The Secular Wizard

by Christopher Stasheff

  "Why else would I ride south?" Alisande said with irony. Then her face creased with anxiety. "But tell me, Sir Guy—the messenger brought some talk of the Witch Doctor, Saul..."

  Sir Guy contrived a look of sympathy. "I found him, Majesty, and spoke with him. The Lady Angelique is well, and they have indeed married, but there is as yet no sign of children."

  Well, Alisande thought, at least she wasn't coming in last. "That is good news, Sir Guy—but will he come to aid us in search of Lord Matthew?"

  Sir Guy sighed. "Alas, I fear he will not. He persists in his claim that he is not overly fond of other folk—"

  "Which the Lady Angelique stands to deny, if not to ameliorate," Alisande said crisply. "What does he, that he will not come?"

  "What he terms 'research,' though why he should search again where he has presumably already searched, I cannot tell."

  "Indeed! And what is it he searches for?"

  "Ah! That, at least, I can say," Sir Guy replied. "He still pursues his old goal."

  "What! Still seeking a magic that may work without drawing on either Good or Evil, God or Satan?"

  "As earnestly as ever," Sir Guy said, rather embarrassed for his friend. "He is absorbed in his studies and says that he does not wish to interrupt them unless 'tis a matter of dire emergency."

  "Why, this case is just such an emergency!"

  "Matthew is not yet in peril of his life, Majesty." Sir Guy drew something out of his armor, dangling at the end of a chain. It was a ball about an inch across, perforated with tiny holes. "However, the wizard Saul gave me this talisman."

  Alisande frowned, peering closely at the bauble. "It is singularly unremarkable, though its silver polish is pretty enough. What use is it?"

  "It is a talisman he has made, that we may call upon him if Matthew is truly imperiled."

  Alisande eyed the little ball warily. "How will it do that? Surely it cannot ring—it is a dumb bell!"

  "Aye, but if we say the right words, it shall become most truly outspoken," Sir Guy told her. "If we speak the phrase, it will make its mate, which Saul wears on his belt, to ring—or, at least, to give off a beeping sound. Then, promises Saul, he will talk with us, and if Matthew is sufficiently imperiled, he will come with all the speed a wizard may summon."

  "Fair enough," said Alisande. "What is this magical phrase?"

  "It is a set of numbers." Sir Guy frowned; obviously it made no sense to him, either. "Nine one one."

  "Nine, one, and one?" Alisande stared. "What mystical significance has that?"

  The hall was bright with the sunset, but there were four-branched candelabra waiting to be lit, all down the center of the long table. The dozen members of the family swirled about the room, chatting with one another, as Squire Giuseppe led Matthew and Pascal in. "Sons and daughters! Cousins! Hearken!"

  Everyone stilled, turning to them expectantly, all gazes probing Matt and Pascal. Matt suspected they had been the hottest item of conversation in the house all afternoon. One young lady managed to step in front of the two men who had threatened to obscure her view—a blond vision in silk and taffeta, with a long braid curling down over one creamy shoulder, huge blue eyes seeking out Pascal. He saw her and went stiff as a hound on point.

  Matt took a closer look—this must be Panegyra. In beauty, at least, she certainly seemed worth all the fuss. He reserved judgment on her personality.

  When the introductions were done and they were sitting at the table, Pascal muttered, "I must be alone with her!"

  "Easy, boy, easy," Matt muttered out of the corner of his mouth, managing to smile about at his table companions. "Push it too fast, and you may get us kicked out of here. Take your time, fit in, and wait for your chance."

  "There is no time!" Pascal whispered. "For all we know, she may be married within the week. Can you not contrive a chance?"

  "That doesn't strike me as very likely," Matt said to his neighbor on the other side.

  "Not likely to have an alliance between Merovence and Latruria?" The lady stared at him. "But why not?"

  "It's a question of trust," Matt explained. "When you've been enemies for so long, a few years isn't exactly time enough to start believing your neighbor has nothing but good intentions."

  "Will you not answer?" Pascal hissed.

