The Secular Wizard

by Christopher Stasheff

  And if he might have overlooked it, maybe the manticore had, too—assuming that whatever sort of magical homing sense it had couldn't pinpoint him too exactly.

  Which was quite a big assumption.

  Too big.

  Matt came tiptoeing up out of the cleft on its far end muttering a verse that ought to stop any attackers, just in case—and a yowl of triumph filled the air as an extra couple of crescents flashed in the sky.

  "Creep in a petty pace from now till day!" Matt shouted as he leaped back into the gully. "In halting syllables of unrecorded time!" He sprinted back toward the Merovencian border, not daring to look back until he shot out the other end of the drawlet. Then he whirled to look back, just as the yowl ended in a curse as the monster hit the ground. It bounded up again instantly, heading straight for him—but it moved so slowly that before its hind legs had fully cleared the earth, it had time to shout, "I shall be revenged! My master shall banish this spell in an instant!"

  "Just glad I had it ready to shout," Matt said with a shudder. He turned his back and walked away, leaving the manticore suspended in midair. Twenty feet more and he heard a sudden thud and a yowl of victory, followed by a SPLAT! and a howl of rage. Matt could almost see the manticore suddenly speeding up to normal, landing, and charging straight at him, but slamming into the Wall of Octroi again. He kept going. If King Boncorro was so determined not to have fellow magicians come visiting, maybe Matt ought to let him have his own way and be lonely—at least, intellectually.

  But he didn't quite have it in him to quit. It was that same dogged persistence that had brought him to Merovence in the first place—he wouldn't stop trying to translate an untranslatable fragment of manuscript, had just kept repeating its syllables over and over again until they had made sense—and he had found himself in an alien city, understanding a language that had never been spoken in his own universe of universities and political offices for out-of-work actors. Now, for the same reason, he kept prowling about the border, feeling weariness drag at him more and more heavily—but every time he looked south around another rock, there stood the manticore, glaring balefully at him with glowing eyes and glinting teeth. The sky lightened with false dawn as Matt's eyelids weighted with fatigue—so he wasn't looking where he was going, or stepping as lightly as he might have, which was no doubt why he tripped over something that jerked bolt upright with a shout of fear and alarm.

  "Sorry, sorry!" Matt backed away, holding up both palms in a placating gesture. "I didn't mean to wake you, didn't mean to trip over... Pascal!"

  "Why, it is the Knight of Bath!" Pascal threw his blanket back, rubbing his eyes. "How came you here?"

  "Trying to cross into Latruria for a, uhm, visit, but I've got a stumbling block..."

  "Aye—my leg!"

  "I said I was sorry. Now it's your turn."

  "What—to say I am sorry?" Pascal stared, trying to decide whether or not to be offended.

  "No—to tell me what you're doing here!"

  "Ah!" Pascal nodded. "I, too, am seeking to cross into Latruria—for a visit."

  Matt smiled, amused. "Well, we seem to be going in the same direction. But why did you camp out on this side of the border?" He wondered if the young man had met the manticore, too.

  "There was no reason to hurry ahead, and there was a stream nearby," Pascal explained. "But why have you not yet crossed? You set out a day ahead of me!"

  "I've encountered a problem. What made you start right from the count's castle, instead of going home first?"

  "Ah." Pascal's face clouded. "As to that, there was some disagreement with my father."

  "Oh." Matt instantly pictured a howling fight, ending with a box on the ear followed by a slamming exit. "About... Charlotte?"

  "Aye. He was not happy to learn that I had told her I did not wish to marry. Her father, too, was angry, and had spoken ill of me to my own father."

  "He couldn't understand that not being in love is a reason for not marrying?"

  "Not when it was not he who would be doing the marrying," Pascal said bitterly. "He told me that folk do not fall in love, they grow to love one another, as he and Mother had. I asked him if that was why there had been so little joy in their marriage. 'Twas then that he struck me and I stalked out."

  "Afraid you might hit him, huh?"

  "Even so." Pascal looked up, surprised. "You have had an argument much like that?"

  "Several. My father didn't see any sense in studying literature. Your father did have one point, though—Charlotte's a pretty girl, and she certainly seems sweet."

