The Secular Wizard

by Christopher Stasheff

  He turned back to the high table just as Count d'Arrete was saying, "There is a feeling of continuity, cousin, of connection with one's ancestors, that can only be gained from living where they lived."

  "Quite so, quite so!" Puvecci nodded earnestly. "And when I feel the need for that, I go back to spend a night or two there."

  "Alone?" the Countess d'Arrete gasped.

  Puvecci gave her a condescending grin. "I know, I know, one is never alone among the ghosts of one's ancestors—or among one's soldiers, for I must needs keep guards posted there; it is, after all, my stronghold, and gives command of the valley. But our new white marble palazzo is far more appealing."

  "You must come visit us!" the Contessa Puvecci gushed. "I have found the cleverest painter you can imagine, to adorn our walls with murals and frescoes of the heroes of ancient Reme, and of their goddesses and gods!"

  "The marble was expensive," the Conte said expansively, "but when one is building for the ages, one must not stint."

  Count d'Arrete managed to keep his smile, but it was hard. "Your lands must produce most amazingly."

  "They do, they do! Our young King Boncorro was right, insisting that we leave the peasants a larger share of the crop—for it gave them reason to labor with greater zeal! And, of course, leaving his lords so much more of our land's produce gives us far more to work with." Conte Puvecci kept nodding. "He is a good king, a good king! And I think he will grow to be even better."

  Matt didn't have to be a mind reader to know that d'Arrete was suddenly finding flaws in Alisande's reign that he had never thought of before.

  "I could not truly say life was one continual celebration at King Boncorro's court," Puvecci's son Giancarlo was telling Sir John, Captain of the Guard. "He does demand that we rise before noon to practice at swordplay and tilting, and has each of us oversee the work of some reeve in a distant province, watching the clerks verify the reeve's reports and accounts. He also insists that each of our corps take its turn in patrolling the city at night—so there is very little theft or murder or rape, and it is almost true that even the most lowly born woman may cross the town at night without danger."

  "Almost," the count's son, Camano, grated.

  Giancarlo shrugged. "There are always accidents."

  "Are you never tempted to be those accidents, cousin?"

  Giancarlo answered with a slow grin. "Why should we? Where did you think those lowborn women were coming from so late at night, cousin?"

  "The duchesses hold gatherings every evening," said Lady Sophia, the Puveccis' daughter, "and there is always fizzy wine, and dancing, and song. And the gentlemen, cousin! The gentlemen are so gallant and so handsome as they vie for glory!"

  Lady Jeanette d'Arrete was almost green with envy. "Do all the young folk stay at his Majesty's court?"

  "All who can persuade their parents," Sophia said with a condescending laugh, "and that is nearly all. The king has built a whole range of apartments just for us; and I assure you there is much coming and going within that building!"

  "How far away are the men's apartments?"

  "Why, they adjoin ours, cousin, and there is even a passageway between the two buildings, for use in cold weather! The lady who cannot find a husband there is slow indeed!"

  Jeanette was already beginning to turn pale and sigh—while at the far end of the table, Camano glowered and smoldered.

  Of course, that could have just been the effect of the flickering light of the torches and candles—but Matt rather doubted that. He had been lucky in his seat assignment—he had to strain to hear what was going on at the high table, but hear he could, and he doubted that the expressions he was seeing on the faces of the younger d'Arretes had anything to do with the lighting.

  However, if the little flames helped to obscure the old trophies that the countess couldn't remove without violating tradition, they also helped obscure the signs of age among the mature ladies, who laughed and drank beside their husbands, and gave a glow to the cheeks of the younger women, gentry and common alike, and set a sparkle in the eyes of the young men who paid them court. The serving girls seemed almost as vibrant as the ladies, as they laughed and flirted with the young men. The butler and footmen, of course, did not have that privilege, but the candlelight nonetheless picked out the gleams in their eyes. It was a festive occasion indeed, and everyone was making merry.

