The Secular Wizard

by Christopher Stasheff

  Matt wouldn't have called Naughtworthy "elderly," but he wasn't about to slacken the head of steam he'd been trying to build. "That's the spirit. A uniform always gets 'em, even if it's made of iron." Privately, though, he doubted that Pascal had much of a chance of climbing the social ladder, or that Panegyra would really care much if he did. From the sound of her, she would definitely choose the older, wealthy squire over the younger but penniless knight. No, all in all, Matt didn't think Panegyra was worth all the devotion Pascal was heaping on her. Love never did have much to do with the head, though.

  A cold gust suddenly struck, and the candle went out. In the sudden darkness, Matt froze, then asked carefully, "Pascal?"

  "Aye." The younger man's voice trembled.

  "Did I leave the window open?"

  "This chamber has no window!"

  Matt was just beginning to realize that his host might have a peculiarly nasty sense of humor, when a faint moan began, swelling in a second to surround them, battering at their eardrums, and a pale, misty, glowing figure seemed to rise out of the bed to tower over them, grinning and drooling into its beard. It was a man, wearing a robe over a belted, knee-length tunic, with a medallion hanging from a chain about his neck. His eyes were holes, and his mouth split into a grin of malice and gloating pleasure, then split farther to reveal pointed teeth as he raised his hands, showing fingernails that stretched into claws, poised to stab and pierce.

  Pascal shrieked and dove under the bed. An eldritch howling filled the night, and he came bolting back out, shrieking even louder, pursued by a ghostly hound the size of a German Shepherd.

  "Get behind me," Matt snapped, and stepped between the dog and Pascal just in case the young man was already too far gone to be able to understand.

  "Fool!" the ghost chortled, winding up to pounce, and the hound howled and sank its teeth into Matt's leg. Fear clamored through him, but he reminded himself that ectoplasm can't interact with protoplasm, and felt only piercing cold in his leg. He ignored it and recited,

  "From ghosties and ghoulies

  And long-legged beasties,

  And things that go bump in the night,

  Dear Lord, preserve us!"

  It didn't rhyme, but boy, did that old formula work! The dog gave a howl that sounded as if its tail had been twisted in five places, then sank out of sight even as the ghost of the man screamed in frustration and fear, and winked out.

  The darkness was awfully quiet for a minute.

  Then Pascal asked, in a quavering voice, "Friend Matthew?"

  "Here." Matt tried to sound reassuring. "Just stay put, Pascal, while I kindle the candle."

  "Do not!" the ghost's voice snapped out of the darkness. "Begone from my chamber! Or even your L—your appeal will not save you from my wrath!"

  "Oh, come off it!" Matt snapped. "If you could have resisted the Lord—"

  The ghost gasped in pain.

  "—you wouldn't have run at the mention of the word," Matt finished. "And it's a pretty general word, at that! I didn't even specify Whom it referred to! Can you imagine what it would have done to you if I'd used a Name?"

  "And what I would have done to you!" But the ghost's protest sounded feeble.

  So feeble that Matt ignored it. "What are you getting so huffy about, anyway? You've got to know that we're just guests..."

  "That man who is with you is of my blood!"

  "Nonsense—you don't have any left." But Matt wondered how the ghost could tell. Ectoplasmic genetic imprints? Could ghosts read DNA code? "Even so, you know he's not a regular part of the household, and that we had no choice about which room we were given. What makes you so territorial, anyway?"

  "I built this house!"

  "And left it to your son," Matt finished. "What's the matter? Was he too eager to inherit?"

  The room was ghastly quiet for a moment. Then the ghost's tone was bloodcurdling. "How did you know?"

  CHAPTER TEN

  "Just basic reasoning," Matt said quickly. "That would give you something of a score to settle, and even if you had no way to do that—"

  "No way?" the ghost said bitterly. "He laughed at my anger; he mocked at my pain!"

  "Yes, the younger generation has no respect for its elders. Couldn't you get back at him after he died, though?"

  "Nay. He was not tied to his chamber by the violence of his death, he—his soul plunged like a stone into the depths, screaming as it went." Sparks glowed in the ghost's hollow eyes. "That was my revenge!"

