The Secular Wizard

by Christopher Stasheff

  "Majesty, how is this?" Rebozo cried, distressed. "A king should not concern himself with commerce, like a grubby tradesman!"

  "Every subject must be my concern," King Boncorro contradicted, "from those who grub in the dirt to those who command armies. The lifeblood of the land is trade, Rebozo. The peasants may raise the food for their noble masters, but it cannot feed the folk in the towns if it is not transported to them. The stomach may provide the nourishment, but it does no good if it is not carried to the limbs. If the kingdom is the body politic, the king may be its head—but the army and the artisans are its muscles, the peasants are its hands, and the merchants its blood. That blood has flowed but sluggishly under my father's rule. I have freed it to flow more freely, and do so again now—and the result will be more nourishment for me."

  "An excellent analogy," Rebozo said with irony, "but perhaps not accurate. Abolishing monopolies only means that the merchants shall have more nourishment, not you."

  "They shall pay their taxes if they wish to be let alone to trade. More well-to-do merchants will arise, even though they charge lower prices to the people who buy—for thereby, more people shall buy. More rich merchants means that there shall be more spending by merchants, which shall yield richer tradesmen and shall even allow some artists a living, and higher wages for peasants as more and more of them leave the land to become merchants or artisans. Thus shall there be more and more who pay taxes, and my revenues shall increase."

  "Well, you are a worker of magics." Rebozo carefully did not say what kind—primarily because he wasn't sure. "If you can make more money flow into your coffers by levying less, it is truly a wonder, and I must not argue with what I do not know. But how if the noblemen gather their armies and march against you, Sire?"

  "Then," Boncorro said, tense as a stretched cable, "I shall work some of those magics of which you have spoken."

  "You cannot slay a whole army by sorcery!"

  "Be not so sure, Lord Chancellor," the king said quietly. "However, slaying armies will not be needed—only slaying their masters."

  "You cannot slay dukes and counts out of hand!"

  "Why not? My grandfather did. Then, like him, I can replace them with men of my own choosing."

  "Their sons shall bring those same armies back on the instant!"

  "Then I shall slay the sons, too, and the grandsons, and the nephews, if I must—and all the noblemen know it. They have not yet even tested my resolve, nor, I think, will they. They know I am no saint, like my father, and fear that I may be as cruel and as powerful as my grandfather. No, Rebozo," he finished quietly, "I do not think they will rebel."

  Rebozo shivered again, for the tone of the young king's voice had been as remorseless and bereft of emotion as his eyes had been chill and flat. It was almost as if a man of stone had been talking, and Rebozo found that he—even he whom the king loved as much as he loved any—could not be sure whether or not King Boncorro could really rain down destruction on a rebellious army.

  He didn't doubt for a second, though, that Boncorro could and would slay every single one of his aristocrats if they sought to unseat him. He might not even have to turn to the power of evil magic, for every single one of the counts and dukes had been so deeply steeped in sin that Heaven surely must aid the young king in defeating them! In fact, it was a perfect summary of Boncorro's strategy—he would commit the sin of killing without the slightest tremor of conscience, and would thereby free his people to be good if they wished it. He would lighten their burdens of despair and fear and even give them grounds for hope—and would thus balance Good and Evil so neatly that surely the sources of magic must be confused as to which he was! In fact, Rebozo suspected that the king wasn't sure himself—or was determined not to be either.

  It was impossible, of course. No man could remain exactly half good and half evil for more than half a minute. As soon as he did one more act of good than he did of evil, he would begin the progress toward Goodness—and it would take an act of outright sin to counter it. True, Boncorro was determined not to fall into his father's fate any more than into his grandfather's—but his yardstick seemed to be the good of the people, and surely that must indeed lead him to Goodness eventually.

  Rebozo had to do something to prevent that. "If you are going to remove so many monopolies, your Majesty, you should balance them by instituting a new one."

  Boncorro stiffened, but he was caught by the word "balance." "What monopoly can I set up that will increase trade?"

  "A monopoly on prostitution. No, hear me out! Only think, Majesty—if brothels were legal, but maintained under a monopoly that held the condition that all prostitutes be free of disease in order to do business, more men would patronize them!"

