The warlock unlocked (2 page)

The Pope threw up his hands. “Why not? Anything is possible—and nothing probable, when you’ve so little information. But we checked his PIB bio. He’s a younger son of a cadet branch of an aristocratic house on a large asteroid called ‘Maxima.’ He had a short but varied career in the space services, culminating in his enlistment in the Society for the Conversion of Extra-terrestrial Nascent Totalitarianisms…”

“The what?”

“I don’t think I could say it again,” His Holiness sighed. “It seems to be a sort of government bureau that combines the worst aspects of both exploration and espionage. Its agents are supposed to seek out the Lost Colonies, decide whether or not their government is headed towards democracy and, if it’s not, put it onto a path that will eventually evolve a democracy.”

“Fantastic,” Father Al murmured. “I didn’t even know we had such a bureau.”

“Any government that’s overseeing three-score worlds should have a bureau that just keeps track of all the other bureaus.” His Holiness spoke from personal experience.

“I take it, then, that this Rodney d’Armand discovered a Lost Colony on Gramarye.”

“Yes, but the Lord only knows which one,” the Pope sighed. “You’ll notice that the PIB sheet doesn’t tell us anything about the inhabitants of the planet.”

Father Al looked. Sure enough, any human information on the planet was summed up in one word at the bottom of the page: CLASSIFIED. It was followed by a brief note explaining that the planet was interdicted to protect its inhabitants from exploitation. “I’d guess it’s a rather backward culture.”

Excitement thrilled through Father Al’s veins—were they backward enough to still believe in magic?

“Backward, indeed.” The Pope peered at another paper on his desk. “We checked our own data bank, and found we did have an entry on the planet—just a very brief report, from a Cathodean priest named Father Marco Ricci, that he’d accompanied an expedition by a group calling themselves the ‘Romantic Émigrés.’ They found an uncharted, Terra-like world, seeded a large island with Terran bioforms, and established a colony, four or five hundred years ago. Father Ricci requested permission to establish a House of the Order of St. Vidicon of Cathode—your own Order, I believe, Father Uwell.”

“Yes, indeed.” Father Al tried not to let his disappointment show; the Cathodeans had to be engineers as well as priests. No planet could be toobackward, if they were there. “Was he granted permission?”

His Holiness nodded. “So it says; but apparently the Curia was never able to convey the news to him. The Interstellar Dominion Electorates fell about that time, and the Proletarian Eclectic State of Terra was established. As you know, one of the first thingsPEST did was to lose the Lost Colonies. There was no way to communicate with Father Ricci.”

“Well, that’s hopef… I mean, that might create problems.”

“Yes, it might.” The Pope fixed him with a glittering eye. “We may have another splinter sect there, calling themselves Roman Catholics, but out of touch with us for centuries. No telling what heresies they’ll
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have dreamt up in that time.” He sighed. “I’d hoped to have a rest from that sort of thing for a while.”

Father Al knew what the Pope meant. Just before he’d been elevated to the Chair of St. Peter, Cardinal Kaluma had conducted the negotiations with the Archbishop of Burbank, a Lost Colony that had been found about twenty years before. They’d managed to keep the Faith fairly well, except for one heresy that had taken firm root: that plants had immortal souls. It turned out to be a fundamental point of doctrine onBurbank , since the whole planet was heavily involved in botanical engineering, with the goal of creating chlorophyll-based intelligence. The talks had become rather messy, and had ended with the establishment of theChurch ofBurbank . Its first act had been to excommunicate the Church of Rome. His Holiness hadn’t been quite so drastic; he’d simply declared that they were incommunicado, and that theChurch ofBurbank could no longer really be said to be Roman Catholic. A shame, too. Other than that, they’d been so sane…

“I will be discreet, Your Holiness, and only report accurately what I discover.”

“Oh?” The Pope fixed Father Al with an owlish eye. “Are you going somewhere?”

Father Al stared at him for a moment.

Then he asked, “Why else would you have sent for me?”

“Quite so,” His Holiness sighed, “I admit to the decision. It rankles, because I have no doubt that’s what this McAran intended.”

“Have we any choice, really?” Father Al asked quietly.

“No, of course not.” The Pope frowned down at his desktop. “A letter that’s been lying in the vaults for a thousand years acquires a certain amount of credibility—especially when its sender has managed to accurately predict the reign-name of the Pope. If McAran could be right about that, might he not be right about this ‘wizard?’ And whether the man is really a wizard or not, he could do great damage to the Faith; it has never proven terribly difficult to subvert religion with superstition.”

“It’s so tempting to believe that you can control the Universe by mumbling a few words,” Father Al agreed.

“And too many of those who are tempted, might fall.” The Holy Father’s frown darkened. “And, too, there is always the infinitesimal chance of actually invoking supernatural powers…”

“Yes.” Father Al felt a shadow of the Pope’s apprehension. “Personally, I’d rather play with a fusion bomb.”