  "Then why do you keep trying to take it out on whoever sleeps in your room?"

  "If you had suffered as I have suffered, you, too, would pounce upon any who happened within your reach!"

  Matt shuddered. "I hope I wouldn't! Is that all it is—just a colossal bad temper?"

  The ghost fixed the glowing sparks on him. "What else should it be?"

  "An attempt to communicate," Matt said. "If it is, I'm not getting the message."

  The ghost just stood glaring at him, and Matt felt a thrill of accomplishment. Pascal stared at him as if he were a superman from another world.

  "There was a broken promise," the ghost finally said.

  "And you think the current generation might be able to mend it, if they cared enough to do the research? You're not exactly behaving in a manner calculated to inspire concern."

  "Nay, but any should wish to be rid of me!"

  "Enough to look through the family records and try to find a reason for your haunting." Matt nodded. "Well, I'm only here for the night, so I don't have time for extended research. How about you just tell me?"

  The ghost glowered at him, but said, "I am Spiro, the first squire of this manor. I built it—but I did not mean to lie near it for eternity."

  "Then it sounds as if your goals coincide with the current squire's," Matt said. "I'm sure he'd like to get this room back—though I must admit he seems to find it useful to hold over people's heads as a threat, if they're naughty."

  The ghost's head snapped upright. "You mean he uses me as his whip and his goad? Why, the poltroon, the vile villain, the—"

  "—inheritor of tradition," Matt said, cutting him off. "I gather he's just keeping up what his forefathers have done. So where—" Then the significance of the name hit. "Spiro? That's Greek!"

  "Your perception amazes me," the specter said dryly. "Aye, I am Greek—and longed to return to my native Athens, to the Parthenon and the groves of Academe. I had intended to depart in two years' time, and my son would have been rid of me—but he could not even wait that long!"

  "Sure—you were going to take all the money with you. Probably sell the land, too, and he knew he didn't have money enough to buy it."

  "I doubt it not," the ghost said with disgust. "Yet I had always intended that if I did not return to Greece to finish my days, then my bones would!"

  Matt lifted his head slowly. "So. If they were to ship your coffin back to Greece, your ghost would go with it."

  "Aye—and once there, I could shuffle off that mortal coil and pass to my reward."

  "You... sure you want to do that?"

  "I have naught to fear of the Afterlife, foolish youngling!"

  "Maybe some time in Purgatory, but all in all, you think you did as much good as bad in your lifetime? Well, then, be glad you died before King Maledicto came to power."

  Squire Spiro shuddered. "I am. That blackguard would have made short shrift of any man who sought to abide by the rules of chivalry, let alone the Commandments!"

  "You don't fear the Lord?" Matt frowned. "Why did you back off when I recited the old charm, then?"

  "You asked Him to preserve you from ghosts, fool! If I honor Him, of course I will honor those whom He protects." Spiro drew down his brows, turning his eyes into caverns as he frowned. "But you are no mere minstrel, are you?"

  "About that return to Greece," Matt said hurriedly. "I'll mention it to the current squire, but I can't promise anything. If he wants a haunted chamber more than a usable one, he may
opt to keep your mortal remains here."

  "If he does, then I shall howl night and day, I shall groan to break all hearts, I shall give him never a moment's rest, I shall—"

  "Haunt the whole house?" Matt said brightly. "Make it all unusable? Can you do that?"

  The ghost looked daggers at him. "Nay. I am ever drawn back to this chamber. But I can make unceasing racket herein!"

  "You might do better just not to bother anybody," Matt pointed out. "Then he wouldn't have any reason to keep you."

  "But no reason to spend the money it would take to ship my bones back to Greece and bury them and be rid of me, either!"

  "True," Matt admitted. "Sure you can't offer him some sort of inducement?"

  "There is a treasure I buried," the ghost said slowly, "since I had begun to mistrust my son. Two hundred years ago, it was only enough to take my bones back to Greece, but now—"

  "—what with inflation, the price of gold has gone up, and it's worth a small fortune?"

  "Aye. When my body is buried near Athens, I shall come back to this house once, and once only, on my way to Purgatory, to tell him where to dig!"

