The Secular Wizard

by Christopher Stasheff

  Saul fell back with a curse, and Arouetto with a gasp—but Matt grinned. "Manny! How did you find me?"

  "I did not," the manticore told him, "and since I could not, I found Pascal instead. But he has no money, and has put off the problem by promising the farmers all about that you will pay for my meat when you come."

  "Talk about faith! But yeah, I broke out of prison, and I'll give him a few ducats to settle up. Anybody trying to pick on him?"

  "No, worse luck," Manny sighed, "for I would not have felt bound by my promise to you if there had been an assassin to munch. His life seems to be tranquil enough when you are not about, Wizard."

  "He's not the first one to feel that way," Matt said. "Well, let us have a chat with him, Manny. Stay low."

  "As you wish, Wizard." Finally, the huge double grin flashed. "It is good to see you again."

  "Hey, you, too." Matt raised a hand to pat the tawny wall. "Go hide now, okay?"

  "Go well." Manny disappeared into the darkness and shrubbery.

  There were a few moments of silence. Then Arouetto asked, in a trembling voice, "Was that a manticore?"

  "Sure was," Matt confirmed. "Knew I couldn't fool you."

  "Man, you have some of the oddest friends!" Saul expostulated.

  "You should know, Saul. Well, let's meet my latest acquaintances and find out what their song is."

  "Their" turned out to be right, because half a dozen voices joined in on the chorus. As they came out of the trees, the words of the last verse became clear. Sure enough, it was promising everlasting love and joy, if only the damsel would come away with the singer—and there he was, seated at a table in the open air, lit by a few candles inside cut-off bottles and gazing into the eyes of his beloved: Pascal; and the woman who was staring back at him adoringly was Flaminia.

  Matt stopped still in astonishment.

  "Which is your young friend, Lord Wizard?" Arouetto asked.

  "The one who was singing," Matt said. "I didn't know he could."

  Arouetto turned and looked, then smiled. "Love can lift a man to accomplish miracles, Lord Wizard."

  "Miracles is right! As far as I knew, he was tone-deaf!"

  "Guess you didn't know him as well as you thought," Saul said.

  "No, I guess not. And he let me carry the whole burden of the minstrel routine!" Matt strode ahead, caught between relief to see his two young friends so happy and well, and anger at Pascal for holding out on him.

  Pascal kissed Flaminia, and the other youngsters cheered. The lovers didn't even notice—they took their time and were just breaking off when one of the other young men noticed Matt. The youth looked up, alert and ready to defend, but open and provisionally affable. "Good evening, friend. Why have you come?"

  Pascal looked up, then leaped to his feet. "Friend Matthew!" He jumped up to clasp Matt by the shoulders. "I rejoice to see you well! I will own that I had some concern for you, alone there in the town."

  "And I was a little worried about you," Matt said, clapping him on the shoulder, "but I see you came out okay. How'd you connect with these people?"

  "Why, I found myself in the middle of their fields, and they were kind enough to take us in."

  "Small enough kindness, when we needed extra hands," a tow-headed young man said.

  The redheaded young woman next to him added, "For one with a voice like that, we can easily find room!"

  "I thank you, friends," Pascal said, "but I hope that I do my share in the fields, too."

  "Oh, without question!" said a burly young man whose blond hair contrasted oddly with his deep suntan, "and you have a bond with the land. Indeed, you seem to know as much about the raising of a crop as I do."

  "Thank you, Escribo." Pascal smiled. "I am a squire's son, after all, and have known this work all my life."

  Matt noticed that he didn't say he had actually done the work. "Your crops seem to be doing well, though."

  "They do." Escribo nodded. "And with luck, we will reap well for our first harvest."

  "First?" Matt looked around. "This is your first year, then?"

  "It is," Escribo said. "The king lowered the taxes, and my father used the money to buy land from those who wished to work in Venarra. For five years he has bought more land and given employment to the landless youth of the district—but this spring they all chose to go into Venarra for work. My father nearly despaired, for he could never have worked so much land by himself—so I left my work at the inn in Venarra and came back to help him. But even together, we could see we would never be able to till so many acres—so I called in my friends, who had spent many hours in the inn but never had more than a few days' work at a time, and they came out to help us."