  Which made Matt wonder about the morose young man to his left. He watched the joyous company with no sign of delight and seemed to brace himself every time he glanced across the table to the blushing young lady who was smiling and making eyes at him. When he did notice, he forced a smile, exchanged a few brief words with her, then glanced away and gazed moodily out over the throng. Each time, the shock of hurt showed in the girl's face, but it was quickly hidden as she turned to her neighbor with forced gaiety. Mart's heart went out to her, and finally, when she turned to her neighbor but found him engaged in conversation on his other side, then turned to her other neighbor but found him likewise engaged, Matt came to her rescue. "Take pity on a stranger, demoiselle, and tell me who these grand folk each may be."

  She looked up at him in surprise that quickly turned to gratitude. "Why, those known to me are the knights and neighbors of Count d'Arrete, sir, save for their daughter Jeanette and that young gallant who sits at the end of the high table and is Camano, their son."

  "You mean the one who's been giving me nasty looks all evening? What's the matter—doesn't he like strangers?"

  That brought a smile of amusement. "Nay, sir, unless they be female. But I think he is more affronted by Squire Pascal, who sits by you, than by yourself."

  The young man looked up with a guilty start. "Do you speak to me, damsel?"

  "No, sir, I speak of you." Finally, a flash of irritation showed in the girl's face, but was again quickly masked. "I was identifying you for your neighbor there; you do not seem to have introduced yourself to he who sits by you."

  "True enough—but then, neither has he introduced himself to me." The young man turned to Matt. "I am Pascal de la Tour, sir—not yet a squire, but only a squire's son—and this young lady is my neighbor, the Demoiselle Charlotte Espere. Our fathers would have us be betrothed, but have not asked our opinions in the matter."

  "Pascal!" Charlotte hissed, blushing furiously as she glanced to either side at her neighbors, who were, fortunately, still earnestly engaged in discussions that kept them turned away from her.

  "Be honest, Charlotte," Pascal sighed. "You have no great liking for me, though you do seek to be a dutiful daughter and discover love where it is not."

  Tears filled poor Charlotte's eyes. "It is cruel of you to speak so!"

  "Is it not strange?" Pascal gave Matt a hard smile. "I speak truth, as the Bible says we should—and folk censure me for it!"

  "The truth can be hurtful," Matt countered, "and that the Bible does not enjoin—at least, not in the New Testament."

  Pascal's eye kindled with interest—or was it delight in a challenge? "Must we choose between two sins, then? Lying, or cruelty?"

  "Not unless you're asked for your opinion," Matt answered.

  Pascal abruptly lost interest. "You have no more concern for truth than anyone else, I see." He turned away, letting his gaze roam over the room.

  Matt contained his indignation at the slight and turned to lean across the table, speaking as low as he could and still be heard by the teenager across from him. "I think you should be grateful for his churlishness, demoiselle. At least, this way, you're not apt to wind up in a loveless marriage—and your father can't really blame you."

  "He will find a way." But Charlotte looked surprised, as if she hadn't really thought of the consequences. "I thought that if two married, love would grow."

  "Not that I've ever seen—and I can think of a lot better reasons for marriage than joining two estates that happen to border each other." Matt glanced up at the high table, looking for a change of subject. "Is that the count's cousin, then?" />
  Charlotte seemed as glad for the diversion as he. "Yes, that is the Conte Puvecci, with his wife, and his son and daughter."

  Matt smiled without mirth. "I'll wager there sits another young lady whose parents are going to try to marry her off to strengthen the family."

  "To Camano, you mean?" Charlotte looked startled. "I had not thought... but now that you speak of it, perhaps..."

  "I feel sorry for her."

  "You say that, and you do not even know Camano?" The demoiselle turned back to him with a smile. "Of course, I do not, either—but what I have heard of him is enough for me to pity her, too." Her eyes went wide and round. "But I speak of myself, do I not?"

  Matt gusted breath in relief. "Yes, except that you don't have to worry about your current trap. Churlish or not, Pascal seems to be getting you out of that."

  "So he does!" Charlotte turned with a smile. "Thank you, Pascal!"

  Pascal's head snapped around, staring in surprise. "For what, Charlotte?"