  "Giving him a nice, tidy profit." Matt nodded, satisfied. "Good business all around, and everybody's happy. Okay, Squire Spiro, I'll broach the issue to your descendant in the morning. Of course, I'd be a bit more persuasive if I'd had a good night's sleep..."

  "My descendant is not the only one who needs a bribe, I see," the ghost grumbled. "Very well, minstrel, I will leave you in peace for this night. But if you betray me, I shall find a way to smite you, soon or late! Remember that where my blood and bone may go, my spirit can go, though it takes a ruinous effort and causes me great pain!"

  "Meaning that you can follow Pascal, if he sticks with me?" Matt cocked his head to the side. "Interesting! An ectoplasmic DNA link goes even further than I thought. Still, not to worry, Squire Spiro—what I said I'd do, I will do. I can't speak for your descendant, though."

  "You need not; gold speaks loudly enough," the ghost growled. "Well, then I'll leave you for this night—but remember your promise!" And with that he winked out and was gone.

  The room was totally silent, and totally dark, for perhaps a minute more. Then the candle glowed to life again of its own accord, revealing a shaken and sweating Pascal, who mopped his forehead and said, in a tremulous voice, "That was amazing, Matthew! But I think my ancestor was right—you are no mere minstrel, and are even more than a knight, are you not?"

  "Me?" Matt protested, all innocence. "Pascal! If you don't know my secrets, who in Latruria does? Off to sleep, now. If I were you, I'd take a blanket and head for the barn. I don't particularly fancy sleeping in this bed alone, but I think I'll get all sorts of kudos if I can emerge bright and fresh in the morning. You don't have to, though."

  The primary kudo was the look of shocked amazement on the faces of the squire and his family when Matt came in to breakfast the next morning. He allowed himself a feeling of satisfaction as he sat down behind a huge slice of bread that was serving as a plate, and accepted a portion of something fried from a serving girl. He nodded a pleasant thank-you, then looked about at the family with a bright smile. "Good morning!"

  "Ah... good morning," the squire said. "Did you... sleep well?"

  "Oh, very well, thanks! Took a little while to calm down and doze off, that's all."

  Pascal nearly strangled on his porridge.

  "Remarkable," the squire's wife murmured, and Panegyra was staring at him with awe—no, not awe, Matt realized: fear.

  "You had no... dreams?" the squire pressed.

  "No, but I did have an interesting conversation with the resident ghost." Matt looked up. "Really a very reasonable man, once you can get him talking."

  The squire turned white as a sheet. His wife nearly fainted, and Panegyra almost fell off her chair. Fortunately, she fell toward Pascal, and he caught her neatly and helped stabilize her. She murmured her thanks as she resettled herself, and Matt wondered if the move had been entirely accidental.

  "You... managed conversation with the ghost?" the squire stammered. "You... you were not... afraid of him?"

  "Well, sure, anybody would be, the way he appeared out of nowhere!" Matt said. "But I know an old charm or two—minstrels collect those sorts of things—so he backed off and tried to order me out."

  "And... how did you refuse him?" The squire's wife was recovering nicely.

  "I asked, 'Why?' " Matt said simply.

  "And he told you?"

  "Well, there was a little more to it than that." Matt was beginning to enjoy himself. "But the long and the short of it is that he wants to go back to Greece."

  "Wants to go?" the squire said blankly.

  His wife seized his arm. "Instantly, husband! Whatever he wishes, give it! If we can be rid of that specter, it will be well worth it!"

  "Let us first see the bill before we pay it," the squire said cautiously. "It is old Spiro's ghost, then?"

  "The founder himself," Matt confirmed. "That's why he feels he has a right to have the room to himself—he not only built it, he also died in it."

  "The grandest room in the house!" the squire's wife wailed.

  "But how can he go back to his homeland?" the squire asked, staring. "He is dead!"

  "Yes, but he seems to think that if you can dig up his coffin and ship it back to Greece, he'll go with it."

  "It might be worth the attempt," the squire said, gazing off into space.

  "Worth?" His wife dug her fingers into his arm. "Worth it a hundred times over! Then we can have the chamber exorcised, reopen the bricked-up windows—and we can reside there!"

