The Secular Wizard

by Christopher Stasheff

  Matt interrupted before the man reinvented the whole New Deal. "How about the women?"

  "The very thing!" Boncorro snapped his fingers, turning to Matt. "Set them to weaving! Train them to the finest in needlework—most of them excel in it already, if Baron Garchi's peasants are any guide. We would export carpets, tapestries, the finest in craftsmanship!"

  "But it is men who are weavers!" Rebozo was beginning to sweat.

  "Not in their own homes," Boncorro countered, "and not in other countries. No, let us build a new industry with some of these truant country lasses."

  "The crown cannot risk so much!"

  "The crown is the only one who can." There was steel under Boncorro's tone now. "Naetheless, I would not have the crown own everything—"

  Rebozo let out a bleat of agony. "Of course the crown owns everything! Your Majesty, if you must persist in this folly, at least ensure that all the revenues come to yourself!"

  "No, I must manure my fields." Boncorro looked off into space, a certain whimsical light coming into his eye. "We shall find some enterprising young merchant who wishes to work twenty hours a day for the next six years or so, and lend him the money to begin such an industry—no, five young merchants! Then, as they pay us back, we shall find other young merchants to begin similar works! What a marvelous idea!"

  "Socialistic capitalism." Matt was keenly interested in watching a power play in action—not that there seemed to be much Rebozo could do to stop the king. Either he wasn't really a very powerful sorcerer, or the king was.

  Of course, Rebozo might have been playing a more subtle game than either of them realized...

  "What was it you said?" The king's attention returned to Matt.

  "I would say your Majesty is a materialist," Matt said carefully. "Somewhat idealistic perhaps, but a materialist nonetheless."

  "Not if materialism is a religion." Boncorro regarded him narrowly again.

  "Well, it seems to be, to some people—but rest assured, it isn't to you. You seem to have introduced something entirely new to medieval society."

  "Have I indeed! And what is that?"

  "Secularism," Matt said. "Worldliness that is neither wicked nor virtuous in itself."

  "Why, then, a secular king I shall be! For I have most thoroughly rejected both Good and Evil, Lord Wizard, of that you may be sure!"

  "No wonder, having seen your grandfather killed by the one, and your father killed in spite of his devotion to the other. But as I understand this universe we live in, your Majesty, you don't have that kind of option—you have to be one or the other. Even if you manage to balance the two during your lifetime, you can't escape the consequences after your death."

  "Be still!" The king scowled. "Bid me not think of mine end when I am still young!"

  "Memento mori." Matt wondered if Latin here was close enough to the Roman language of his own world for the king to understand it.

  Apparently so; Rebozo's stare verged on panic. But Boncorro's education was apparently lacking, for he only frowned and said, "I will not think of the afterlife, not until I have found some mystic charm that will make my soul cease to exist completely when my body dies! I may not receive the rewards of virtue, but I will at least cheat Satan of the punishments of wickedness."

  And to think most people wanted immortality! "How would you feel if I started a speech to you by saying, 'O King, live forever!'?"

  "An intriguing notion! Do you know how it may be achieved?"

  "Afraid not," Matt admitted.

  "Still, it is a worthy line of inquiry," Boncorro said judiciously. "I shall have to find a sorcerer of an inquisitive turn of mind and set him to the investigation of it."

  The chancellor stared in surprise, then developed a very thoughtful look.

  That was one train of thought Matt figured he'd better derail. "Your people say you are a good king, your Majesty—even a great one." After all, a little flattery never hurt.

  Boncorro grinned, lapping it up. "I would never deny it." But there was a guarded look in his eyes; he knew flattery when he heard it, and suspected the motives. "Your magic, now, Lord Wizard—do you draw on the power of Goodness?"

  "Oh, yes," Matt said, "though it's sometimes accidental."

  Rebozo looked at him as if he were primed to explode, but Boncorro only frowned. "By accident? How can one be good by accident?"

  "You should know," Matt said, amused. "However, in my case, it's because I'm preoccupied. You see, I'm usually more concerned with the power of poetry than with its source."