  "For being yourself." Charlotte dropped her napkin and stood. "Come, the fiddlers have struck up a reel, and other folk have gone out to dance! Let us join them!"

  Pascal hesitated, looking wary.

  "It's a peace offering." Matt gave him an elbow in the ribs. "Get out there and dance with her, you clod!"

  Pascal turned on him, fire in his eye.

  "She's been your friend all through childhood, hasn't she?" Matt snapped.

  That took the heat out of Pascal's anger. "Aye... if a girl can be a friend to a boy."

  "You know she was, as much as she could be." Matt didn't know anything of the kind, but he liked Charlotte already and didn't see how Pascal could not have liked the girl—until he'd felt threatened. "Get out there and make your peace with her—and don't be surprised if you find a way to make a definite end to the whole problem."

  Pascal turned wary again. "How can I? Our fathers—"

  "They aren't apt to force you if you're both really dead set against it—and the way you've been behaving, a saint would be dead set against you."

  Pascal's head reared back, affronted.

  "I thought you coveted truth," Matt jibed. "Go make your peace. In this world, we need all the friends we can get—and in the next one, too."

  "There's some truth to that." Pascal put down his napkin and rose. "One dance, then."

  "That should be all it takes."

  Matt watched them go, heaving a sigh. If only the problem of mass discontent could be solved so easily!

  Nearby, he heard some of the young gentry muttering to one another. "They talk as if their lives are constant festival! Oh, so they serve a few hours' duty each day—what matter?"

  "Not even that, for the ladies," a young woman said.

  "And they are among their own kind!" another youth exclaimed. "They are among folk of their own age and class, with no parents to order them about, living all together with no troubling from the king!"

  "Wherefore is he so generous?" another girl wondered, but her voice was buried in the marveling. "A constant round of dressmakers and gatherings!"

  "A constant round of flirting with ladies and wenching with wantons!"

  "A constant round of drink and song!"

  Matt reflected gloomily that he had been right—Alisande needed to start a university. He wondered how quickly he could get it up and running.

  "My parents must let me go to the queen's capital!" one pretty young maid proclaimed.

  "They will not." Another like her sat sulking. "They will say the expense is too great, and I can do well enough wedding Squire Knocknee our neighbor!"

  "Squire Knocknee! Why, he is forty if he is a day, and fat and balding, and half his teeth are gone!"

  "Aye, and his breath is putrid," the girl said bitterly. "Only think! These young ladies of Latruria can circulate among handsome young bucks with sweet breath, and find themselves husbands for love, not their parents' convenience!"

  "So might we, if Queen Alisande would allow it," her brother grumbled.

  "Where is she to get the money?" his friend said with sad practicality.

  "Where does King Boncorro get his?"

  "Aye, and why is he willing to spend it on the young?"

  "Why, because he is himself young, and does not wish to be surrounded by antiques!"

  "The queen is young, too."

  "Aye, but she is married already," a young girl said bitterly. "Married, and with a kingdom in hand—and therefore does she think like an agéd parent, not a young lass seeking love!"

  Matt bridled—she had sought love and found it, thank you! Maybe not the most romantic suitor in the world, but—

  He sawed back on his own reins. He wasn't the world's most romantic husband, was he? Maybe he needed to work on that...

  Pascal came back, chatting agreeably enough with Charlotte, but somewhat absentmindedly. She didn't seem to mind it this time, though. They took their seats again, and Matt asked, "Was I right?"

  "Hm?" Pascal looked up.

  "You can still be friends if you agree you're not going to get married."

  "Oh! Aye. My father will raise the roof, I doubt not—but Charlotte should be free of blame, since 'tis I who will not have the marriage."

  "Not completely free," Charlotte said darkly. "I doubt not Mother and Father will both rail at me for not being able to win your favor, good Pascal—but even as you say, it will be you who bears the brunt of it. I would I could aid you."

  Pascal shrugged. "If 'tis too strenuous, I shall simply leave home."

  Charlotte's eyes went wide. "Will your father allow that?"