  "We are city-bred, though," said another of the girls, "and know nothing of the land."

  "You are apt pupils," said Escribo, and everyone laughed.

  Matt realized it was some sort of inside joke, but even as he was deciding not to ask, Arouetto said, "Whose words had you studied before, then?"

  "Why, those of the courtiers who took rooms at our inn," said Escribo, "for it is the finest in Venarra, and noblemen lodged there with their families, until King Boncorro could make room for them in the castle. That is why there was so frequently a week's extra work for a dozen other younglings."

  "And why they were always hanging around, waiting for more." Matt nodded.

  "So you overheard the noblemen talking of poetry?"

  "More often their tutors, lecturing their sons over wine," Escribo answered. "We began to find their talk fascinating, and tried our hands at it. But there were also the painters and sculptors that the king had brought to beautify his castle, and the builders of the new palace he is raising, and merchants coming to sell goods to the court, with tales of the wonders of the Moslem cities."

  "And the merchants had picked up some of the knowledge of the Moslem scholars?"

  "Even some of the books," a dark-haired young man said. "They allowed us to read a chapter or two while they dined."

  "But none of us have the gift of verse that our new friend has." Escribo turned to Pascal. "And he says he has had no training in it!"

  "I have not." Pascal blushed. "And you are kind, but I have little skill."

  "Perhaps you are too modest," Arouetto said. "Let us hear your verses."

  "Why, you did," Escribo said, "even as you came up."

  "You sing your own words, then? Excellent! But we did not hear the beginning of it."

  "He sings of other things besides love," a black-haired young man said. "Tell him of the work in the fields, Pascal."

  "Oh, no, good Lelio!" Pascal cried, alarmed. "To a few good friends, aye, but to a stranger..."

  "You are too modest." Flaminia slid up against him, resting her head against his chest. "Let the words flow, Pascal, that I may be swept away on their tide."

  Pascal looked down at her in surprise, then smiled and said, "Well, for you, then, dear Flaminia, but not for him."

  "Let him eavesdrop," she said. Pascal sighed and began to sing.

  Matt stood in a daze, listening to the syllables cascade from Pascal's lips. They tinkled and swirled about him, dazzling and bearing him along in their flow, but somehow never lodging long enough for him to extract any meaning from them.

  Then it was over, and Matt caught his breath. The boy was fantastically talented! But the sense of the words had eluded him; the only coherent thought that stayed behind was that this song wouldn't work much in the way of magic, for it had only been describing the land and the work and Pascal's state of mind, and would make no change except to bring back the good feeling he bad gained from the land. Good feelings? Exultation!

  "You have a gift like that," he said, "and you wanted to waste your time chasing a knighthood?"

  Pascal's face darkened; he lowered his gaze as his friends broke out in a chorus of protest. When they had quieted, he raised his gaze to Matt and said, "These are only idle amusements, Matthew—a wonderful pleasure in themselves, but
surely only for filling the idle hour, never for a life's work."

  The chorus of protest struck again, but this time Arouetto's voice joined it, and went on when the others had quieted. "The souls of all men need rest and nourishment, young man, aye, and uplifting, too! If you are gifted in that, you may do more good than a whole company of knights!"

  Pascal stared, astonished, but so did Escribo. He turned to Arouetto and demanded, "How can he, when it is all loveliness and no meaning?"

  "Aye," Lelio seconded. "Our friend Pascal makes the most lovely strains of sound in the world, but how can he enlighten men when the meaning slips from our grasp even as we listen?"

  He smiled at Arouetto as he said it, but it was a challenge, with resentment against the intruder behind it. The scholar only smiled down at him, though, and said, "Have you never heard that a poem should not mean, but be?"

  Lelio stared—and so, for that matter, did the other young folks. Pascal finally broke the spell to protest, "But it does have meaning! It speaks of the way I felt as I labored, of the insight I gained suddenly, of the union between myself and the earth and Flaminia and us all!"

