The Secular Wizard

by Christopher Stasheff

  "Peasant!" Pascal cried, affronted, and feinted twice to draw Volio's left, then stepped in to crack a blow across his cheek.

  "No!" Flaminia cried, surging up out of Matt's arms toward the fighters—but Matt held her back. "No, damsel! You'll just get them hurt more! Don't worry, if it gets too bad, I'll break it up."

  "Then why not break it up now!" she demanded.

  "They need it," Matt said simply, though he meant it differently for each man.

  They had obviously both been trained—but as swordsmen, not as boxers. Right fists whirled high in figure eights as if they were wrapped around hilts, lefts blocked and counterpunched, and most of the blows were aimed at the chest. Every now and then one of the boys slipped and caught the other on the cheek or chin, but it was definitely by accident. Matt began to think he was going to have to break it up, after all—they were causing each other a lot of pain, but no damage, nothing even remotely decisive. Flaminia wept, crying Pascal's name, and kept trying to struggle free to help him, but Matt held on tightly. "Don't worry—pretty soon they'll both drop from sheer exhaustion. Neither of them is in the greatest shape this morning."

  Just then Pascal leaped in past Volio's guard, threw his arms around his chest, lifted and whirled, throwing Volio to the ground. The young man surged back up to his feet with a bellow. "Villain! Would you use a peasant's wrestling tricks with me again? Have at you!" And he charged with a roundhouse swing.

  Pascal ducked under it, seized Volio's knee and straightened up, heaving. Volio squalled and went flying backward, arms windmilling. He landed with a heavy, meaty sound, and lay struggling, gasping for breath again.

  Pascal stood over him, eyes alight with victory, fists clenched, waiting.

  "Oh!" Flaminia gasped, hand coming to her mouth.

  Matt kept his hold tight.

  Volio floundered to his feet, growling, "Would you fight for her honor when she has lost it?"

  "Foul blot!" Pascal shouted, and swung an uppercut at Volio's jaw.

  Unfortunately, Volio straightened up just then, and a little too fast; Pascal's fist caught him right in the solar plexus. His eyes bulged and he stiffened, gasping for air like a fish.

  Pascal stared, frightened by what he had done.

  "He can't breathe!" Matt shouted. "Put him out of his misery until his lungs start working again!"

  Pascal came unfrozen, slamming the uppercut at Volio's jaw again. This time he connected, and the beefy young man's eyes glazed. He slumped and landed with a very solid thud.

  Flaminia tore loose from Matt's hold with a cry of distress and ran to Pascal. "Oh! Are you hurt? Surely you must have suffered sorely!"

  "Nay, not I." Pascal grinned, enjoying the touch of her hands on his bruises. "Look to your fiancé, if you must aid one who suffers."

  "Him?" Flaminia turned and kicked the inert fighter, hard. "He is no fiancé of mine, and I have told him that! How I hope he does suffer, for he has deserved every blow you gave him, and ten more for each!"

  "Oh, I think he'll be aching aplenty when he comes to." Matt knelt beside Volio and checked his pulse, just to make sure. "No permanent harm done." Of course not—neither of them knew the first thing about unarmed combat. There might have been accidents, sure, but barring that, there had been no danger. "Count yourself revenged, damsel—as much as a woman can be." Matt looked up. "But he might have friends. I suggest that when he does come to, the two of you might be smart to be a mile or so away?"

  "Yes!" Flaminia whirled to Pascal, eyes wide with fright. "You did not know! He is the son of a knight, one who lives not ten miles from here! When that one discovers how his son has been hurt, he is sure to send his men after you!"

  Pascal registered alarm, but said gallantly, "I shall not go unless I guard you as I do."

  Matt was nodding. "The son of a knight and the son of a squire? No wonder you were both fighting the same way—you were both trained in swordplay!"

  "Of course," Pascal said, surprised.

  "But this time, the squire's son won out, because he hadn't been worried about lowering himself to learn wrestling from the peasants. I guess you had a good education after all, Pascal."