  "Yes, she is!" Pascal said quickly. "A surer friend I could never hope for—but she is not the one I love."

  "Oh." Matt lifted his head slowly, pursing his lips. "Yes, that would make Charlotte less fascinating, wouldn't it? So your lady love lives in Latruria, and you're traveling south to see her. What did you say her name was?"

  "She is a lady of rarest beauty and grace." Pascal gazed off into the distance with a fatuous smile. "Her hair is golden, her eyes the blue of the sea, her face a marvel of daintiness and sweetness."

  "Sounds like love, all right." Personally, Matt thought Pascal was doomed to disappointment, if the girl really was that beautiful. The squire's son was downright homely, with a long face, thin lips, and gaunt cheeks. His only claim to attractiveness was his eyes, which were large, dark, and expressive. Frankly, Matt thought he'd been fantastically lucky to attract Charlotte as much as he had. Of course, her father's orders had helped... "How did you say you met this gem?"

  "At a gathering last summer. Our Latrurian cousins guested us—and I met Panegyra! One look, and I was transported!"

  Not far enough, Matt guessed. "Love at first sight, eh?"

  "Aye, and 'twas hard to find a moment to speak to her alone, so hemmed in was she with duennas and sisters and aunts! But I contrived—I bided my time and caught her in a quiet moment, with others far enough distant for me to tell her my name and praise her beauty. She laughed, calling it flattery—but I saw an answering spark in her eyes! She feels as strongly toward me as I toward her! I know it!"

  "Lovers know many things that are not true," Matt said slowly. "I seem to remember something about being cousins..."

  "Aye, somewhere low on our family trees—third cousins at least, more probably fifth or sixth. Surely it could not matter!"

  "Nothing does, to a lover—at least, not until after the wedding. So she hasn't told you she loves you, and you haven't proposed?"

  "Nay, but I am sure she does, and I shall!"

  "Seems pretty thin grounds for walking out on your family and heading south to see her."

  "But I must!" Pascal raised feverish eyes. "For yesterday, one of my southern cousins told me that sweet Panegyra has been betrothed! Nay, worse—she is to be wed within the month! I must stop her! I must tell her of my burning love, that she may turn away from this gouty old vulture her father would force upon her! I must save her from such a fate!"

  "Oh. He's older than she is, then?"

  "Aye—twenty years at least! A dotard with rotting teeth, a swag belly, and a breath like a charnel house, I doubt not! How could they entomb so sweet a breath of spring as Panegyra in so foul a marriage, and she but eighteen?"

  "Do you really think she'll just cut all her family ties and elope with you?" Matt asked gently.

  Pascal's shoulders sagged. "Nay, I fear not. What have I to offer, after all, save a gift for crafting verse, and a heart that would ever be true to her?"

  "And love," Matt said softly.

  "Love that should set the world afire! Love that should bind her to me forever! Love that should bear her aloft in bliss for all her life!"

  Matt felt the vein of poetry in the words, and that was no metaphor—he could feel magical forces around him twitch in response to even so mild a flight of structure in wording. It gave him a chill—he had met a poet who couldn't control himself, kept spouting verses at odd moments, and accidentally made some very strange things happen.
"Say—you do know how to write, don't you?"

  "Aye." Pascal turned to him in surprise. "Why do you ask?"

  "Just make sure that if you get hit with a sudden attack of verse, you write it down instead of speaking it aloud, okay? You do seem to realize that poetry isn't much of a basis for marriage, though."

  "Aye." Pascal's gaze lowered. "I am a poor choice, I know, for I have no money, no handsomeness of face or figure—and, now that I have rebelled against his tyranny, will no longer inherit my father's house and lands! Still, I hope to make my way in the world, to win fame and fortune—and if I can only persuade Panegyra to wait for me a year or two, I may prove worthy of her love!"

  Five years or ten, more likely—assuming the kid worked hard and had good luck. "But you have to reach her before the wedding."

  "Aye!" Pascal sprang up and rolled up his blanket. "There is not a moment to spare! I thank you for waking me, Sir Matthew—I must be off!"

  Well, Matt hadn't wanted to say it. "Hold on a minute, friend." He held up a cautioning hand. "You won't get very far, running on empty. How about a bit of breakfast first? Besides, you may find it's not all that easy to get into Latruria."