  "There will be some expense in it," the squire warned. "There is the summerhouse you wished to build—that would have to wait a few years."

  His wife turned away, sulking. "All the best families have one!"

  "All the best families have at least one ghost, too," her husband reminded her.

  "We have two to spare—I shall not miss this one! He is so disagreeable, so malicious, so... frightening!"

  "But is he worth your summerhouse?"

  "Oh, aye, I would say he is!" The wife capitulated. "But there shall still be enough money to redecorate the room, shall there not?"

  "Plenty," Matt said. "He left a few gold pieces buried some place on the estate, to dig up and pay for his passage when he was ready to sail—but he was killed first."

  The squire turned avid. "Where is this treasure?"

  "It's not that much," Matt warned. "He said that once his carcass is back in Athens where it belongs, he'll make one last visit on his way to Purgatory, to tell you where it's buried."

  "I may have my summerhouse still!" The wife clapped her hands.

  "I wouldn't go that far," Matt cautioned.

  "He said it is no treasure—belike enough to cover no more than the shipping and reburial of the coffin—and it may be a lie, to induce us to do what old Spiro wishes. Still, it is worth the gamble," the squire said.

  "But there should be enough for redecoration," Matt said.

  "There should," the squire agreed, then turned back to Matt. " 'Tis a noisome task, digging up a coffin that is two centuries old."

  "Lots of wormholes," Matt agreed, "and probably falling-apart rotten. If I were you, I'd have a new casket waiting that was large enough to hold the old one—and I'd dig double-wide, so that you can set the new coffin right next to the old one before you try to lift it."

  "A coffin inside a coffin? The notion will bear thought," the squire mused.

  "I'll leave you to think about it, then." Matt finished his last bite and stood up. "You'll pardon me if I have to eat and run—but I'm bound for the king's court; I hear he's generous to musicians."

  "He is?" the squire said blankly, and Panegyra's eyes lit. "Surely, Father! His court is always filled with music! You do not think his courtiers dance to their own singing, do you?"

  "Please!" Matt shuddered. "Amateurs are bad enough in their own homes!" And he
managed to make it out the door while the squire's wife was still trying to decide whether or not to be offended.

  They swung down the road with a long, easy stride. Matt was pushing the pace a little, hoping that sheer exertion might pull Pascal out of the doldrums. "Buck up, squire's son! At least she didn't tell you that she doesn't love you!"

  "No," Pascal admitted, "but she did not say that she does, either."

  "The fortunes of romance," Matt commiserated. "I had that problem with a girl, too."

  "You did?" Pascal looked up, eyes wide with hope. "What did you do?"

  "Everything I could," Matt told him. "Made it clear that I was doing my best for her and wasn't planning to stop."

  "What happened?"

  "Oh, she finally admitted that she loved me."

  "What did you do then?"

  "I married her—after a very long wait. So do your best to prove your worth, and you never know what could happen." From what Matt had seen of Panegyra, though, he thought he knew—but at least the effort might give Pascal a new interest in living.

  The young man was frowning, though. "If you have married a wife whom you love, what are you doing wandering the roads so far from your home?"

  "Who do you think sent me?" Matt retorted. "Look, just because she loves me, doesn't mean she wants me hanging around the house and getting underfoot all the time. Say, who are those kids on the road up ahead?"

  Pascal turned to look, and stared at the large, boisterous group coming into sight around the next bend. "None that I know—but why are there so many of them?"

  "I was hoping you could tell me," Matt replied. "Well, let's go ask."

  They caught up with the happy songsters, who were passing a bottle of wine from hand to hand—and if one of the boys occasionally paused to sip the wine from a girl's lips, who minded? Not even the half-dozen middle-aged couples who swung along a little way in front of the pack of juveniles, with occasional glances back at their traveling companions. Matt left the young folk to Pascal and went ahead to the nearest mature pair—who, he noticed, were holding hands, but not wearing wedding rings, not even the little brass circlets most peasants wore. "G—" He was about to say "Godspeed," but caught himself in time. "Good day, good folk! Where are you bound?"