  "Hm?" Matt looked up as if the young man had said something surprising, then whispered, "Calm down and be polite, or you'll be out of here before dessert!"

  "Surely you can at least hold the company's interest while I step aside with her!"

  "Oh, all right," Matt grumbled, "but if you try to elope, don't expect me to hold the ladder."

  "Ladder?" His neighbor on the other side stared.

  "A ladder of diplomacy." Matt turned back to her. "Each rung is another advancement in trust, then in treaties—cultural exchanges, trade agreements, and so forth. When you get to the top, you can develop a full-scale alliance."

  "Perhaps even a dynastic marriage?" His middle-aged neighbor dimpled prettily.

  Matt forced a laugh. "Yes, but that might have to wait until King Boncorro has married, and both royal couples have children."

  "Surely Queen Alisande can rid herself of this lowborn trickster she has wed."

  Matt just stared for a second.

  "At least last until dessert," Pascal muttered out of the corner of us mouth.

  Matt forced another laugh. "No, I don't think there's much chance of that. She seems thoroughly enamored of him."

  "Besotted," the woman sniffed.

  Matt decided he was going to have to watch his step—very carefully.

  When the last course had been devoured, the squire leaned back in his chair and said, "Minstrel Matthew! Will you not give us a song?"

  "Why, I'd be glad to," Matt said slowly, "but perhaps a little dancing first might settle the stomach."

  Whatever the squire thought of this bit of lunacy was drowned out by the joyful shriek from the younger generation. They were on their feet and clearing the tables back on the instant.

  "Not so fast, not so fast!" the woman next to Matt protested. "At least let me stand up and step back first."

  "Oh, all right, but hurry!" the young man near her growled.

  "The dishes!" the squire's wife cried. "Have a care for the... oh!" The last was accompanied by the sound of crockery breaking.

  "If you must clear the tables, take the dishes out first!" the squire bellowed.

  "Well, if we must, we must," one of the girls snapped, "though there are servants for that sort of thing."

  "Then give them time to do their tasks!"

  "No, we would rather do it ourselves," another girl said.

  Matt stepped back, dazed. "Sorry," he said to the squire. "Didn't know I was going to stir up such a hornet's nest."

  "You did not, I suppose," the man grumped. "They are always like this nowadays."

  The tables cleared away, the young folk assembled in the center of the floor, one calling, "Give us a reel!"

  "Nay, a jig!" cried another.

  "A hornpipe!" cried a third.

  "A hornpipe is only for sailors, lout!" snapped a girl.

  "And jigs are only for peasants," he retorted, "though what difference it could make to one so clumsy as yourself, I could never—"

  "Speak not so to her!" Another young man stepped in front of the girl.

  "People, people!" Matt held up his hands placatingly. "How about I just play it, and you figure out what it is?"

  The suggestion met with unanimous protest, but it was too late—Matt had already started playing. "Hail to the Chief" sounded a little odd when played on a lute, but nobody knew the lyrics, so they couldn't very well protest about the sentiments. They did gripe about the rhythm, loudly and vociferously, but when Matt kept on playing in spite of the griping, they simmered down and started dancing to it. At a guess, Matt decided, it was a reel—some kind of line dance, anyway.

  He plucked the final chord, and instantly a boy was calling, "Too sedate!
More spirit, minstrel!"

  "Why?" Matt returned. "Is the castle haunted?"

  Wrong line—everybody immediately glanced over their shoulders.

  "Of course it is," the squire said, scowling, "and our ghosts are not the sort of which we wish to be reminded. Play something jolly, minstrel, or I'll see you given the haunted chamber this night!"

  Matt wondered if the spectral company could be any more disagreeable than the live, but he said, "As you will, your Honor," and began to play a tune that had recently been popular in Bordestang—ever since Matt paid a minstrel to start singing it around the streets. The young people looked up, startled, then began to nod in time, smiles growing, and turned to one another to begin a dance that Matt decided was well on its way to developing into a minuet.

  As they finished, one girl cried out, "How pretty! Are there words to it?"

  "Yes, and they're even out of copyright," Matt answered, then rode over the confused looks as he began one of Shakespeare's hits:

  "Tell me, where is fancy bred?

