Quicksilver's Knight
Christopher Stasheff
ISBN: 0-441-00229-3
CHAPTER 1
Geoffrey had decided that it was very boring being the son of a nobleman—especially the second son, even if the first was away from home. It was even more boring if the only thing you were really good at was war, and nobody was obliging you by attacking your king. He would have settled gladly for even a nice pocket war, a tidy little rebellion in some distant corner of the kingdom of Gramarye, with a few good battles, some privations to endure and trials of will and muscle, feasting and celebrating after the victory—Geoffrey had no doubt that with him on the King's side, the rebellion would end in victory.
Unfortunately, the rest of the kingdom seemed to have no doubt about that, either—or perhaps it was just King Tuan's twenty-five-year record of winning every battle he had fought, especially with the Gallowglass family on his side. If Geoffrey couldn't win single-handedly, his parents, brother, and sister could certainly tip the scales in his favor.
So, all in all, it wasn't too surprising if nobody wanted to start a war—and, to keep himself from going crazy with inaction, Geoffrey had volunteered to be royal troubleshooter. When the King didn't come up with enough troubles to shoot, he took to the roads as a knight-errant. Again, though, his bad luck held—all he had to do was ride into a county, and the bandits instantly faded away into some other district. The lords began a startling program of reform, ceasing oppression and moving toward enlightened government; they stopped exploiting the peasants and began just and humane rule.
Which left Geoffrey with nothing to do but indulge himself in his only other really strong interest—wenching. Which is why he was currently in the hayloft with a particularly luscious and tempting morsel named Doll, caressing experimentally, to determine which stroke elicited the largest number of gasps, and beginning to coax her out of her bodice. Of course, he was minimizing the possibility of her objecting by seeing to it that her mouth was fully occupied with his own, and was distracting her with a particularly ardent kiss as he began to untie her lacings when a voice like the mew of a seagull called, "Young warlock!"
The girl froze, and so did Geoffrey, cursing darkly within his mind. Then he lifted himself away, giving her a tender and reassuring smile—rather necessary, since she was staring up at him with incipient panic as the voice called again, "Warlock Geoffrey! Come, sir, speak!"
"You are a warlock, then?" Doll whispered. "I am," Geoffrey sighed.
She relaxed, eyes half-closing, her smile returning, sultry and inviting. "Then work magic upon me, young sir." She wriggled to emphasize her words.
Geoffrey caught his breath, and was about to accept the invitation when the voice demanded, "There are folk in need, Sir Geoffrey! Remember your oath of chivalry!"
"A warlock, and a knight too," Doll murmured.
"A double curse," Geoffrey sighed, "if it must take me from your arms. Bide, though, and let us see if I may not send this small messenger packing."
"Small? How can you know that?"
"By the quality of his voice." Geoffrey rolled away from her and sat up in the hay, looking about.
"Up here, knight!"
Geoffrey looked up, and there upon a roof beam stood a foot-high mannikin, only a few feet above his head in the loft. The girl gasped and wrapped her arms about her torso, even though she was still fully clothed.
"Oh, be at peace, child! We of the Wee Folk have seen it all—so many times as to be wearied with it," the elf said with disdain. "Warlock, I am sent to summon thee to The Chief."
"The King of the Elves?" Doll gasped.
"Nay, only The Chief," the elf corrected. "He hath action for thee, warlock, an thou dost wish it."
"I was engaged in action that I did wish to pursue," Geoffrey grumped. "Can he not wait an hour or so?" Doll glanced from the elf to the warlock and back, looking very wary and not entirely sure about the enterprise. She was past second thoughts and heading into thirds. Geoffrey saw, and his hormones beat all the harder. "Surely whatever's amiss will not miscarry worse for a few minutes' wait!"
"Mayhap not, but The Chief will," the elf reminded him. "Thou dost know his moods."
Geoffrey smiled up at the elf, amused. "Do you say I should fear the Puck?"
The girl gasped and flinched away from him.
"A pox on this mode of speech that hath afflicted thy generation," the elf sighed. "Canst thou not say 'thee' and 'thou' like an honest citizen?"
"Perhaps I can say them, though as to my honesty, you shall have to judge for yourself," Geoffrey countered. "Surely one who honors Robin Goodfellow as chief would not be overly concerned with truth."
"We are, though not in the fashion in which you mean it," the elf snapped.
Geoffrey nodded slowly. "No wonder you think that I should fear him."
"I do," Doll assured him.
Geoffrey turned to caress her cheek gently. "Aye, poor lass! I have wronged you, to seek your favors when I was such a fearsome beast. Nay, here will I leave you, that you may have no fear of the Wee Folk further."
"I do not mean that you should go," she said in alarm. "But I must," Geoffrey sighed, "or the Puck shall blame you for my tardiness—and I would not wish his ill will on any mortal who has no defense of magic. Perhaps we shall meet again, pretty wanton. I shall hope for it, for my body rages at me for breaking off this encounter."
"As does mine, Sir Geoffrey!" She caught his hand with both of hers, pulling. "Nay, bide awhile. I will risk the Puck's wrath, for the delights we may share!"
Her tone made Geoffrey's blood pound in his veins, but he summoned his warrior's self-discipline and disengaged her hands gently but firmly. "Nay, for I'd not forgive myself for what he would do to you. When your ardor has cooled and clear judgement has returned, you shall thank me for leave-taking. But I go to danger, I always go to danger, so do not await my return."
"You must not go, then!" she cried, reaching for him again.
"But I must." He avoided her grasp deftly, then knelt suddenly to kiss her—fleetingly, arousing more than he soothed. "Yet if I should chance to come back, and you are still unwed, perhaps we can begin the dance anew. Farewell, sweeting! Find a strong husband, for he'll need great endurance!" And he was gone before she could plead another excuse for delay—he was gone, leaping over the side of the loft into a mound of hay below, and striding out the door of the barn, still buckling on his swordbelt.
Doll glared after him, slamming a little fist into the pile of hay beside her. Now that he was gone from sight, she let her temper have its full, savage sweep, pummelling the mound about her, leaping up to lash kicks at the unoffending straws, not daring to shout her curses and imprecations for fear he would hear, but loosing them in a steady stream of hisses.
It wasn't just a release of a surge of frustrated hormones, though there was much of that to her vehemence—it was also anger and fury at one more plot that had miscarried, once again due to the interference of the Wee Folk. Handfuls of hay went flying through the air, but without the aid of hands, for Doll was an esper, gifted with quite a few psionic talents, among them telekinesis. She could move objects just by thinking at them, and in her rage she moved quite a few. Milking buckets and old horseshoes went clattering against the walls; a pitchfork hurled itself with such vehemence that it buried its prongs in a beam. She was having a full-fledged tantrum, and it felt very good.
Doll was really Central Agent Finister, the head of the Gramarye office of the Society for the Prevention of Integration of Telepathic Entities. SPITE was Geoffrey's hereditary foe, since it was the enemy of his father—but it was nothing personal; SPITE was really just the enemy of everything his father stood for.