  "Aye, to debase and abuse them!"

  Rebozo shrugged. "There will be prostitutes whether the law allows it or not, your Majesty—you know it well! Still, you could make it another condition of the monopoly that the women not be beaten by their pimps or procuresses, nor injured by their patrons! You could insist that any who treated them less than gently be hauled before a court—and you could station royal guardsmen within the houses to enforce that law! But you cannot impose any conditions as long as the trade is illegal!"

  "But more trade means that there will be more prostitutes," Boncorro said, frowning, "and that girls will be forced into it whether they wish to be or not!"

  "Come, Majesty," Rebozo wheedled. "If there shall be more money being spent, as you have said, there will also be more men wanting to buy an hour with a prostitute—and if there shall be more peasants leaving the land and coming to the cities, as you have indicated, there will be more girls drawn into the trade anyway! Why not have them all legally under your own eye, where you may at least insist they not be too heavily abused?"

  The king frowned, stuck for a comeback—it was an issue he had never really considered.

  "Besides, you know there are some women who really prefer that way of life," Rebozo said.

  "Or who choose it, at least." It was as good as a capitulation, even though Boncorro followed it with, "...though their number never has been adequate to fulfill the demands of my more depraved subjects. Still, you do make some sort of sense—the women would be better protected under the eye of a duke who is under my eye. I shall consider it, Rebozo."

  "I rejoice that my feeble counsel has been of use to your Majesty," the chancellor said, beaming. He bowed, thinking, A blow well-struck for corruption! He knew full well that the more twisted uses of prostitutes would continue to flourish illegally, as they did now—and that the king, by condoning prostitution of any sort, would be drawn toward the side of Evil. Indeed, convinced by Rebozo's arguments and bored with his own stable of beauties, he would sooner or later patronize some of those establishments of vice himself, the ones he was even now discussing. Done once, done a dozen times—then twenty, then a hundred. Then, as his sexual prowess began to decline with age, he would be drawn to the more depraved amusements in a desperate attempt to flag his failing powers. The long slide to damnation was well begun indeed, and Latruria would one day be as securely on the side of Evil as it was in the old days.

  Everybody likes being the center of attention, but Matt was just paranoid enough for it to make him a little nervous. He dismissed it as stage fright and called out, "Come, good people! Tales and lays, poems and sagas! Listen and lose yourselves in far and fabled lands!"

  They came flocking. "Tales from Merovence?" one shopper asked.

  "That's neither far nor fabled, but I have the newest stories and tales." Matt was sure they'd be very new—in this universe, anyway.

  "No songs?" one teenager asked, disappointed.

  Matt grinned. "I shall play the tunes and chant the words—but believe me, you do not wish to hear me sing."

  "True, true," Pascal murmured.

  Matt flashed him a mock glare. "You don't have to agree with me, you know."

  The crowd laughed, and Matt began to realize that Pascal could b
e a very good straight man. In fact, the two of them could really clean up at every wayside fair between here and—

  He wrenched his thought back to the present with a major effort. He was supposed to be a spy, not a real minstrel! The ham in him was carrying him away, like Peer Gynt with the Green-Clad One.

  "A tale of the far north!" he cried. "A story of the wanderer Peer Gynt, and his fall from virtue! Who would hear it?"

  The crowd clamored agreement, and some of them waved pennies. Pascal, quicker on the uptake than Matt would have thought, tossed his hat down at Matt's feet and pitched in a penny of his own. It was like seeding the clouds, and produced a positive hailstorm of coppers.

  "I am persuaded." Matt bowed with a flourish. He began to play "Morning Mood" from Grieg's Peer Gynt Suite, and intoned, "Peer Gynt was a lad of Norway, where the Vikings came from..."

  "The sea robbers?" a boy cried eagerly. This far south, the Vikings were only storybook villains. Matt wondered how the story would go over even farther south—say, near Sicily. Had the Normans conquered the island in this world, too? "He was of their blood, but was himself only a poor farm boy whose father had died when he was young. His mother had reared him as well as she might, but he was always willful, and somewhat wild. He liked to ramble the mountainside with a sling and stones, claiming he was hunting, but really daydreaming."