  "It does, most surely," Arouetto agreed, "and if we sit down and read through those words, we can extract that meaning and state it clearly and concisely—but it is far better to experience the poem as a sensory delight, and absorb the meaning in the process."

  "But might we not then be persuaded of a principle we would never approve, in clear and sober judgment?" a plump girl asked.

  "Well asked, Berylla!" Lelio seconded.

  "You might indeed," Arouetto told her. "That is why you should analyze the poem before you have heard it too many times—but do not deprive yourself of the pleasure of hearing it without weighing it at least once, and better, several times."

  "Who are you?" Lelio asked.

  "Lelio!" Berylla cried, shocked.

  "No, it must be asked!" Lelio insisted. He leaned forward, frowning up at Arouetto. "For the same reason you have just told us to analyze a poem, we must know whose words we hear, that we may judge the rightness of any one idea of yours within the context of your whole philosophy. Who are you?"

  "I am no philosopher, but only a poor scholar. My name is Arouetto."

  The circle of young folk froze, staring. Then Berylla stammered. "Not—Not the Arouetto who has translated Ovid and Virgil for us?"

  "Not the Arouetto whose Story of Reme is the talk of all the tutors?"

  "Not the Arouetto whose Geography is the boon companion of every merchant?"

  "I must admit my culpability." But there was a gleam of amusement and triumph in Arouetto's eye.

  "A chair for the scholar!" Lelio leaped up, offering his own, while Escribo ran to fetch another.

  "Wine for the scholar!" Berylla filled a goblet and set it in front of him.

  "Anything the scholar wants," said another girl, with a deep soulful look.

  "Why, I want what any scholar wants," Arouetto sighed, "the company of keen minds and their questions, filled with the enthusiasm of youth."

  "Oh, that you shall have in plenty!" another young man assured him. "Is it true that you read Greek, but have not yet translated Homer?"

  "I have not yet had that audacity," Arouetto confirmed.

  "But you must! For if you do not, how shall we ever read those epics, which are fabled to be so excellent?"

  "I cannot yet truly appreciate the spirit of the Athenians," Arouetto protested.

  "But at least you can appreciate it—and we cannot, who have never read any book written by the Greeks!"

  "What of Pythagoras?" Escribo pushed the extra chair over to Lelio and sat down in his own. "Can you explain why he was both mathematician and musician?"

  "Ah! That, young man... What is your name?"

  "Escribo, sir!"

  "Escribo, Pythagoras was, above and beyond all else, a mystic, who sought nothing less than to understand the whole of the universe and the nature of human existence! Music and mathematics alike were means to understanding this whole, that is all."

  "Music, a means to understanding the universe?" Flaminia leaned forward, staring. "How can that be?"

  Arouetto began to tell them.

  Saul sidled up to Matt and asked, "How's it feel to be the Forgotten Man?"

  "A little deflating," Matt confessed, "but under the circumstances, I don't mind at all."

  "Oh? Why not?"

  "Because I think I've found just the thing to wangle a way into King Boncorro's favor."

  Saul glanced at the seminar in surprise, then back at Matt. "Just don't suck them into anything that's going to go sour, okay?"

  "No," Matt said slowly, "I don't think there's too much chance of that."

  They watched and listened with delight and fond memories, until finally Pascal sat bolt-upright and cried, "My Heavens, the hour! And we must hoe tomorrow!"

  "Let the weeds grow," Escribo told him. "One day will not hurt the crops so very much—but we may never again have such a chance to hear a true scholar speak!"

  "We must not keep him if he grows weary," Berylla cautioned.

  "Weary, when so many good-hearted young folk are pouring energy into me? Never!" Arouetto smiled. "I shall talk as long as you, my young friends!"

  "The professor's ego trip," Saul sighed. "Hooks 'em every time."

  "Even so, there are a lot worse ways of boosting your ego," Matt reminded him. "Besides, it only works on real teachers."

  "And just what do you think you're going to do with them?"

