The warlock unlocked by Christopher Stasheff Page A

“I confess there’s reason to that.”
    “But mine cannot be so!” The Abbot slapped the tabletop and sat back with an air of triumph, obviously pleased with himself for having gotten them back to the topic they hadn’t wanted to discuss—and with such a good case for it, too.
    “No—it really can’t, I suppose.” As far as Rod was concerned, the timing was just right.
    “Nay. While the Crown appoints priests to parishes, I cannot set the man I deem best for the task, to the doing of that task. Does this not lessen the excellence of this double-chain thou speakest of?”
    “At least our appointments are better than those of the barons, whose choices obtained ere I was crowned,” Catharine retorted; but her tone lacked vehemence.
    “For which, I must thank Your Majesties.” The Abbot inclined his head. “Yet is it not now time to take a further step on the upward road?”
    “Mayhap,” Tuan said judiciously, “though it’s surely not to the Crown’s advantage to lessen any further its hold over the roots of government…”
    “But is it to the interests of thy people?” the Abbot murmured. Tuan fairly winced. “There, good Milord, thou touchest the quick. Yet thou wilt understand, I trust, that the Queen and I must discuss these matters you have so kindly brought to our attention, at some length.”
    “That,” Catharine warned, “will be a fulsome talk, and hot.”
    Tuan grinned. “Why, then, here I stand.” Suiting the action to the word, he stood. “Wilt thou, then, hold us excused, Lord Abbot? For indeed, we should begin this while we’re fresh to it.”
    “But of course, Your Majesties.” The Abbot scrambled to his feet, and even inclined his head a little.
    “Thou wilt, then, summon me, when thou dost feel further need of, ah, converse, on this matter?”
    “Be assured, we shall,” Tuan said grandly, “and so, good e’en.”
    “God be with thee,” the Abbot muttered, sketching a quick cross in the air. Then the doors boomed wide as the two monarchs turned away, arm in arm, and paced out, in a hurry—but more, Rod suspected, to get to a chess game with a small boy, than to discuss affairs of state. Still, he couldn’t let the Abbot suspect that—and he had a curiosity bump to scratch. “Now, Milord—about your founder…”
    “Eh?” The Abbot looked up, startled. “Oh, aye! I did say, when there would be time.”
    “All the time in the world,” Rod assured him. “The wife doesn’t expect me home till late.”
    Air rang with a small thunderclap, and Toby stood there, pale and wide-eyed. “Lord Warlock, go quickly! Gwendylon hath sent for thee—thy son Geoffrey hath gone into air!”
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    Rod fought down a surge of panic. “Uh—he does that all the time, Toby—especially after you’ve just been there. Just lost, right?”
    “Would she send for thee if he were?”
    “No, hang it, she wouldn’t!” Rod swung back to the Abbot. “You must excuse me, Milord—but this’s got to be a genuine emergency! My wife’s a woman of verysound judgement!”
    “Why, certes, be on thy way, and do not stay to ask leave of a garrulous old man! And the blessings of God go with thee, Lord Warlock!”
    “Thank you, Milord!” Rod whirled away, out the door, with Toby beside him. “Try not to pop in like that, when there’s a priest around, Toby,” he advised. “It makes them nervous.”

CHAPTER FOUR

    Someone’s out to get me,” Father Al muttered, as he flew through an underground tube in a pneumatic car, along with a dozen of his fellow passengers from Terra. They had just filed out of the liner from Luna and up to the datawall. Father Al had found his entry, and seen that the ship to Beta Cassiopeia was leaving at 17:23 GST, from Gate 11 of the North Forty terminal. Then he’d looked up at the digital clock and seen, to his horror, that it was 17:11, and he was in the South 220 terminal.