The Warlock in Spite of Himself - Warlock 01 by Cristopher Stasheff

massive oak door was the only sound piece of wood in sight, and even it was sagging.
    'Ah, they tolerate your behavior here?' Rod asked, surveying the stagnant courtyard as Tuan knocked on the door with the hilt of his dagger.
    'Tolerate, yes,' said Tuan, 'though even their hospitality is sometimes strained.'
    Rod felt a chill between his shoulder blades and wondered just what kind of mild-mannered youth he'd run into.
    Tuan knocked again. Rod wondered that he expected an answer; not a gleam of light showed through the sagging window boards. By the look of it, the place must be totally deserted.
    But the door began to move, and groaned that it was going on strike for an oil break, till it was open just wide enough to admit the two men.
    'Your host,' said Tuan cheerily, 'the Mocker.'
    A gnarled, hunched, desiccated travesty of a human being peered around the door, making gobbling sounds in its throat. One ear was cauliflower, and the other was gone; a few strands of greasy hair straggled over a scabby skull. The nose was bulbous, the mouth a slash in a mass of warts, the eyes malevolent, gleaming slits. It was dressed in a collection of tatters and patches that might once have laid claim to being a doublet and hose, sagging badly on the scarecrow figure. The troll scurried away into the foul-smelling dark of its lair. Tuan strode through the door, following. Rod took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and looked back over his shoulder to make sure Fess was still standing there, by the fountain, head lowered in a good imitation of a horse grazing. For a moment, Rod envied the robot his ability to cut off his olfactory receptors.
    Then, lifting his chin, he followed Tuan into the inn. The door ground shut behind him; there was a scurrying sound as the Mocker ran ahead to open another door.
    This one opened easily, slammed back against the wall, flooding them with a blaze of torchlight and gales of coarse, bawdy laughter. Rod stared.
    They stepped through the door, and Rod looked about him. It was a great common room, with four roaring open fires and score upon score of torches bracketed along the walls. Roasting meat hung over the fires; waiters wove their way through the crowd with tankards of ale and wine from two huge, flowing kegs that dominated the far side of the room. The clientele were the lees of the city. Their clothes were crusted, patched castoffs. Their bodies bore the marks of primitive justice: this one was missing an ear, that one an eye. Their faces were disfigured and scarred by disease. Yet here in their own den they roared merrily, all of them grinned, though malice glinted in their eyes as they looked at Rod.
    But the malice faded, was transmuted into something almost like worship, as they looked at young Tuan.
    'It is said,' and the boy smiled, 'that there is no honor among thieves; but there is at least kinship here, among the beggars of Gramarye. Welcome, Rod Gallowglass, to the House of Clovis.'
    The hair at the base of Rod's skull prickled. He remembered the torchlight mob he had seen on the waterfront the night before. His eyes widened; he stared at Tuan. He couldn't be. He couldn't be. Oh, but he could. Yes, he could.
    Tuan McReady was the young rabble-rouser who'd been haranguing the mob to march on the castle.
    This apple-cheeked, wholesome youth was top rat in the local sewer. The crowd broke into a raucous, cheering clamor, welcoming their Galahad. Tuan grinned and waved. A slight flush crept up from his collar. He seemed almost embarrassed by the reception. He led Rod to a dark corner at the back of the hall. He hadn't said a word to the Mocker, but two steaming mugs of mulled wine thumped down on the table almost as they sat. The landlord scuttled away without pay. Rod watched him go, one eyebrow lifted in cynicism. He turned to Tuan.
    'You don't use money here?'
    'None.' Tuan smiled. 'All who come to the House of Clovis bring what little money they have. It is put into a common chest, and