  "Why, what a fascinating notion!" Boncorro cried. "I have always loved verse! In fact, I intend to install a Poet Laureate when my treasuries are restored to their proper level!"

  "Even kings have to stop and think about what they can afford," Matt sighed, "in this case, a venture that definitely won't produce a profit."

  "Yes, but perhaps you have found a way to do so!"

  "Oh, I doubt that," Matt said. "Even here, poetry doesn't exactly make gold."

  "By reputation, though, it has made you powerful!"

  Matt shrugged uncomfortably. "The pen is mightier than the sword, your Majesty."

  "Is it indeed?" A slow smile curved Boncorro's lips. "Let us experiment, Lord Wizard!"

  A chill fanned out over Matt's back. "Oh. You've decided to test how strong I am, huh?"

  "You could call it that." Rebozo gave him a nasty grin that revealed some gaping holes in medieval dentistry.

  "Yes, let us look at it as a test of your powers!" Boncorro urged. "For I would hate to be thought lacking in hospitality, even if the guest is uninvited! We shall accord you accommodations, Lord Wizard!"

  Matt frowned. "Let me get this straight. You're going to give me a place to stay, and that's going to test how strong a wizard I am?"

  "It is a matter of the sort of accommodations," the chancellor said, his eyes glittering.

  "Oh." Matt sighed. He settled his lute more firmly on his back. "You mean I get to spend the night in the dungeon."

  "The night," Rebozo agreed, "or much longer."

  "So the test of my powers is finding out if I can escape from your dungeon?"

  "If you are so mighty a wizard as to warrant my listening to your advice," the king said, "you will no doubt be able to escape my prison with ease."

  Matt shook his head sadly. "Really, your Majesty! I had expected better of you!"

  "Oh?" Boncorro said in surprise. "Surely you realize that I cannot have you wandering at liberty about my kingdom, Lord Wizard! Are you so certain of your ability to escape, then?"

  Matt shrugged. "I've escaped from a few jails before this, and I'll be surprised if yours is much of an improvement." He looked up at the guards, who were shuffling their feet nervously. "Well, let's go to it, boys!"

  "You do not object?" Rebozo asked, amazed.

  "Object? Of course I object! But I don't mind. I always meet the most fascinating people in dungeons." As long as Flaminia and Pascal were safe out in the countryside, a night on moldering straw might even be restful.

  The chancellor gave Matt a whetted glance. "His Majesty has a special dungeon for competing magi! If you can escape this prison, Lord Wizard, you must be doughty indeed!"

  For the first time Matt began to feel a stab of doubt—doubt that built quickly into apprehension as Boncorro spread his hands and began to chant in a language Matt didn't even remotely begin to recognize. He had always mistrusted foreign languages, ever since he pulled that D in Freshman German. Besides, how could you counter a poem if you didn't know what it meant? Not that that had stopped the postmoderns...

  Boncorro spun his fists together as if tying a knot—and disappeared.

  Disappearing, Matt was used to—he'd come up against half a dozen wizards and sorcerers who could disappear. But he'd never before run into one who could take everybody else with him—as well as all the buildings in the vicinity, and the cobblestones of the street, and, now that you mentioned it, even the sky and the sun.


  He hadn't taken the light, though. At least Matt could see everything that was left, even if the light was gray and wan and formless. It was the epitome of indirect lighting—it didn't even cast his shadow. Of course, that could have been because there was no surface for the light to cast his shadow onto—and it might have been pale because it was filtered through all that fog.

  All fog—everything was fog. Matt looked about him—it was like being inside a cloud, only this time there was no jet plane around him. Just to check, he looked underneath him, but all he could see was more of the same gray mist. He stared about him wild-eyed, trying to stifle the panic that was climbing up his throat. He told himself that he should take a bold step forward to break out of this prison—but found that he was afraid to. Okay, there seemed to be something solid beneath his feet just now—but was it the only spot of substance in this pocket universe?

  He stood, tense and stiffened, afraid to take a single step, to move so much as an inch for fear of a never-ending fall. He had to give it to Boncorro—as a dungeon for sorcerers, this was a beauty!

