Secular Wizard

by Christopher Stasheff

  “Still, it was worth the cost of a teacher, to gain this report! Well, we shall have to wait till the man comes home, for his reeve to question him more closely. If it is her Majesty’s wizard, though, we shall not have long to wait till he seeks to cross the border and stop the unrest at its source!”

  The secretary looked up in alarm. “He could set all of King Boncorro’s plan awry, my lord, and your own as well!”

  The chancellor waved a hand to dismiss the notion. “The king’s plans are my plans, LoClercchi, no matter how I may caution him and plead the course of prudence.”

  “And your plans are his?” the secretary asked, amused. But Rebozo shook his head. “I cannot claim that, for I would not of myself depart so quickly from the old king’s ways. Indeed, I tremble for my young master, and hope that the Devil will not too quickly become so angry as to destroy him.”

  “And us with him.” LoClercchi’s voice trembled. “Let us hope our young king keeps his balance on the tightrope he has stretched for himself.”

  “Fences have their purposes,” Rebozo agreed, “but serving as pathways was never one of them. Still, we have no choice but to resign or to follow him-and I am too old to seek new work, and too deeply steeped in sin to wish to reform.” He looked up at his secretary. “You, however, are still young, LoClercchi. If you wish to go, you may.”

  LoClercchi stared at his employer, silently weighing the relative merits of a virtuous life of uncertain income and modest means, with the certainty of wealth and privilege that came from serving the chancellor. His decision was almost instantaneous, for he had fought the long battle against this temptation years before, and periodically since. Like many young men, he decided there would be time enough to work on salvation later-after he had made his fortune. “I am loyal to you, my lord.”

  Rebozo nodded, satisfied. “Good, good. Let us deal, then, with the problem of this Lord Wizard.”

  “Perhaps he shall not become a problem,” LoClercchi said hopefully. “Perhaps he shall stay on his own side of the border.”

  “Perhaps, LoClercchi, but also perhaps not. Certainly he is nothing to worry about-yet. But I prefer to do my worrying in advance; it makes no sense to take undue chances-and it is my duty to King Boncorro not to wait until the man becomes a threat. Write for me.”

  The secretary seized parchment and ink. Rebozo began to pace as he dictated, “My dear young Camano-you are, I believe, currently in the castle of your father, the Count d’Arrete, hard by the Alps in Merovence. I suspect that a nobleman or knight may soon call at your gate for hospitality, claiming to be only a knight errant, or a messenger about the queen’s business, or some such. Be not deceived-this man is a wizard, and may well be the Lord Wizard of Merovence.”

  He went on to detail exactly how the young lord should test the man, and how he should deal with him-in no uncertain terms. When the secretary had finished writing, Rebozo took the quill and signed the document. Then he took it to a separate table, sprinkled it with a powder that stank abominably, muttered a verse in an arcane language, and touched a candle’s flame to a corner of the document. It went up in a flash that lit the whole chamber and was gone in less than a second. The chancellor nodded, satisfied. “He will find that on his table when he comes to his chamber this night, a hundred miles to the north.” He gathered his robe about him, shivering. “Glad I am that I do not have to suffer the rigors of that climate, so hard by the mountains! Well, we shall see what young Lord Camano may make of this wizard. In any case, we shall discover his purpose.”

  He turned back to his secretary. “Now-issue orders that as soon as the cooks and scullery maids are done with their work, they be taken to my audience chamber. As the servers are released from their duties, let each be taken to join them. Then I shall question each one alone, and closely.”

  LoClercchi looked up with a frown. “What good is that? Whoever poisoned the wine, he shall already be fled!”

  “He shall,” the chancellor sighed, “if he was here at all, and not some sorcerer enchanting the wine from miles away-or a wizard; let us not forget that our young king has enemies in both camps now.”1 “What sorcerer has n-” But Rebozo’s glare froze the words on his secretary’s tongue, and he did not finish the sentence. “Of course, there are his courtiers, too, any one of whom might have dropped poison in the wine when the server was ogling one of our oh-so-casual beauties,” the chancellor went on, as if there had been no interruption, “but our good Boncorro would certainly never approve their questioning on so mere a suspicion. No, we shall go through the forms, LoClercchi, but we shall learn nothing. I would that we could torture a few of them as we did in the old days, so that we might at least gain a satisfying answer!”