  "Crash the seminar, of course." Matt glanced at the stars and made a quick guess at the time. "Even so, I think I had better turn in—I'm going to need my energy tomorrow." He waited for a lull in the conversation, then called out, "Escribo! Mind if I lie down in your barn?"

  "Barn?" The young man started up, looking guilty. "No, my friend! You must have a proper bed!"

  "Tomorrow night," Matt told him. "Right now, I wouldn't dream of busting up the conference—and hay will make a fine bed, better than most I've had lately." He turned to the scholar. "Good night, Arouetto. Next time, charge tuition."

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  "Look, I gave you a day to rest up," Matt said, "and I warned you we would have to leave around noon. Can I help it if you stayed up all night talking again?"

  "But when I have been alone so many years," Arouetto groaned, "young and eager minds are so hard to resist!"

  "I understand, and I wish more of my professors had thought that way. But now we have another prospective student for you to talk to."

  "And who is that?"

  "The king. Okay, Saul, grab his other hand. Ready? Chant!"

  They had worked this out before they told Arouetto—decided they needed to make the most dramatic entrance possible, and worked out the verse that would do it. They stood in the center of the farmyard, calling out,

  "Stouthearted men, which fondly here admire

  Fair sounding discourse, studious delight,

  Transported to the throne room bright

  Of King Boncorro, where courtiers aspire

  To curry favor, and claw their way up higher!"

  Nothing happened. Well, actually, for a moment they felt a terrific straining around them, a feeling of being caught in the center of a whirlpool made of two forces pulling and pushing against one another and trying to stretch them out of shape in the process—but the whirlpool suddenly seemed to snap back against them, rocking them all.

  "What was that?" Arouetto gasped.

  "That was our transportation spell, crashing headlong into King Boncorro's protective spell," Matt said. "Blast! He's too strong! Even the two of us together couldn't break through!"

  "Well," Saul said, eyeing Stegoman, "we do have another means of transport that's almost as dramatic."

  "More so, in its way." Matt turned to his old friend with a sigh. "Sorry to have to ask you again, Stegoman—but would you mind terribly much flying into the jaws of mortal danger again?"

 
As they circled around the castle, Arouetto reached over Matt's shoulder to point. "What troop of glittering cavalry is that?"

  "Queen Alisande!" Matt yelped. "That's no army—that's my wife!"

  "Think we ought to wait for her to catch up?" Saul called.

  Matt thought about it while Stegoman swept through another quarter turn, coming closer. Below him, people in the courtyard began to scream and point, or run, according to their taste.

  "No," Matt said, "let's go on in. A little more surprise won't hurt."

  Five miles away Ortho the Frank pointed at the wheeling form and cried, "Your Majesty! 'Tis the dragon Stegoman!"

  Alisande looked up, surprised, then cried, "Surely it is he! But why does he not come to us?"

  "He goes to the king's castle instead, your Majesty! There must be a most strenuous reason!"

  "Matthew in danger!" Alisande's hand fell to her sword, then windmilled up to signal to her army. "Ride, men of mine! Your master is endangered! Ride, and bring down that fell keep if we must!"

  The army shouted behind her and kicked their horses into a canter.

  Matt and Saul muttered quick ricochet spells, and the crossbow bolts and spears fell clattering to the parapet as Stegoman glided over. People shrieked and scrambled out of the way as he lowered down toward the courtyard; the effect was of a big circle opening in the daily traffic, and Stegoman came to rest in it. Then he lifted his head and roared, letting out a blast of flame. "Take my master to the king! And woe unto him who tries to smite me!"

  Matt slid down and turned to ease the scholar to the ground as Saul and Sir Guy helped lower him, then leaped down beside them.

  "Stay here," Matt told Stegoman, "unless there's danger. If there is, take off and circle until we come out."

  "Gladly." Stegoman glared about him, paying special attention to any of the guards who seemed to be trying to pluck up nerve. "Which of these churls would seek to hinder me?"

  "Sorcerers," Matt answered, "though I suspect the main one is going to be too busy to worry about a bat wing in his bailey. Still, let's make it tougher for him." He began to march around Stegoman, chanting,