  Well, at least the king had been right about one thing—if Matt could get himself out of this one, he would definitely be somebody worth listening to—that is, if he could still talk.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Ortho the Frank stopped abruptly, holding up a hand. The horseman behind narrowly managed to avoid a collision, and that only by swerving his cantering steed to the side, which made the rider next to Ortho sheer off, and the man behind him rein in with an oath, while the man to the side of the man to the side had to pull over, but not quite as much. A knot in the traffic flow developed, and the army ground to a halt.

  Fortunately, Queen Alisande had been on Ortho's other side—in fact, that was why the rider behind had swerved wide, though the huge presence of Stegoman the dragon might have had something to do with that, too. But she was nonetheless peeved at having her cantering army coming to a stop. Still, she knew better than to tax a wizard while he was doing his job. After he was done with his job, maybe... She wrenched her mind away from a sudden craving for oatmeal with sauerkraut sauce and asked, "What moves, Ortho?"

  "Your husband." Ortho's voice seemed distant, reverberating from a long journey bouncing off cavern walls. "He is in great trouble, very profound."

  The thrill of fear banished all thoughts of oatmeal, even if that sauerkraut sauce would be delicious right now. "Is he in peril of his life?"

  "Nay. There is no danger of death."

  Alisande relaxed a little and couldn't help thinking that sauerkraut was vastly underrated. She put the notion aside with resolute insistence and focused her attention on the problem. "What danger can he be in, then?"

  "Danger that he may be doomed to dwell in a dungeon cell," the wizard breathed, "that he may never win free again, never return."

  Panic gripped Alisande all over again. To be bereft of her husband, and especially at a time like this...! She turned in her saddle, waving a clenched fist aloft. "Onward, men of mine! To Venarra! We must pry open the king's castle as if it were a nutshell!"

  A shout of approval answered her, but as it died, a different kind of shout went up from the vanguard. Alisande turned, wondering what it might be.

  "A courier comes," said Sir Guy, and beside him the dragon Stegoman lowered his great scaly head to say, "He wears King Boncorro's colors."

  Alisande turned to the messenger with a glare that could have melted a glacier. "What does your master wish, sirrah!"

  The courier pulled in his horse, amazed and frightened by the total absence of protocol. "Your Majesty!" he stammered, and dismounted to kneel. "I bear greetings from King Boncorro, through the mouth of his chancellor, Lord Rebozo!"

  Which meant that the king might not know of this errand—but if he did, the words had better be to Alisande's liking. "What says the Lord Chancellor?"

  "He bids you welcome to Latruria, Majesty, and asks if you have come seeking Lord Matthew Mantrell."

  Alisande stiffened. "I have indeed!"

  "Then he bids you be easy in your heart as regards the Lord Wizard's welcome here, your Majesty, for Lord Matthew is no longer in Latruria!"

  Alisande stared, feeling the frisson of danger, very sinister danger, spreading icy needle jabs all over her skin. "Is he not, then?"

  "Nay, Majesty, though, says the Lord Chancellor, the Lord Wizard was severely lacking in courtesy not to announce himself openly, but to come in secret, like a spy."

  All expression left Alisande's face; the criticism felt like a slap. "You may tell the Lord Chancellor that my husband has ever had a taste for going in disguise among the common folk, that he may have a truer sense of their needs—and that I am sure it was concern for the relatives of Merovence's folk that led him across your borders. But where has my Lord Matthew gone?"

  "Why... the Lord Chancellor did not say!" the courier stammered. "I would be surprised if he did know, Majesty!"

  "He speaks the truth," Ortho muttered, his gaze still halfway in some other world.

  The truth as he knew it, Alisande amended. She, however, was quite sure that Chancellor Rebozo did indeed know where Matt had gone, and suspected that what Rebozo knew, his master knew. "You may give the Lord Chancellor my greetings and tell him that I am pleased to learn of the hospitality he has offered my husband. Tell him that I shall find a way to return the favor in equal measure." There, she thought, let him hear that and tremble. "But tell his Majesty that, since I have come this far, I shall press on to Venarra and make a visit of state. I have not, after all, had the opportunity to congratulate him on his coronation."