  "You must flee!" Flaminia cried. "If they catch you, they will flog you within an inch of your life—or beyond!"

  Pascal seemed shaken by that, but he still spoke gallantly. "If die I must, then die I will, so long as it saves you from that lecher's paws!"

  Flaminia almost melted—right into Pascal's arms. For a moment their bodies were twined tightly together as she reached up to give him a long, steadily deepening kiss. Pascal's hands stuck out behind her back, taken by surprise, as if they didn't know what to do—but they learned quickly, cradling Flaminia's waist and shoulders, then tightening and beginning to caress.

  Matt looked away, whistling cheerfully.

  Finally, Flaminia broke the kiss, breathing, "Oh, you are the bravest and most noble of squires! But you must not risk yourself for me!" Pascal started to object, but she laid a finger across his lips. "Fear not—I shall not turn back to that oaf Volio. I shall run away to the greenwood instead, and join a band of outlaws!"

  "That doesn't exactly sound like all that safe an alternative," Matt warned.

  "Not unless I run away with her," Pascal said stoutly. "Come, Flaminia! Shall we turn outlaw together?"

  Flaminia hesitated, torn between a gush of gratitude and a draught of fear for him.

  "Take him up on it," Matt advised. "You can change your minds about your destination once you're on the road—but for now, you would definitely both find it healthier someplace else."

  "I shall not go if you do not," Pascal warned. "No woman is safe without an escort in this land."

  Flaminia gave him a slow and sultry smile as she swayed back into his arms again. "Why, then, I shall go with you, or you with me—but I enjoin you to tell me if you tire of my company, and tell me straightaway, not by little hints and slights! Promise me that!"

  "Why, then, I promise," Pascal said slowly, "but how if I do not tire of you?"

  "Why, then, do not tell me," she said merrily, and gave him a quick but very sound kiss, then pirouetted out of his arms, though still holding onto one hand. She looked back over her shoulder at Matt. "Will you wander with us, minstrel?"

  "Yes, I think I will," Matt said slowly. "After all, I'm traveling your way."

  But they hadn't even heard the end of his sentence—they were both gazing into each other's eyes, laughing, a little breathlessly, as they set out toward the road.

  On the road, they passed small groups of young folk, with one or two of their elders, heading back north, looking wan and washed-out, or grim and morose. For them, at least, the party had come to an end before they reached Venarra. Matt wondered if they might not turn out to be the lucky ones—especially when they passed by an acre or so of chewed-up ground that had obviously been the camping place of a group that had gone before them. Off at the side, near the trees, were five rectangular mounds of earth with small pieces of board at one end of each. No crosses, not in a country that was only just beginning to think about bringing religion out into the open again—just pieces of board. Matt took a quick detour from Pascal and Flaminia to see if there were any words carved on the improvised headstones. There were—all variations on, "Here lies the body of a youth who left home to seek fame and fortune in the king's town." Just that—no injunction to pray for the soul, of course, and, thank Heaven, no stern moral lesson about their fates. But no names, either. These kids—and maybe some midlife-crisis cases, too—had been buried by the local villagers, the few who had stayed at home. Their road companions hadn't even cared enough to stay around to give them a funeral.

  Matt was very glad to catch up with Pascal and Flaminia again.

  With the resiliency of youth, the two were laughing at one another's jokes as they argued with mock earnestness over the comparative merits of line dances and circle dances. Within minutes the topic had changed to the color of the stream t
hey were passing over—whether it was grayish-blue or bluish-gray. They debated the case with great seriousness, each one coming up with a reason that was more ludicrous than the other's for about three rounds, before Flaminia began to break up into giggles and Pascal burst into laughter. Matt followed along behind, letting the smile grow, and letting their humor and camaraderie warm the chilly spot within him.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The sun peeked over the horizon, the huge gates opened, and the crowd of runaways poured through into Venarra with a delighted shriek.

  It was echoed by a collective hum from the crowd waiting inside the gates; it sounded suspiciously like "Yum!"