  The boy's eyes shone, and Matt realized the kid was hearing about a kindred spirit. Well, for him it would be a cautionary tale. "One day, when Peer Gynt was out hunting, he heard a wild pig's squeal—and looking up, he saw a woman. But what a woman! Her form was everything a man could dream of, and her gossamer green gown clung to her in such a way as to show every curve!"

  The women muttered, not liking the sound of this—was the minstrel going to say they should show themselves off? That was exploitation for those who did have figures worth looking at, but outright humiliation for those who did not! And the boy in front was beginning to look disappointed. Well, no matter, Matt decided—he would catch them all again when they got to the Hall of the Mountain King.

  He caught them sooner than that. "From the neck down she was the most lovely of women—but from the neck up, she was a sow! Aye, bristles, snout, pointed ears and all, the woman had a pig's head!"

  He went on, telling them of the Green-Clad One's seductive invitation, of their ride on the back of a boar to the Hall of the Mountain King with its elves and monsters, of their attempt to hold Peer there, and of his escape.

  When he finished, the audience let out a collective sigh.

  "What then?" the boy cried, his eyes huge.

  "Oh, that is a tale for another time," Matt said carelessly.

  The audience complained, disappointed—but one man called out, "Have you news of Merovence?"

  "News for news," Matt answered. "Tell me what moves in Latruria, and I'll tell you what transpires in Merovence! How fares your king?"

  "Boncorro is well, praise Hea—" The man caught himself and glanced around, desperate to be sure no royal spy had heard him. "—praise him! Rumor has it that he sent his men to chastise a knight who still demands that his serfs give him three parts in four of their crop!"

  "He has hanged a squire for raping a peasant's daughter!" a young woman said, eyes alight with triumph.

  "He has wounded our business," one man complained, "by cutting the taxes on brandy and wool and brocades that come from Merovence and Allustria, aye, even those that come through the country of the Switzers!"

  Matt frowned. "How does that hurt your business?"

  "Why, I now must charge less for the goods I bring in!" the man said indignantly, and the audience laughed. Matt finally got the joke—the man was a smuggler, and the legitimate merchants could now undersell him.

  "News for news!" the first man cried again. "How fares your queen?"

  "She is well, she is wed!" Matt cried.

  "That is old news," a woman scoffed. "Has she birthed a babe yet?"

  "No, sad to say," Matt said, with genuine regret, "though we keep hoping."

  "More than a year wed, and still no sign of a child?" the woman said indignantly. "What ails her husband?"

  Matt stared, caught speechless.

  "He cannot be much of a man," another woman opined, "if he cannot get her with child."

  "Scarcely a man at all!" the first woman sniffed. "He is a wizard—not even a sorcerer!"

  "A wizard, but not a miracle worker!" Matt protested. "Husbands are only the delivery boys—babies come from Heaven!"

  The whole crowd fell silent, aghast. "Do not say that word!" a granny cried. "Are you a fool?"

  "No, I'm from Merovence."

  They stared at him in shock for a moment, then burst out laughing. "Very good, very good!" a portly man chuckled, wiping his eyes. "But what of the crops? We have heard rumors of drought!"

  "All false, thank—" Matt caught himself in time, deciding not to offend their sensibilities. "—praises be. The rain falls like a blessing, and the sun beams down."

  The crowd began to mutter again, apprehensive, glancing over their shoulders. Matt wondered if, seven years ago, mention of "Heaven" or "blessing" really had been enough to bring a vengeful sorcerer.

  If not, King Maledicto had brainwashed them into dreading even the words of goodness. Matt grasped for a change of topic. "The queen has made a treaty with the Free Folk, with the dragons! They shall no longer steal sheep and cattle, and the queen shall arrest the hatchling hunters who seek to steal dragons' blood to sell to sorcerers!" Stegoman had pushed for that one.

  Again the crowd muttered, but wide-eyed this time—amazed that Matt could speak against sorcerers and not get burned up about it. Still, they edged away from him.