  "It shall be, for me! There is a clandestine route, one known only to a few families. I would not call it truly secret, but if the king's soldiers know of it, they certainly pay it no heed."

  "Oh, really?" Matt pricked up his ears. "Say, I've got some journey rations here. How about we pool breakfasts and I tag along when you go?"

  "Why, since you offer," Pascal said, surprised. "I own I came away in such haste that I brought only a loaf. Nay, let us become road companions, then!"

  "Great!" But Matt's conscience bothered him. "I do have a little problem, though. There's this monster that seems to have fixated on me, decided he's going to have me for lunch, no matter where I cross the border—and he has an uncanny knack of knowing exactly where I am."

  "A monster?" Pascal looked up, suddenly alert. "Is it a manticore?"

  Matt stared. "How'd you know?"

  "Because it has been long known to my family. Never fear, friend—I have an old family charm that will tame the beast."

  "A family charm!" Then Matt remembered. "That's right—you said your grandfather was a wizard. You mean you inherited his talent?"

  "What, a knack for crafting verses and the sensing of unseen forces?" Pascal said it almost contemptuously. "Aye, I do. All of my family have it, in one degree or another."

  "Magic as a dominant trait," Matt muttered, watching the young man as he knelt to feed the coals and blow them into flame. "How much do you have?"

  Pascal shrugged. "Enough to recite the old family spells and make them work—to summon brownies to the bowl of milk, that they may aid us; to kindle fire, banish warts, and suchlike."

  "Such—like getting rid of manticores?"

  "Only the one." Pascal held up his index finger. "It is almost kin, my family has known it so long—and if there were more than one manticore in that county, 'twould be surprising indeed."

  "Yes, I can see that." Matt frowned. "If there were two, one of them would gobble the other up. Uh, may I ask why you didn't include wizardry in your catalog of desirable traits for a suitor?"

  "Wizardry has been no advantage, in Latruria," Pascal said with a cynical smile, "not for many decades. Only sorcery is prized there—and I will be amazed if that state of affairs has changed greatly under King Boncorro's reign."

  Matt frowned. "So you're not interested in learning how to be a professional."

  "Nay." Pascal shrugged impatiently. "What use is magic? Who respects the wizard? My grandfather was such a one—and all it brought him was advancement to the rank of squire!"

  "You want to be something more, then." Of course the kid did—he'd been born a squire, hadn't he? No progress if he never became anything more.

  Pascal confirmed Matt's guess with a nod. "There is little respect in being a squire, Sir Matthew. As you yourself know, one must be a knight, at least, to have any true standing in this world."

  "Well, there's some truth in that," Matt admitted. In fact, there was a lot of truth—being dubbed a knight magically gave a man better judgment and the power to prevail against his competitors. People listened to knights, but not to wizards. Matt had found that out the hard way, when he first came to Merovence. "I take it your father couldn't become one, being the wrong kind of squire."

  "Oh, nay! A squire is a squire, after all, and he might have won his spurs—if he had wished to. But he was quite content to sit on his home acre, tending his peasants and watching them raise his crops."

  "You mean he never even tried?"

  "Never," Pascal confirmed. "But so little is not enough, for me! I shall have more, or die trying to attain it! Besides," he confided, "the fair Panegyra might look more favorably upon me if I were Sir Pascal!"

  Not much chance, Matt thought privately, unless some land and money went with the title—but he didn't say so.

  They broke Pascal's loaf between them, shared out some of Matt's beef jerky, and Matt introduced the young man to tea, which was brand new in Bordestang, Queen Alisande's capital. Matt guessed that some enterprising sea captains had found their way to China, and he wondered if those men came from Latruria, as they had in his own universe—where the peninsula was called "Italy."

  He expected he would find out very soon.

  They doused the fire and set off, Pascal actually whistling, now that he was on his way to the fair Panegyra, and Matt with a growing knot in his belly, now that he was on his way back to the manticore.

  Alisande's army stood gathered in the courtyard of her castle in the chill light of false dawn, shivering and grumbling to one another. "We have been waiting most of an hour already!" one soldier complained to his sergeant. "Did not the queen waken when we did?"