“It would do less damage to fewer people.” The Pope nodded. Pope John XXIV stood up slowly, with the dignity of a thundercloud. “So. Take this with you.” He held out a folded parchment. “It is a letter in my hand, directing whoever among the clergy may read it, to render you whatever help you require. That and a draft for a thousand Therms, are all the help I can send with you. Go to this planet, and find this man Gallowglass, wherever he is, and guide him to the path of the Lord as he discovers his wizardry, or the illusion of it.”

“I’ll do my best, Your Holiness.” Father Uwell stood, smiling. “At least we know why this man McAran
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sent his letter to theVatican .”

“But of course.” The Pope smiled, too. “Who else would’ve taken him seriously?”

There was a crash, and the tinkle of broken glass.

“Geoffrey!” Gwen cried in exasperation, “if I have told thee once, I have told thee twenty times—thou must not practice swordplay in the house!”

Rod looked up from Gerbrensis’s Historie of Gramaryeto see his smaller son trying to hide a willow-wand sword behind his back, looking frightened and guilty. Rod sighed, and came to his feet. “Be patient with him, dear—he’s only three.”

“ ‘Tis thy fault as much as his,” Gwen accused. “What business has so small a lad to be learning o’

swordplay?”

“True, dear, true,” Rod admitted. “I shouldn’t have been drilling Magnus where Geoff could watch. But we only did it once.”

“Aye, but thou knowest how quickly he seizes on any arts of war. Here, do thou speak with him, the whilst I see to the mending of this vase.”

“Well, I didn’t know it then—but I do now. Here, son.” Rod knelt and took Geoff by the shoulders, as Gwen knelt to begin picking up pieces, fitting them together and staring at the crack till the glass flowed, and the break disappeared.

“You know that was your mother’s favorite vase?” Rod asked gently. “It’s the only glass one she has—and glass is veryexpensive, here. It took Magnus a long time to learn how to make it.”

The little boy gulped and nodded.

“She can mend it,” Rod went on, “but it’ll never be quite as good as it was before. So your Mommy won’t ever have it looking as nice as it did before. You’ve deprived her of something that made her very happy.”

The little boy swallowed again, very hard, and his face screwed up; then he let loose a bawl, and buried his face in his father’s shoulder, sobbing his heart out.

“There, there, now,” Rod murmured. “It’s not quiteas bad as I made it sound. She canmend it, after all—psi-witches have an advantage that way, and your mother can manage telekinesis on a veryfine scale—but it wasvery naughty, wasn’t it?” He held Geoff back at arm’s length. The little boy gulped again, and nodded miserably. “Now, buck up.” Rod pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed at Geoff’s cheeks. “Be a brave boy, and go tell your Mommy about it.” Geoff nodded; Rod turned him toward Gwen, gave him a pat on the backside, then stood back to watch.
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Geoff toddled over to Gwen, stood mute and apprehensive until she was done melding the last piece back in place, then lisped, “I sorry, Mommy. Di’t meanto.”

Gwen heaved up a sigh that said chapters, then managed a smile and tousled his hair. “I know thou didst not, my jo. ‘Twas happenstance; still, when all’s said, thou didstbreak it. ‘Tis why I have told thee to keep thy swordplay out of doors. So thou wilt ever keep thy manly arts out of housen from this day forth, wilt thou not?”

Geoff nodded miserably. “Yes, Mommy.”

“And thou wilt obey thy mother henceforth?”

“Uh-huh… But, Mommy!” he cried, in a sudden wail of protest, “was raining!”

Gwen heaved a sigh. “Aye, and I know, thou couldst not go out of house. Yet still, jo, ‘twas then time to draw up thy pictures.”

Geoff made a face.

Gwen bent an accusing eye at Rod.

He looked around, frantically, then pointed to himself, with an incredulous look. Gwen leaped up and marched over to him… “Aye, thee! How many times hast thou said thou wouldst show him the drawing of a moated keep? That, at least, he would draw—once, and again, and a thousand times! Wilt thou not do it?”

“Oh, yeah!” Rod slapped his head. “I didn’t really haveto do research this morning. Well, better late than never…”

They both whirled around at an explosion of wailing, screaming, and angry barking. Magnus had come in from the boys’ room and found the evidence. He stood over little Geoff, waving a heavy forefinger down from the height of his eight years of life-experience. “Nay, ‘twas foully done! To break a present to our Mother that I was so long in the crafting of! Eh, little Geoffrey, when wilt thou learn…”

And Cordelia had sailed in to Geoff’s defense, standing up to her big brother from five years’ age and forty inches’ height. “How durst thee blame him, thou, who didst bar him from his own room…”

“And mine!” Magnus shouted.

“And his! Where he might have played to’s liking, with hurt to nought!”

“Be still, be still!” Gwen gasped. “The baby…”

On cue, a wail erupted from the cradle, to match Geoffrey’s confused bawling.

“Oh, children!” Gwen cried in final exasperation, and turned away to scoop up eleven-month-old Gregory, while Rod waded into the shouting match. “Now, now, Geoff, you haven’t been thatnaughty.
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Magnus, stop that! Scolding’s myjob, not yours—and giving orders, too,” he added under his breath. “