  Or in the heart, or in the head?

  How begot, how nourishéd?

  Reply, reply!

  It is engendered in the eye,

  With gazing bought, and sighing fed.

  Let us all sing Fancy's knell!

  I'll begin it—'Ding, dong, bell!' "

  "Sing it with me!" he cried, then repeated the line. A slight murmur answered him, and he called out, "I can't hear you!" then played it again, with a little more verve from his impromptu chorus, but not enough, so he called out, "What did you say?"

  "Ding, dong, bell!" everybody called back, looking angry.

  Sheesh, Matt thought, what a bunch of sourpusses!

  One fat and surly squire in a rich but gravy-spotted brocade surcoat under a velvet robe, scowled and said, "Have you nothing more fitting?"

  "Squire Naughtworthy is to marry my daughter," Matt's host explained. "Surely he would not wish to hear of the death of true love."

  Marry his daughter? Matt took a closer look at Squire Naughtworthy. He was graying—fifty, at least, with little piggy eyes, a blotch of nose, and a ruff of beard. The mere thought of an old satyr like that with pretty young Panegyra made Matt's blood run cold—but he noticed that Pascal was drawing the young lady aside for some private conversation, so he went on to the next verse. The audience sang the chorus line with a bit more verve this time, and Matt, emboldened, switched over to the version from The Tempest:

  "Full fathom five thy father lies.

  Of coral all his bones are made.

  Those are pearls that were his eyes.

  Nothing of him that doth fade,

  But all doth suffer a sea-change

  Into something rich and strange.

  Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell.

  Hark! I hear it..."

  And everybody joined in, with relish:

  "Ding, dong, bell!"

  Everybody, that is, except Squire Naughtworthy, who turned purple and bellowed, "Would you rush us to our graves?"

  The whole room fell silent, the whole family staring at him, taken aback.

  "My pardon, your Honor," Matt said slowly. "I did not know you had a son."

  "I have not! But you clearly spoke of a man my age!"

  Matt smiled with feigned relief. "No, good squire. I did not tell you how old the son was." And before Naughtworthy could blast another objection, Matt struck the strings again, calling out, "Ding, dong, bell!"

  "Ding, dong, bell!" The young folks grinned and sang it all the harder for Naughtworthy's grousing. He turned magenta and swelled up for another blast—but his host very obviously disagreed with his complaint. He looked pleasantly surprised, and Matt guessed that it was the first time he had ever heard all the young folk agree on something—rather quarrelsome household, this. But Pascal and Panegyra were edging away toward the screened passage, so he decided to give his hosts a lesson.

  "Oh, the Hatfields and McCoys,

  They were jolly mountain boys,

  Till they both came down to town to do some dancing,

  And a McCoy there, stamping low,

  Trod on a Hatfield's toe.

  And old Anse, he hollered loud to stop their prancing.

  "Now, a swollen toe's not bad,

  But this sullen Hatfield lad,

  Bore grudges long way out of all abettin',

  So he hid behind a rock

  Where McCoys were known to walk,

  And as one passed by, the Hatfield shot his head in.

  "Anse Hatfield took exception,

  Complained of vile deception,

  and led a troop of clansmen to the border.

  But the oldest male McCoy,

  Known as Randall, pride and joy,

  Saw them coming and laid ambush for a slaughter."

  Matt had them spellbound, but the greedy looks on their faces weren't quite what he had hoped to evoke. Still, he was started now and couldn't very well change songs in mid-verse—and Pascal had disappeared with Panegyra in tow, so Matt figured he had better hold the company's attention awhile longer.

  Accordingly, he finished up the whole feud, managed to wipe out both families more thoroughly than the original feud had, then treated them to a brief scene in Hell where "old Devil Anse" met the real thing.

  The last part had them shuddering and looking over their shoulders again as he finished, and the squire frowned. "Has Pascal told you the history of our house, then?"

  "Nay, cousin." Panegyra had led Pascal back in during the last verse, looking flushed and very pleased with herself—but Pascal had a hangdog look that made Matt's heart sink. He obviously needed a jolt, so Matt said, "You didn't tell me you had resident haunts here."