  " 'Tis no affair of yours when she rises or when she sleeps!" the sergeant barked. "It is your affair only to be on your feet and ready when she calls!" Privately, though, he wondered. The queen had never kept her troops standing about for more than a few minutes before. Had she really slept while they mustered?

  "The queen grows lazy," one trooper griped to another. "She would have us up and marching while she sits abed nibbling sweet biscuits."

  Food, however, was the farthest thing from Alisande's mind as her ladies supported her away from the basin toward an hourglass chair. "You must sit, your Majesty," Lady Constance crooned. "And whatever you do, you should not be riding when you are in so delicate a condition."

  "Condition?" Alisande forced herself to stand straight and tall, though the chair appealed to her mightily. "What condition? A moldy bit of cheese for supper last night, that is all!"

  "And the night before, and the night before?" said Lady Julia with a skeptical glance. "Tell that to the men, Majesty, but do not seek to cozen we who have borne children ourselves."

  Alisande deflated. Her ladies took the chance to ease her into a chair. "I have not deceived you for a moment, have I?" the queen muttered thickly.

  "Well, for a week or two," the elder lady allowed. "But a woman gains a certain glow when she knows there is new life within her, Majesty. The men notice it, but fools that they are, they think it is due to their own presence!"

  "Well, it is, in a way," Alisande muttered.

  "To more than their mere presence, I should think! But you know your husband will be overjoyed when he learns this glad news, Majesty—and sorely saddened if you should lose the babe while riding after him!"

  "I must," Alisande declared, though every fiber of her being cried out to stay home within the thick, safe walls of her castle and let all the silly affairs of the world go by, except for the single truly important business of cherishing the grain of life within her.

  But the babe must not be born fatherless!

  "I must ride." She lifted her head, rising above the residue of nausea by sheer willpower. "I let him go from me once—I shall not make that error again!"

  The lad
ies fell back before the sheer power of her personality, but the eldest objected, "The welfare of the kingdom requires an heir!"

  "The welfare of the realm requires the Lord Wizard!" Alisande retorted. "Do not ask me how I know this—it is the magic of this land, that monarchs know what is best for their countries and their people!"

  "Good monarchs, at least," one of the younger ladies murmured—to herself, she thought, but Alisande turned to her, nodding.

  "We all remember the days of the usurper Astaulf who slew my father and had no feeling for the welfare of the land or the people! We must not see such days come again!"

  "Therefore you must not risk yourself," Lady Constance scolded, "or the heir!"

  "I must." Alisande pushed herself to her feet. "If I do not, if I let myself be shorn of my wizard, the realm shall be imperiled. I must ride!"

  But how, Alisande wondered, would she ever fight a battle, if she was to start each morning with her head over a basin!

  The "clandestine route"—presumably known only to every smuggler in the territory—was really pretty good; it consisted of a series of caves, joined by sizeable tunnels. They had to be sizeable, after all, since the goal of developing the route had been to smuggle not people, but goods. Matt could see, by the light of his torch, the marks of pickaxes where some of the passages had needed a bit of widening—maybe more than a bit. But from a functional point of view, it was marvelous—Pascal led him behind a small waterfall on the Merovencian side of the border and into a cave that widened as they went farther in. They had to stop to light torches, of course, but there was a whole stack of them, with jars of oil to soak their tow-wrapped ends, sitting about ten feet in from the mouth of the cave—far enough to stay dry, close enough to still be in the light There was even flint and steel. All they had to do was open one of the jars, dunk the torch ends in, and strike a spark with the flint and steel—re-covering the jar first, of course. Then Pascal set off into the lower depths with Matt following, wondering how many of the royal customs agents on both sides of the border knew about this route. After all, a secret known to two people is compromised, and a secret known to three is no secret at all, so with this route being common knowledge to the border families, it was scarcely possible that the excise men wouldn't know about it—which led to the interesting question of why they ignored its use. At a guess, Matt hazarded, a trickle of trade was to the mutual advantage of both countries—after all, the Latrurian lords no doubt wanted Merovencian wines, and the aristocracy of Merovence probably prized the spices and silks brought in by Latrurian merchants. On the other hand, open and widespread commerce would have robbed the royal exchequers of tariff income.