  Each of the mature men was instantly visited by a prosperous-looking, if flashy, city man or woman; each mature woman was accosted, too. If couples tried to stay together, the city folk wheeled and cajoled and showered them with flattery that gradually pulled them apart. That happened with the young folk, too, though much more quickly. Girls with shining eyes were listening, entranced, to the blandishments of older, motherly looking women—and if the paint on their faces was a little too thick or too flashy, well, wasn't that the way all city women looked? Matt picked up a few odd sentences as he hustled his two charges through the ring of human sharks, firmly keeping them in hand.

  "Yes, dear, a place to stay until you've learned your way around Venarra," one grandmotherly sort was saying. "Clean sheets, and a way to earn some money—sisters to show you how things are done—and ever such handsome gentlemen to come calling!"

  "But why are you willing to help us so?" a starry-eyed girl was asking another woman decked in costume jewelry.

  "Why, bless you, child, welcoming newcomers is my pastime," the woman gushed. "It is my charity!"

  The clamor of promises of glamorous living even caught Flaminia's ear. She twisted about to try to watch the beldame who was professing altruism. "Why, how good of them! Why do I not go to her house, friend Matthew?"

  "Because once you're in, she'll never let you out until you're well and truly corrupted," Matt said grimly. "The charity she has in mind is for you to give her every penny the handsome men give to you in return for your sexual favors—and most of them won't be terribly handsome, or very young, either. It's a business doing pleasure with her."

  Flaminia paled, but wasn't willing to admit her mistake so readily. "What are they telling the boys, then?"

  "The same thing, for some of them—and their customers won't all be rich old women. For others—"

  "It's an easy job, mate!" A flashy juvenile crowded up to Pascal. "All you have to do is take this bundle across town to a house on Fleet Street!"

  Pascal looked tempted, lifting a hand, but Matt said, "And you'll be just fine, as long as nobody catches you—but if the Watch should happen to look in that bag, you'll spend the next couple of years in prison, and you won't even be able to tell them who hired you."

  "What business is it of yours, mate?" the youth asked, turning savagely on Matt.

  "My friends are always my business," Matt said, "sometimes even my enemies are." He let his anger out in a wolfish grin. "Want to be my enemy, bucko?"

  The youth stepped back, trepidation in his eyes.

  "Yuh. I do," growled a basso behind Matt's shoulder.

  Matt turned and found himself facing an expanse of bulging, hairy chest with a row of buttons on one side and buttonholes on the other. He followed the breastbone up to an unshaven chin, a cauliflower nose, and two gleaming piggy eyes over a gap-toothed grin. Matt felt his stomach hit bottom and bounce back up, but he scowled his fiercest and said, "You know what you're getting into?"

  "Yuh," the big beefy man said, and a huge fist came out of nowhere and struck sparks inside Matt's head just before a wall came up and slammed into his back. He straightened his legs, pushing back against the wall to hold him up while the ringing in his ears faded to the point where he could hear the big man's guttural laughter while he held a furious, flailing Pascal six inches off the ground. Flaminia's mouth was wide open, but Matt couldn't hear anything over the big guy's hooting.

  Except, maybe, the ringing of his lute strings when the instrument bumped into his side as he stepped away from the wall. He caught it and held it up—miraculously, it was undamaged. It must have swung wide about him as he shot backward, and thus slapped into his stomach instead of the wall. Matt staggered up to the giant, slipping the strap off his shoulder and reminding himself that he was a belted knight. That meant, among other things, that in this universe he could hit a lot harder than anyone his size ought to be able to.

  He staggered up to the thug, holding out the lute. "Here—hold this."

  The man blinked with surprise, dropped Pascal—Flaminia cried out and ran to pick him up—and took the lute. Matt nodded and slammed a right into his jaw.

  The big man dropped the lute—fortunately, it landed on Pascal—and staggered back. His buddies shouted in anger and charged in. Matt ducked the first punch, kicked the legs out from under the other punk, then straightened up just in time for the first guy's left to smack into his chest.

