"Why," Big Tom said, "dost thou think thine enemy would leave thee to wander whole?"
"Yes, while he makes hay at home—or at least an insurrection." Rod stiffened as he caught Big Tom's meaning. "Hey! You don't mean the agent who masterminded this little scheme is still following me, do you?"
"Wherefore not? Would he not wish to be sure of thee?"
" 'Be sure' sounds uncomfortably like 'execute ' "
"It doth, and 'tis like to be uncomfortable^m the extreme."
Rod wondered whether it was Big Tom talking or his own paranoia.
What was the difference?
Nothing—if Big Tom really was a product of Rod's overactive imagination.
If.
"Of course," Rod said slowly, "you could be a real ghost."
"There are no ghosts." But Big Tom was smiling.
"Oh, yeah? How about Horatio Loguire and his corps of courtiers that I met in the abandoned quarter of Castle Loquire?"
"They were witch-moss constructs," Big Tom said immediately.
Rod nodded. "Possible. Very tenuous, but nonetheless crafted unwittingly by some ancient bard who had known the originals while they were alive, and sang of them after their deaths. Probably shocked him as much as anyone when they 'came back.' But…"
"What else?" Big Tom leaned forward with professional interest.
"I have this son," Rod said slowly, "who has lately turned out to be a psychometricist. He hears thoughts people left in the objects around them, and if he isn't careful, he starts seeing the people, too."
"He doth wake the dead?"
"I always said he made enough noise to, when he was a baby. Now, let's just say some innocent who didn't know he was a psychometricist happened to walk into the haunted part of Castle Loguire…"
"Was his name Rod Gallowglass?"
"If it was, he didn't know it at the time. Besides, the first one who had that little 'accident' was probably several hundred years ago—and the scare story he brought back was reinforced by a few others down through the centuries. Who knows? Maybe they did it so often that they set up a psionic standing wave, and after a while, the ghosts existed without them. Or maybe I just did a little bit to raise their spirits, after all."
"Mayhap thou didst. And if their spirits, why not mine, eh?"
"Right. Got an answer?"
"Aye—my bones are not here, nor did I haunt this castle whilst alive. In truth, I knew not of it."
"A point," Rod admitted, "but not an insuperable one. You seem to have caught the popular imagination, Big Tom. I still hear beggars who were at the battle tell of the giant Tom who fell fighting the lords, and died blessing the High Warlock."
Big Tom answered with a mordant grin. "I would not call it 'blessing.' "
"In your death, you gave me words for life."
"I but enjoined thee not to die for a dream." The ghost's gaze sharpened. "I see though hast not."
"No," Rod said slowly, "I'm still alive."
"As I am dead. Yet I would die thus again, if I could be sure 'twould bring greater happiness to the poor folk for whom I fought."
"Yes," Rod said softly. "They knew that. That's why they still tell your story, all over the country."
"And doth greater happiness come to them?" the ghost demanded, an edge to his voice.
"They're better off than they were," Rod said. "Fewer of them die in the lords' civil wars now, b^ause Tuan enforces the peace. And more of them have enough to eat, and clothes to wear."
"Yet not all?"
Rod spread his hands. "I'm doing what I can, Big Tom. After all, I can't spring modern farming methods and medicine on them all in one instant."
"Nay, nor would I have thee do so—for to bring it to them from off-planet would mean they would collapse when thy government withdrew it. Then would there be great famine indeed, and pestilence with it."
"There would," Rod agreed. "We have to help them build it up on their own, so it'll be self-sustaining. But we're making progress."
"And thou dost not seek the welfare of thy children in this?"
"Of course I do. But my kids' welfare is tied up with the people's welfare, Big Tom. Modern technology doesn't come in one generation. Who will be their teachers after I'm gone?"
"There is no shortage of volunteers."
"Yes—the futurian anarchists."
Big Tom turned and spat. "They would abandon all technology, and have my people scratching the dirt with a stick once more!"
Rod nodded. "Can't support the current population level that way, no. But do you still believe your futurian totalitarian pals would do any better?"
"Mayhap," Big Tom said, scowling, "yet they've little concern for the people themselves. Their devotion is to the idea, not the folk. Nay, I will take the cash, and let the credit go."
"Nice to know I'm coin of the realm," Rod grunted.
"Hast not wished to be a medium?"
"A medium of exchange? No, thank you. I don't even want to be a channel for ghosts, though I'm finding present company quite acceptable. Why—were you wanting me to broadcast your spirit to your peasant followers?"
" 'Twould be pleasant," Big Tom admitted.
"Then enjoy, because it's happening—and without any assistance from me. You gave the poor people the notion that they're worth something in their own right, not just in terms of how valuable they are to their lords—and the idea seems to be catching on."
" Tis good to know I have been busy."
"What do you mean, 'good to know'?" Rod frowned. "You've been walking this land ever since your death, haven't you? A guest at every peasant's fireside, and a nemesis at every lord's bedside."
"Why, how could I be?" Big Tom asked with a sly grin. "I am but thine hallucination."
"I wonder," Rod murmured, eyeing his old henchman and friendly enemy. "I really wonder…"
"Do not. 'Tis superstition."
"But there's nothing wrong with wishing the dead quiet repose. What keeps you awake, Big Tom?"
"Why, certes, the people, dost thou not see? I cannot rest till all are free from want and fear, till all are masters of their own destinies."
"Then you'd better get to working on some mental health schemes, not just economic and political. You're not exactly scot-free yourself, are you?''
"The people are my tyrant," Big Tom agreed. "An thou dost wish me sweet repose, do all thou canst to raise them up."
"I do," Rod said. "I will."
"First thou must needs win back thy wits. Thou knowest that any who have offered thee hospitality have been false, dost thou not?" ^
Rod stared.
Then he said, "I thought that was my own paranoia."
"Thinking that they seek thy death? Aye, that was false. Yet think—each hath offered thee food or drink.''
Rod lifted his head slowly. "It was drugged!"
"Aye, though not with extract of poppy. There was witch-moss in the bread and water of thy hostels."
"Modwis? Even the dwarf?"
"I think not, or he'd have ne'er abided thy making meals at campfires."
"Well, he did make some remarks aboutmy cooking…"
"Truth will out. This is why thou tlast not shaken these hallucinations—because thou hast taken more witch-moss brews as thou hast traveled."
"That's it! I'm going on a diet. No food or drink unless I collect it myself!"
"The game thou didst slay was untainted, aye. Yet I would not bid thee eat such wildlife as thou wilt find within this dungeon."
"Don't worry-—low cuisine never caught my fancy. But who's going to all this trouble, and why?"
"Wherefore dost thou ask?"
"Because I can't trust my own hunches right now. I'm paranoid, remember?"
"And am I any less? Be mindful, I'm the voice of thy subconscious."