  Pascal looked up, but didn't quite focus. "Haunts?... Aye. What house of any age has them not?"

  Matt was possessed of a sudden overwhelming curiosity at just what the girl had told his young friend, but he couldn't very well come right out and ask. Instead, he said, "That's true, but most of the ghosts I've heard of haven't been malicious—just misunderstood."

  Pascal came out of his mood with a shudder. "Not this ghost, I assure you! Or the worst of them, I should say."

  "True," the squire said judiciously, "and you have not even seen him, only heard tell of him." He turned to Matt. "We think him to be the ghost of my ancestor Spiro, who built this house—and seems to think himself still entitled to hold it."

  "He's not willing to share?" Matt said carefully.

  "He would not if he could prevent it," the squire said, "but he cannot—he is bound to the chamber in which he died."

  Matt grinned. "And that's the room you were going to put me in if I was a bad boy, eh?"

  "Oh, I would not truly have done so," the squire protested—but Matt didn't believe him.

  Still and all, when finally he retired, he had no complaint with the room they did give him—obviously a guest room, since it seemed to have been dusted in a hurry, though not too successfully, and the soot on the hearth looked to be ready for carbon-14 dating. The wall hangings were old enough to be brittle, but they were heavily embroidered and very attractive, and there was a very nice painting on the wall, though Matt really preferred his nudes to be somewhat less Neolithic in build. He did wonder why he had been moved out of Pascal's room, then realized it might have been by Panegyra's request. Well, getting away from the young man's snoring wouldn't be all that tough. He was just starting to unbutton his doublet when there was a knock at the door. He froze with a button halfway through the hole and called, "Who is it?"

  "Pascal," came the muffled voice. "Let me in, I pray!"

  Well, so much for getting away from him. Matt stepped over to the door, drew the bolt and let the young man in. "Thought you were planning to sleep someplace else tonight."

  "Matthew!" Pascal stared at him, genuinely shocked. "Surely you do not think the fair Panegyra would—"

  "No, but I figured you might." Matt raised a hand to forestall the youth's ho
t rejoinder. "I see I was wrong, though. No, you wouldn't do a thing like that, would you? Not to her, anyway. So what did the two of you talk about?"

  "Alas!" Pascal sank down on the bed, head in his hands. "She owns that she does not find me detestable, even finds me comely—but she will not bend from her father's rule!"

  "She won't run away with you, eh?"

  "Aye, and she owns that it is because she shudders at the life of poverty and hardship such a course of action would mean, even for the few years it would take before I built a good living for us."

  Matt thought it would take a bit longer than a few years, at least for the kind of living Panegyra had in mind. "She likes the soft life, huh?"

  Pascal nodded heavily. "Not so much that she has a love of luxury, as that she fears poverty—and she fears what my fate would be if her father should catch us."

  Well, at least the girl was honest, though she added a bit of embroidery. Still, if it spared Pascal's feelings, what harm was there? "And she doesn't shudder at the sight of Squire Naughtworthy?"

  Pascal shivered. "She claims to think him handsome, though I cannot see why!"

  "Some women are attracted to older men," Matt said slowly, "even to men old enough to be their fathers—and they find strength and, um, prosperity, attractive. Signs that the man would be a good provider. It's possible, Pascal." But in Panegyra's case, be didn't think it was likely.

  The youth moaned and dropped his head back into his hands. "She is sure he shall be a veritable kitten in her hands, that she will even persuade him to take her to King Boncorro's court!"

  "Men will do a lot for a pretty bride," Matt sighed, "but I don't think this one can get her into court—he's just a squire, after all. She might change her mind, Pascal."

  "What could change it?" the young man said bitterly.

  "A knighthood," Matt said slowly. He had to give the boy something to work for, something to hope for. "Or even becoming a squire with a definite chance of graduating to knight."

  "Aye!" Pascal's head snapped up, his eye catching fire. "Women ever do dote upon men of arms—and a knight's rank is surely better than that of an elderly squire with no prospect of rising higher!"