  “Even if it were not true,” LoClercchi murmured. ‘True!“ cried the chancellor, exasperated. ”What matters truth? Satisfying our master-that is everything!“

  Chapter 3

  The Captain of the Guard gave Matt a jaundiced look. “A knight errant, without armor?”

  “I lost it at the last tournament,” Matt explained. “I know, I know, I’m a little old to be a knight bachelor-but what can you do? Some of us are just more talented than others.”

  “Well, you would not be the first knight to come to this door when he is in misfortune,” the guard admitted. “Still, I can tell by your bearing and your raiment that you are indeed a knight.”

  That gave Matt a feeling of satisfaction. He’d worked at choosing upper-class clothing that looked just worn enough to be right for a knight with a string of bad tournaments behind him. The bearing, of course, came from actually having been knighted. That was the way things worked in this universe. “Thank you, Captain! Now, if you could send someone to guide me to your lord, I should like to pay my respects.”

  “Aye, and that is all you will pay,” the soldier grumbled. “Ho! Page!”

  A passing boy stopped passing and sprinted up to the captain, skidding to a halt that ended in a perfunctory bow. “Escort this stranger to the count,” the officer told him, “and be mindful that he is a guest!” Then he snapped his fingers, and a hostler came forward to take Matt’s horse. “Sir Matthew of Bath, you say?” The Count d’Arrete gazed up at the ceiling, stroking his beard. “Ah! Now I have it! ‘Tis a town in Angland, is it not?’

  Matt always marveled that England, Scotland, and Ireland had pretty much the same names in this universe as they did in his own-Angland, Scotia, and Eire. All the other countries had names he scarcely recognized, though he could pick out their sources. On the other hand, the English language that he knew and loved didn’t exist here-everyone in Angland spoke the same language spoken in Merovence, and throughout Europe, for that matter. There was no English Channel in this version of Earth, so Hardishane, this world’s counterpart to Charlemagne, had conquered the Anglo-Saxons, Welsh, and Scots, too. Eire had joined of its own free will, or at least become an ally-Matt wasn’t too clear on the history; the books in Alisande’s library only gave him a vague general outline, and he hadn’t had the time to go to Angland and check on the primary sources. He did gather, though, that the Vikings had been pretty thoroughly repulsed, though he wasn’t sure how. There was a lot of the history of this universe he didn’t know-including what had happened in Latruria. He did know that the capital city of the ancient empire had been named Reme, not Rome, which presumably meant that Remus had won the fistfight, not Romulus-not that it made much difference. Beyond that, he had only the most sketchy outline of Classical history, and what he had was suspect-it sounded entirely too wholesome to be Roman, not that such considerations would matter now. “It is, your Lordship. There are medicinal baths there. Personally, I don’t think they heal you so much as just make you feel better-lying around in hot water always has that effect on me, at least.”

  “Hot water, you say? An interesting notion! I must journey there sometime and try it!”

  Matt almost pointed out that the count could heat water over the fire right here in his own castle, bu
t bit his tongue in time-the man was likely to try a dip in boiling water. No, let him stay with the natural way.I “So you are a knight of the Bath!” Count d’Arrete chuckled at his own witticism, and his courtiers dutifully echoed him. Matt managed to force a smile himself. He actually was a knight of the bath, of course, and the cold tub had been administered in Emperor Hardishane’s secret tomb-but there was no need to mention that.“Ah, you have heard that jest many times, I see,” the count said ruefully. “Well, stay and join us at meat this evening, stranger! We are always glad to have visitors, to bring us news of the world outside our domain-but most especially tonight, when my cousins from Latruria are at last able to join us! Their young king has opened the border these last few years, and has now even given permission for his noblemen to journey to visit kinsmen!”

