voice was a velvet purr.
"My—my privilege, my Queen." Rod cursed himself, he was gawking like an adolescent with a copy of Fanny Hill.
Catharine frowned prettily, tucking her chin in and touching a forefinger to her lips.
Then she smiled, rolled over onto her side. The velvet gown fell open. Apparently it was the custom to sleep nude.
Remember, boy, Rod told himself, you're just a traveling salesman. You'll wake up in the morning and be on your way. You're here to peddle democracy, not to court a Queen. Not fair to take advantage of her if y ou're not going to be here to take advantage of it… Did that make sense?
Catharine was toying with a pendant that hung from her neck. Her teeth were worrying her lower lip. She looked him over like a cat sizing up a canary.
"Blank-shield soldiers," she murmured, "have a certain repute…"
Her lips were moist, and very full.
Rod felt his lips moving, heard his own voice stammering, "As—as my Queen seeks to reform the ills of her land, I… hope to reform the reputation of soldiers. I would do… only good to your Majesty."
For a moment, it seemed Catherine's very blood must have stopped, so still she lay.
Then her eyes hardened, and the silence in the room stretched very, very thin.
She sat up, gathering her dressing gown about her. "Thou art much to be commended, Master Gal-lowglass. I am indeed fortunate to have such loyal servitors about me."
It was much to her credit, under the circumstances, Rod thought, that there was only a faint tone of mockery to her voice.
Her eyes met his again. "Accept the Queen's thanks for the saving of her life."
Rod dropped to one knee.
"I am indeed fortunate," Catharine went on, "to be so loyally served. You have given me my life; and I think that few soldiers would have given me safe deliverance, as you have done."
Rod flinched.
She smiled, her eyes glittering malice and satisfaction for just a moment.
Then her eyes dropped to her hands. "Leave me now, for I shall have a trying day tomorrow, and must make good use of the night, for sleeping."
"As the Queen wishes," Rod answered, poker-faced. He rose and turned away, his belly boiling with anger—at himself. It wasn't her fault he was a fool.