  Of course, the hoodlum had been aiming for his face, but the blow still knocked Matt back, staggering—and the big guy bellowed and waded back in, slab fist winding up for a very final punch.

  Matt knew when he was outnumbered. Knight or not, up against three seasoned street fighters he didn't stand a chance, unless he pulled his sword and started slicing—and he was reluctant to kill these guys without knowing why they deserved it. Also, there was the little problem of the local constabulary, who might take a very dim view of a tourist killing off three of the locals, even if they weren't paying taxes. That meant there was no way out but magic. If it worked here.

  But if he was going to run a spell, he had to do it fast—he ducked, and the big guy's first haymaker whizzed by overhead, but the next one would probably hit. Matt stepped inside and cracked another uppercut into his opponent's jaw. That would slow him down, but not for long—and Matt caught a jab in the short ribs on the way out. Wheezing, he nonetheless managed to chant,

  " 'Neath my clenched-up fist,

  Like diorite, he fell,

  And I left my views on Art

  Hammered hard upon the heart

  Of this mammoth thug,

  Whose friends all ran pell-mell."

  The big guy snarled and came at him again. Matt gulped, hoping the spell would work right, feinted with his left and, as the big guy lifted his right to block, bopped him soundly. The big guy stared at him for a second before he toppled.

  The other two punks stared in surprise, too, at their buddy's inert body.

  "So much for the main course." Matt pushed up his sleeves and started for the pair. "Now, about dessert..."

  They didn't even stay to curse him—they just ran.

  Matt watched them go, almost trembling with relief. Either his magic had worked ever so slightly, or he really had managed to fake out the big guy, and seeing him beat the unbeatable had scared his sidekicks—all thanks to Matt being a knight. Presumably having been knighted by a legendary emperor overcame even the anti-magic field of Latruria.

  But then, that was the way his magic had been working here—if it had been. There was every possibility that reciting verses was merely giving him an extra edge of self-confidence, by his believing he was working magic. If so, he intended to do nothing to puncture that illusion.

  He turned back to his two young charges. Pascal was holding Flaminia, Flaminia was holding the lute, and they were both staring at him with wide, frightened eyes. "You are a more powerful fighter than I took you for, friend Matthew," Pascal said.

  "How did you manage that?" Flaminia blurted.

  "Not as well as I could have," Matt said grimly, "or I wouldn't have had to start fighting. Come on, let's get away from here. The Watch will be swooping down any second now."

  "But why?" Pascal protested. "The fight is over!"

  "Safest time for them," Matt assured him. Besides, he knew that
if any sorcerer had been paying attention, they would have picked up the traces from the spell he had just worked and know there was a rival magic worker in town. He was very sure that King Boncorro maintained a twenty-four-hour magic sentry—he must, since he was still alive and on his throne.

  Not that it really mattered, of course. Boncorro, or one of his advisers, seemed to have known where Matt was every step of the way. In fact, it was a good possibility that the trio Matt had just chased off was one more group sent out to kill him.

  He didn't really think so, though. They hadn't come close enough to success. No, this was just the same kind of reception that greeted any new arrival in Venarra.

  As they entered one of the streets that led away from the plaza around the gate, they passed one of the more mature couples who had been with them. The woman, with her hands on her hips, was accusing, "You said you had gold in your purse!"

  "I did." The man held up the ragged stumps of two thongs tied to his belt. "The louse cut them through, and I never even knew!"

  "A fine guardian you are," the woman said with withering sarcasm.

  Flaminia plucked Matt's sleeve and pointed. "Yonder goes one of the beldames who greeted us, with three of the girls in our party in tow! Let us follow them—mayhap she will give us lodging for the night!"

  So she didn't share Matt's skepticism. He waged a brief struggle within himself, then decided that she couldn't come to too much harm with himself and Pascal near. "Okay. Let's go look."

  They followed the quartet down a broad concourse, keeping their distance. The madame was pointing out the sights. "Yonder coach, with the team and the footmen, is that of the Contessa of Mopona—see you her crest on the door? And yonder is the Theater of the Comedia."