  Matt pricked up his ears. Talk about good luck! Unless, of course,virtuallyallthemarcher baronswereentertaining relatives-which was probable, if permission had just now been granted. “It has been many years since kin could visit kin, my lord. ”Generations! Not since my grandfather’s time have we welcomed our southern cousins! Old King Maledicto kept his border closed by sorcery as well as force of arms! Ah, it is good indeed to see our kin!“

  “I shall look forward to meeting them myself,” Matt said, with more sincerity than the count knew. This great hall was considerably less great than Boncorro’s. Of course, Matt had never seen the royal castle of Latruria, but he had seen Alisande’s court, and the castle of a mere country count suffered by comparison. Fortunately, Matt wasn’t interested in comparing them. It was a cornerstone of his aesthetic that he take each work on its own merits, and within the context of its own function as well as its designer’s intentions. The architect who built this castle had obviously been trying to achieve the optimum balance between comfort and defense, and had succeeded about as well as he could. The hall was large enough to shelter a small army during a siege-or the peasants of the home farms, as well as the gentry of the county, during a feast day. The peasants weren’t here at the moment, but the gentry were. Count d’Arrete had meant it when he said he was glad of one more to help him celebrate. The countess had done at least as well as the architect, when it came to decoration. Faded old tapestries alternated with bright new ones; garlands of flowers obscured the grim old battle trophies. An oversized shield brightly painted with the family coat of arms hung over the high dais, while about the hall hung smaller shields that showed the arms of the count’s knights, obscuring the old, dusty, captured flags of foes vanquished. At the far end hung another oversized shield with the arms of the Latrurian branch of the clan. However, those Latrurians weren’t about to let the hidden dinginess go. “These old castles were well enough for defense, cousin, and as trophy cases,” Conte Puvecci said with a wave of us hand. “Surely, though, it would be desirable to have a separate, and more pleasant, building, for your daily living.”

  Count d’Arrete smiled, but Matt could almost hear him grind his teeth. Since he knew who d’Arrete was, it didn’t take much deduction to figure out that the other mature male at the high table must be his Latrurian cousin-and therefore that curled hail and pointed beards were all the rage in Latruria. Matt took a quick glance around the hall, noting curly locks and pointy goatees, so he’d know where the Latrurians were-it made for more efficient eavesdropping. He turned back to the high table just as Count d’Arrete was saying, “There is a feeling of continuity, cousin, of connection with one’s ancestors, that can only be gained from living where they lived.”

  “Quite so, quite so!” Puvecci nodded earnestly. “And when I feel the need for that, I go back to spend a night or two there.”

  “Alone?” the Countess d’Arrete gasped. Puvecci gave her a condescending grin. “I know, I know, one is never alone among the ghosts of one’s ancestors-or among one’s soldiers, for I must needs keep guards posted there; it is, after all, my stronghold, and gives command of the valley. But our new white marble palazzo is far more appealing.”

  “You must come visit us!” the Contessa Puvecci gushed. “I have found the cleverest painter you can imagine, to adorn our walls with murals and frescoes of the heroes of ancient Reme, and of their goddesses and gods!”

  “The marble was expensive,” the conte said expansively, “but when one is building for the ages, one must not stint.”

  Count d’Arrete managed to keep his smile, but it was hard. “Your lands must produce most amazingly.”1 “They do, they do! Our young King Boncorro was right, insisting that we leave the peasants a larger share of the crop-for it gave them reason to labor with greater zeal! And, of course, leaving his lords so much more of our land’s produce gives us far more to work with.” Conte Puvecci kept nodding. “He is a good king, a good king! And I think he will grow to be even better.”

  Matt didn’t have to be a mind reader to know that d’Arrete was suddenly finding flaws in Alisande’s reign that he had never thought of before. “I could not truly say life was one continual celebration at King Boncorro’s court,” Puvecci’s son Giancarlo was telling Sir John, Captain of the Guard. “He does demand that we rise before noon to practice at swordplay and tilting, and has each of us oversee the work of some reeve in a distant province, watching the clerks verify the reeve’s reports and accounts. He also insists that each of our corps take its turn in patrolling the city at night-so there is very little theft or murder or rape, and it is almost true that even the most lowly born woman may cross the town at night without danger.”

