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THE WARLOCK’S GRANDFATHER

by

Christopher Stasheff

Rory, 13th Count d’Armand, had lived long and prospered.  He had labored to achieve an illustrious career, if that can truly be said of anyone who spent all seventy-three of his years on a backwater asteroid, and never sought to retire.

Instead, he began to ignore the business.

“But, Pater,” said his heir Rupert, “the new line of automatons cannot be delayed any longer.  The prototypes have been approved by the Family Committee and await only your assent.”

“And the younger son and cousins are too timid to talk to the old man, so they’ve sent you to air their opinions?”

Rupert reddened.  “It is my duty and privilege as senior of my generation, sir.  Come, what is your judgment?  It is time to retool or reject.”

“I couldn’t say.”  The Count frowned.  “I really haven’t had time to study the schematics and blueprints.”

“You haven’t… had…?”

“You look quite handsome with so ruddy a complexion, son—you really should spend more time under the tanning lamps.  But no, I haven’t; there have been more important matters claiming my attention.”  He nodded toward the glowing screen that hung on the wall.

“Your manuscript, yes, I know.”  Rupert reflected that perhaps Mater’s death had stricken the old man harder than he had realized.  “But the factory is the source of our income, Pater.  Without it, there would be no money to support your literary endeavors.”

Rory frowned.  “I understand that quite well, son.  I have guided d’Armand Automatons for forty years.”

Rupert swallowed.  “My apologies, sir.  It is only that my priorities are, perhaps, somewhat other than your own.”

“I know—I was young once, myself.  I’ve matured, though, and come to feel the call of greater responsibilities.”

“But sir, we must produce new models or lose our share of the market!”

“And so we shall.”

“Which?”  For a crazy moment, Rupert was afraid his father was planning to scuttle the family business.  “Then you approve the new models?”

“Neither.”  The Count turned back to his screen.  “I simply haven’t time for such details.  Do look after them for me, won’t you, son?”

“Sir—are you asking me to assume responsibility for the entire operation?”

“What a splendid idea!  Please do, Rupert—take care of all matters relating to trade.  After all, you’ll have to do it sooner or later—why not while I’m still here to consult, eh?”

“A masterful plan,” Rupert agreed, feeling giddy with delight.

“So glad you agree.  Now, do be off and let me go back to work, eh?  There’s a good lad.”

“Quite surely, sir.”  And Rupert slipped out the door to give the master computer the go-ahead, and tell his wife Elaine the glorious news.

The Count watched the glowing blue print scroll past.

So Rupert took over the factory officially—he’d been doing it unofficially all year—and Rory devoted himself completely to his “scribbling,” as he called it.  Unfortunately, his style of composition seemed to involve a great deal of wandering about the castle, gazing off into space and muttering to himself.  It was slightly unnerving for his sisters and his cousins and his aunts, not to mention his nieces and grand-nieces, or his nephews and grand-nephews.  Whether it bothered his brother or not, could only be learned by a spirit medium, but informed opinion suggests that illustrious d’Armand was above caring about such trivialities, having removed his operations to a loftier plane, courtesy of a bad bout of pneumonia.

In brief, Rory was the only male member of his generation left, the last thorn upon the bush, as it were, so he may be forgiven—though that statement might have been disputed by Lady Mirthlis, who came around a corner one evening and almost bumped into the Count.  He was standing by a window and gazing out at the stars, muttering something under his breath.  “Well!” she exclaimed, somewhat taken aback.  “Your pardon, my lord.”

“Eh?  Oh!  Surely, surely.  Good day, Duchess.”  Rory inclined his head with an affable smile.  The lady curtsied, and they both turned away, the Count to continue gazing and muttering, the lady to continue on her way to the drawing room, wondering why Rory had addressed her as “Duchess” when her husband was only a baron.

On a similar occasion, Sir Lantren happened to encounter Count Rory as he was strolling through the west gallery, gazing off into space.  The baronet stopped for the obligatory salutation and few words of conversation.  “Greetings, milord!  And how do you fare today?”

“Fair indeed, Lord Lantren.  Have you come to shine upon our court?”

Sir Lantren puffed himself up a little, please and flattered.  “Oh, come now, milord.  ‘Tis good of you to notice my small triumph in the squash tournament.”

“Not at all, good sir!  So skilled a man as yourself lends luster to our Court of Granclarte!  But I see you are accoutered for encounter; pray do not let me detain you.  No, now, your opponent is waiting; be off with you, and may you fare well in the tourney!”  The Count inclined his head, and Sir Lantren returned the gesture, then hurried away to his match.  As the Count had guessed from the baronet’s attire, he was indeed on his way to a game of squash with Rupert, his host.  The old man’s memory was not what it was, though, to have thought a younger son of a younger son could be a lord; still, it was pleasant to hear the title now and again.  And if Sir Lantren should have had only a passing moment of puzzling at the Count’s referring to the squash court as “Granclarte,” it is not terribly surprising; Sir Lantren was the kind who dealt only with the here-and-now, and forebore speculation.

Of course, he also did not read, and consequently would not have noticed that, in Count Rory’s chronicle that night, there appeared an account of the quest of the Knight of the Lantern, who had come to seek illumination for the Court of the Kings.

But Count Rory’s absent-mindedness was scarcely so excusable when it was one of his own family whose title he misplaced.  Admittedly, his family was extended, perhaps even overextended, but one would have expected Count Rory to remember the proper title of his own son-in-law.

“It was quite remarkable,” Lord Blunt said to the heir and his wife, over coffee in their private apartments.

“Pater’s mind is definitely wandering, darling,” said Lady Florice.

“Not only his mind—it takes his body along.”  Lord Blunt shook his head in amazement.  “One never knows where one will come across him, nowadays.”

“Well, he has retired, milord,” Rupert said, feeling rather uncomfortable.  “I suppose he no longer feels constrained to be in any given place at any given hour.”

“Perhaps, perhaps,” Lord Blunt agreed.  “But really, to address me as an earl!  Surely he could remember that his son-in-law is a Marquis!”

“But of course.”  Lady Elaine showed a bit of pique; she was well aware that Florice had married up.  Of course, so had she herself, but that only made things worse.

“And what was that deal of blather about Fess being ‘an excellent squire’?”  Lord Blunt tended to rant a bit, when he was sure he wouldn’t be contradicted.  “And this nonsense about the wonderful weather we’re having?  On an asteroid!”

Rupert was looking extremely nervous, so his younger brother Robin spoke up.  “Pater has always lamented the lack of weather on Maxima, milord.”

“Particularly snow at Christmas time,” Lady Rose murmured.

Lady Elaine shot her a dark look and hurried to explain.  “The Count claims that the dearth of atmosphere robs us of one of the most time-honored of conversational topics.”