  Pascal gave her a bleak smile. "If the quarrel goes as I suspect it shall, he will end by banishing me from his house."

  "I do not wish that!" Charlotte cried.

  "Nor do I, really," Pascal said slowly. "I would prefer to leave with his blessing—but leave I must."

  Matt didn't like the sound of this at all. "Why?"

  Pascal turned back to him, then glanced away uneasily. Charlotte looked up at him, giving his arm a reassuring squeeze, then said to Matt, "He loves another."

  Matt sat still for a minute.

  Then he said, "Oh."

  After that, he said, "That explains a few things."

  "Aye." Charlotte went misty-eyed. "If I had known that, I would never have been..." She hesitated.

  "Never have been hurt by his frostiness," Matt finished for her. "But how does that tie in with your wanting to leave home, Pascal?"

  The young man glanced quickly to either side, then sat down again. "The lady I love is my cousin—but she dwells in Latruria."

  "His fourth cousin." Charlotte, too, had taken her seat again, leaning forward in conspiratorial secrecy. "Once removed."

  "Perfectly legal and perfectly moral, then. But how did you meet her, if the border has been closed all these years?"

  "It has been open for the last few," Charlotte reminded him, "at least, to common folk and gentry."

  Pascal nodded. "Last summer both families met at long last and were again one family reunited—and I met Panegyra." He gazed off into space, a foolish smile coming over his face. "Oh, she is the picture of beauty itself, the loveliest and most gentle creature imaginable!"

  Charlotte looked down, clasping her hands, and her knuckles went white. Matt interrupted quickly. "Are you of the same station?"

  Pascal turned back to him, startled. "Aye—both children of squires, who were themselves children of squires."

  Matt frowned. "Nobody wanted to become a knight?"

  Pascal's smile thinned into bitterness. "My grandfather Aiello became a squire not by serving a knight, sir, but by virtue of having had a wizard for a father, before the evil king Maledicto usurped the throne."

  "Squire?" Matt frowned. "But wouldn't he have become a wizard in his own turn, not... Oh! Of course!"

  "Aye." Pascal nodded. "Under King Maledicto, white wizardry was banned, even those small magics that drew only slightly on the font of Goodness.
It was only by the grace of his lord that Grandfather Aiello became a squire, rather than a peasant or serf."

  "His lord's grace, and the money and land his father had accumulated?" Matt guessed.

  Charlotte smiled, amused. "If a man has land, you must either give him rank in proportion, or take it away from him."

  "And his lord was a good man who refused to confiscate." Matt nodded.

  "Perhaps," Pascal allowed, "though family legends speak of a debt owed... Well, no matter. The long and the short of it is that my father is a squire, and so is Panegyra's, but I can never become a knight, though she may become a lady." His tone was liquid—pure vermouth.

  "By marrying a knight, you mean."

  Pascal closed his eyes, shuddering. "Please! My nightmares are enough!"

  "I see your point," Matt agreed. "So you want to leave home to woo your cousin, and—"

  A blow rocked him. Matt looked up, glaring; that punch had hurt! But he was a knight, and chivalry restrained him until he knew whether it had been an accident or not.

  It was Camano, the Count d'Arrete's son, grinning down at him. "Your pardon, Sir Knight! I had not seen you there."

  "Seen him! Why, you stared directly at him from ten feet away!" Charlotte said indignantly.

  "As he might have, if he had any vestige of courtesy." Camano's grin hardened. "He might have given his hosts a glance, now and again."

  Matt knew very well that he had—and that Camano had been looking at him at least two of those times. But he was aware of the three young bloods at Camano's back with their hands on the hilts of their rapiers, and he chose his words carefully. "Your pardon, Sir Camano. I became so engrossed in your guests and the beauties of your great hall that I—"

  "Engrossed!" Camano cried, and two of the young bloods hooted. "Gross you must be indeed, to be so laggard in courtesy! And as to admiring the beauties, aye, I have seen your gaze roam to every beauteous young damsel in this place. Are you not ashamed, an old goat like yourself?"