  “Almost,” the count’s son, Camano, grated. Giancarlo shrugged. “There are always accidents.”

  “Are you never tempted to be those accidents, cousin?”

  Giancarlo answered with a slow grin. “Why should we? Where lid you think those lowborn women were coming from so late at night, cousin?”

  “The duchesses hold gatherings every evening,” said Lady Sophia, the Puveccis’ daughter, “and there is always fizzy wine, and dancing, and song. And the gentlemen, cousin! The gentlemen are so gallant and so handsome as they vie for glory!”

  Lady Jeanette d’Arrete was almost green with envy. “Do all the young folk stay at his Majesty’s court?”

  “All who can persuade their parents,” Sophia said with a condescending laugh, “and that is nearly all. The king has built a whole range of apartments just for us; and I assure you there is much coming and going within that building!”

  “How far away are the men’s apartments?”

  “Why, they adjoin ours, cousin, and there is even a passageway between the two buildings, for use in cold weather! The lady who cannot find a husband there is slow indeed!”

  Jeanette was already beginning to turn pale and sigh-while at the far end of the table, Camano glowered and smoldered. Of course, that could have just been the effect of the flickering light of the torches and candles-but Matt rather doubted that. He had been lucky in his seat assignment-he had to strain to hear what was going on at the high table, but hear he could, and he doubted that the expressions he was seeing on the faces of the younger d’Arretes had anything to do with the lighting. However, if the little flames helped to obscure the old trophies that the countess couldn’t remove without violating tradition, they also helped obscure the signs of age among the mature ladies, who laughed and drank beside their husbands, and gave a glow to the cheeks of the younger women, gentry and common alike, and set a sparkle in the eyes of the young men who paid them court. The serving girls seemed almost as vibrant as the ladies, as they laughed and flirted with the young men. The butler and footmen, of course, did not have that privilege, but the candlelight nonetheless picked out the gleams in their eyes. It was a festive occasion indeed, and everyone was making merry. Which made Matt wonder about the morose young man to his left. He watched the joyous company with no sign of delight and seemed to brace himself every time he glanced across the table to the blushing young lady who was smiling and making eyes at him. When he did notice, he forced a smile, exchanged a few brief words with he
r, then glanced away and gazed moodily out over the throng. Each time, the shock of hurt showed in the girl’s face, but it was quickly hidden as she turned to her neighbor with forced gaiety. Mart’s heart went out to her, and finally, when she turned to her neighbor but found him engaged in conversation on his other side, then turned to her other neighbor but found him likewise engaged, Matt came to her rescue. “Take pity on a stranger, demoiselle, and tell me who these grand folk each may be.”

  She looked up at him in surprise that quickly turned to gratitude. “Why, those known to me are the knights and neighbors of Count d’Arrete, sir, save for their daughter Jeanette and that young gallant who sits at the end of the high table and is Camano, their son.”

  “You mean the one who’s been giving me nasty looks all evening? What’s the matter-doesn’t he like strangers?”

  That brought a smile of amusement “Nay, sir, unless they be female. But I think he is more affronted by Squire Pascal, who sits by you, than by yourself.”

  The young man looked up with a guilty start. “Do you speak to me, damsel?”

  “No, sir, I speak of you.” Finally, a flash of irritation showed in the girl’s face, but was again quickly masked. “I was identifying you for your neighbor there; you do not seem to have introduced yourself to he who sits by you.”

  “True enough-but men, neither has he introduced himself to me.” The young man turned to Matt. “I am Pascal de la Tour, sir-not yet a squire, but only a squire’s son-and this young lady is my neighbor, the Demoiselle Charlotte Espere. Our fathers would have us be betrothed, but have not asked our opinions in the matter.”

  “Pascal!” Charlotte hissed, blushing furiously as she glanced to either side at her neighbors, who were, fortunately, still earnestly engaged in discussions that kept them turned away from her. “Be honest, Charlotte,” Pascal sighed. “You have no great liking for me, though you do seek to be a dutiful daughter and discover love where it is not.”