  The courier paled, catching the implied rebuke—which, of course, he was very right to do; Alisande was still smarting at not having been invited, though she knew well that inviting the ruler of a kingdom dedicated to the Rule of Right to the coronation of a king dedicated to the Rule of Might was like inviting a dozen wildcats to a dogs' party.

  The courier ducked his head in a bow, leaped up and scrambled back onto his horse. If anything, his face was paler than before. He turned his mount...

  And found himself hemmed in by a sea of hostile faces.

  "Conduct our guest to the edge of our army," Alisande purred, "and see him on his way with every courtesy. We would not, after all, wish our message to go astray."

  "It has already been heard," Ortho breathed, like a breeze in leafy branches.

  Alisande didn't doubt it for a second; she had dealt with sorcerers before. She had noticed a beetle clinging to the courier's shoulder and had thought that it might indeed be enchanted to send the sound and sight of this meeting to Chancellor Rebozo, or at least to allow him to focus on the scene in his crystal ball, or a bowl of ink. "Send him forth with all ceremony! For surely, it is ceremony that is our concern now!"

  The courier glanced at her with apprehension. She noted with approval that the man must know the ways of the court well, to catch the implication that she knew that King Boncorro knew what she was thinking that he was thinking, so that all that was left to do was to go through the motions. She watched the man ride away, reflecting that he was wise to be apprehensive. Only the motions, yes, but those motions might be the handshake of peace or the blows of war.

  Her attention turned inward for the moment; reflexively, she pressed her hand to her abdomen, hoping for the first time in her life that it would not be war, not now. Yes, she hoped indeed that King Boncorro would receive them with outward hospitality, would go through motions that at least said they were not enemies, though also not friends.

  She found herself hoping that his kitchen stocked sauerkraut.

  Bad enough that everything was misty—now it was getting dark, too! Matt had finally summoned the willpower to risk a very tentative step, and when the yielding surface had held up as he gradually transferred his weight from one foot to the other, he had risked a second step, then a third. There was a floor there, all right, and occasionally he actually saw wisps of dry grass poking through the mist
around his ankles, so he assumed it must be ground. Besides, it was very uneven, and he stumbled a lot.

  After a while dim shapes seemed to be hulking in the mist, darker gray amidst lighter gray, but when he moved toward them, they faded. Were they really mirages, or was he somehow going astray when he thought he was going right at them?

  At least he wasn't going to die of thirst—all he had to do was open his mouth, and in a minute enough moisture condensed to calm his needs. He was definitely getting hungry, though, and very tired.

  Then the light began to go.

  The only thing worse than twilight in a strange place is darkness when everything has been twilight already. It did occur to him that he might have been in London on a bad day, but it didn't seem very likely—unless the whole city had gone on vacation at the same time. Besides, they would have had streetlights, and here he couldn't see any light at all.

  So, everything considered, he was overwhelmingly relieved when one of the shadow shapes lasted long enough for him to come up to it, though it filled his whole field of view—even if it was the darkest, gloomiest, most forbidding castle he had ever set eyes on, made of black granite and dripping with rivulets of moisture. As he came up to it, the fog seemed to lift, becoming a lowering sky instead of an environment in its own right. Off to his left he saw a brackish, turgid lake that extended a pseudopod to feed the castle's moat. Looking down, Matt saw dark water with a greenish tinge—the first color he had seen in this alien environment. Now that he thought of it, he glanced down at his own parti-colored clothing, but instead of brilliant red and blue and yellow, it all seemed to be just different shades of gray, with only a hint of hue. Anxiety touched him—this dampness had to be bad for his lute! He had to get it indoors, preferably near a roaring fire—if this strange pocket universe had fire...

  He looked down at the moat again and thought he saw lumps in it. If he did, they were moving. He looked away with a shudder, thinking that he would have preferred to see teeth and glowing eyes. But the drawbridge was down, the portcullis drawn up, and never mind if its spikes did look like fangs, if the doorway itself reminded him of a hungry mouth, he took a step onto the tongue—no, that was a drawbridge—and another step, and another, until he was nearly at the doorway.