  "News for news!" But Matt was beginning to wonder if there were a single topic that wouldn't edge into a taboo area, such as sorcery or Heaven. Maybe not, in this world. "But first, let me tell you of Peer Gynt and Solveg!"

  The crowd murmured appreciation and came crowding back in, eager for more stories of licentious women. Well, they were in for a disappointment this time. "Solveg was a church-bred woman, a lass who carried a prayer book about her wherever she went."

  The crowd edged away again, murmuring with apprehension.

  "But she was beautiful!" Matt cried. "Demure, sweet, modest—and beautiful!"

  "Not with a figure like that of the Green-Clad one?" asked a teenaged boy, disappointed.

  "Who could know? Her clothing was so loose that none could see! But it was beautifully embroidered, and her skirts swung with the lilt of a May tune as she walked. The aroma of roses seemed to follow her, and so did Peer Gynt's heart."

  The boys began to look bored, but the women pressed close, held by the promise of a good love story. Matt told them of Peer Gynt's boastful courtship and of Solveg's interest, though she saw through him in an instant. Still, she found something to love in him anyway—but Peer went off in a huff, offended by her truthfulness.

  Then he encountered the darkness cast by the Great Boyg, becoming trapped and unable to fight his way free, as the monster called up harpies to feed on him—but Solveg came, singing hymns, and banished them all by her simple goodness.

  The men and boys were riveted by the tale, and the women sighed with happiness—then instantly looked apprehensive again. Apparently this was something really new for them—a story in which virtue triumphed, and they rather liked the novelty. They just weren't sure it was safe, that was all.

  Matt and Pascal camped by the roadside that night, Pascal counting the day's take by the light of the fire. "A silver penny!" he cried, holding up the trophy. "They must truly have liked your tale of Peer Gynt, my friend."

  "And want to give me good reason to come back and tell them Act Two," Matt agreed.

  Pascal looked up, frowning. " 'Act Two'?"

  "The second half of the story," Matt said quickly.

  "If it is half so amusing as the first, you will make your fortune with it! We have a month's living in thi
s hat!"

  "Latruria is having a boom," Matt said.

  "They have become prosperous, if that is what you mean—but we knew that in Merovence. I fear that you have not learned much new here, Sir Matthew."

  "Oh, I wouldn't say that." Matt gazed at the pot that was stewing vegetables and beef jerky. "We've found out that King Boncorro really is trying to make life better for the common folk, but apparently isn't doing it because he wants to do good."

  Pascal frowned. "Who told you that?"

  "All of them—from their fright, every time I mentioned Heaven or a blessing, or Solveg's church, prayer book, and hymns. They're still scared of evil sorcerers punishing people for even talking about Goodness—which means King Boncorro certainly hasn't taken a stand against the forces of Evil, and may not even have a quarrel with them."

  "Why, then, would he be doing what is good for the commoners?" Pascal asked, suddenly intent—after all, these were his kind of people.

  "Pure selfishness—or, if not pure, then at least basic." Matt reached out to stir the stew. "He has some personal motive, some hope of gain. It might even be that he's enlightened enough to realize that if the people prosper, the king gets richer."

  "Why, what an odd notion!"

  "It is, around here," Matt agreed, "so I don't really expect that's King Boncorro's reason. I wonder what is, though."

  "Perhaps you shall find out at the next village."

  "Maybe," Matt agreed. "One way or another, at least we should make another haul of coppers. Stew smells about ready, Pascal. Did you say you had a bowl in your pack?"

  "The aroma is tempting," a deeper voice answered, "but I prefer my food raw. In fact, I prefer it moving."

  "I already paid the farmer a quarter mile back." Matt didn't even look up. "Go have a cow, Manny."

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  It was nice to know how it felt to be a star. Everywhere Matt went, everyplace he stopped long enough for Pascal to toss down his hat, people came running to jostle each other as they tried to get closer, to see and hear the minstrel. Somehow, it never occurred to Pascal that they might be attracting more attention than he wanted—but it occurred to Matt, sure enough. For himself, Matt didn't mind—he was the bait in his own trap, so to speak. But for Pascal, it was another matter.