“Same as people have been doing for centuries,” Saul said. “Invite them to move in with you.”
“Of course!” Matt looked up, eyes alight. “Why didn’t I think of that?”
“Because you’re not a genius, like me.”
“Right! Thanks!” Matt was gone out the door in a whirl, pounding away down the stairs.
Saul stared, blinking, then ran after him, calling, “Hey, wait a minute! What about the genies?”
“A room in our castle? Your parents? Of course!” Alisande glared. “They may have a suite! Fetch them at once!”
“Thanks, dear, uh, Your Majesty, uh...” Matt caught his breath. “Why are you angry?”
“Your own parents, and you did not discover they were in need before this? Why, what an undutiful son you are! Get you hence, Lord Wizard, and bring them home at once!”
“You’re so beautiful when I’m wrong.” Matt darted a loud kiss onto her cheek. “And you’re right, I was a louse.” Then he stepped back, smile vanishing, becoming formal. “My liege, may I have leave to leave and bring back my parents?”
“Of course you may! I command you to be off at once, to save your mother and father!” But the wife’s anxiety shone through the cracks in the queen’s emotional armor. “Yet I will insist you take with you at least one knight, for from what you have told me, there is danger in your world. Now be off with you!”
“Yes, Majesty! See you in a week or so!” He spun on his heel and strode back to his tower.
He slammed into the laboratory, fuming. “Blast and fusion! How am I going to manage anything in twentieth-century America with a medieval knight hanging around my neck?”
“I think I know just the man,” Saul said slowly.
CHAPTER SIX
The mercury vapor lamps lit the train station well enough for any late commuters to be as safe as they were going to be, but those same streetlights cast deep shadows under the tunnel to the far tracks. There, the air thickened suddenly, gelling into two human forms—and Matt lurched and stumbled, then turned to catch Sir Gilbert as he wobbled. He thrust himself away from Matt, protesting, “I did not faint!”
“Of course not,” Matt assured him. “You just went dizzy for a few minutes. It always happens when you travel by magic.”
“Oh. It does?”
“Can’t be helped,” Matt assured him. He looked the knight up and down and sighed. The castle tailors had worked frantically, and Matt supposed Gilbert could get away with it. His trousers were just tubes of cloth tacked on to the hip section of a pair of tights. His “jacket” was a doublet cut down the front and equipped with buttons. He had been adamant about the emblem of his order, so Matt had asked the tailors to sew it onto the back of the loose linen shirt that hid Sir Gilbert’s chain mail—well, he wouldn’t be the first person to wear a vest like that in this part of the world. All in all, Matt supposed, Gilbert wouldn’t attract too much attention until Matt could get him into a department store and put some modern clothes on his back, assuming the clerks could find a sport coat big enough for that pair of shoulders.
A roar sounded overhead, shaking the concrete about them. Gilbert nearly jumped into the abutment, looking about him wildly. “What...? Where...?”
“It’s just, um, a string of wagons.” Matt decided he didn’t need to have Gilbert bracing himself against the unknown for the rest of the trip. “Come on, I’ll show you.”
He beckoned, leading the bemused young knight out to look up at the string of boxcars going past. Gilbert saw and went rigid. “A dragon!” His hand leaped to the sword that was no longer there.
“None of that.” Matt caught his hand and slapped the head of a walking stick into Gilbert’s hand. “We don’t use swords here. Saul said you knew how to use this.”
“Of course—I am a peasant’s son!”
“How’d you get to be a knight?” Matt frowned, then remembered. “Oh, that’s right—you’re in a religious order.” The Knights of St. Moncaire were like the Knights Templar, only nowhere nearly as rich—or corrupt.
“How can I fight that dragon with a stick?” Gilbert wailed.
“You won’t. It’s not a dragon.” Matt took a deep breath and tried to explain. “You can tell it’s just a string of wagons. See how they’re joined together?”
“Why, so they are!” Gilbert’s fear transmuted into awe. “But what huge wagons, and how fast they move! And so very many! What manner of beasts draw this train?”
“A magical monster,” Matt ad libbed. “We call it a ‘locomotive.’ Don’t worry, though, they’re all tame—well, almost all.”
“Is there no end to them?” Gilbert stared back along the tracks, where car after car was rounding the bend. “How wealthy your people must be, to build so many—and all with iron wheels!”
That jolted Matt. He’d never particularly thought of his civilization as being rich, but when Gilbert put it that way... “I suppose we are,” he said slowly, “at least in things people can make.”
“But not in their spirits?” The fire of religious zeal lit the eye of the martial monk. “We must bring the wealth of grace to their impoverished souls!”
“We have plenty of people trying to do that already.” But Matt felt a touch of guilt, remembering the shrinking number of Catholic priests and nuns. “What we need is some way to make the people listen to them.”
“Alas! That can never be done, my friend.” Gilbert’s face was almost lugubrious with sudden tragedy. “None can force a soul to open itself to God. Indeed, none can open it save the soul itself.”
“And God,” Matt said softly.
“God can, but He will not,” Gilbert reminded him sadly. “He has given us free will, and will not take it away.”
“So that we’re free to send ourselves to Hell if we wish,” Matt said grimly. “Sometimes I wonder if it was God who gave that gift, or humanity who demanded it.”
“Sundering themselves from God by their arrogance?” Gilbert nodded. “I fear so, my friend.”
“Then let’s go find some prime examples of arrogance,” Matt said. “Out into the night of the city, Sir Gilbert.”
They climbed the steps to the station, Matt wondering what could have possessed Saul to saddle him with this great overgrown boy. Knighted or not, Gilbert was still an idealistic innocent who had only two values for evaluating experience—the wrong way, and his way.
Gilbert halted to stare at the station. “Who lives within? Some wealthy burgher?”
“Uh, no one, really,” Matt said, shamefaced. “It’s just a place for people to wait for the next train—er, wagon—to come, the one that carries them to where they want to go.”
“So grand a place, merely for waiting?” Gilbert stared. “Wealthy your folk are indeed, Sir Matthew!” Then he noticed the graffiti scrawled on the walls. “What amazing, glowing colors! But what do the words say?”
“Nothing important,” Matt said quickly. “Come on, we’ve got work waiting!”
He tried to hurry Gilbert around the corner, but the knight dug in his heels. “Nay! I must see what wondrous words are written in...” He broke off, staring at the graffiti.
Matt held his breath and hoped that Gilbert wouldn’t have learned English, or how to read script, just by being transferred from universe to universe. But he’d made him read that Shakespeare verse in English again and again, under the Spider King’s magic, until it began to make sense to him...
“Those are most rude words.” Gilbert’s voice shook.
“I’m afraid so.” Suddenly, Matt felt ashamed for his whole culture. Defensively, he said, “But there are an awful lot of things here that are really good.” Matt wondered how he was ever going to manage with a medieval warrior from a religious order, a man who was both a monk and a knight, when he wandered down Main Street and saw what was going on after dark in a Newark suburb.
“I can see your paintings are most amazing.” Gilbert looked from one poster to another. “There is nothing religious in
them, though... Ah! The word ‘Revival’...” Then he saw what was being revived.
Matt’s stomach sank. The poster advertised a revival of Oh, Calcutta! and the picture featured some very artistic nudes.
Gilbert tore his eyes away, turning pale. “Would men and women truly pose for such paintings willingly?”
“They don’t see anything wrong in it.” Matt hoped he was right.
“Nor see any peril to their senses of who and what they are?” Gilbert shuddered. “How can your people be so rich in buildings and wagons while starving in their souls?”
“I met a man once who told me he could see no further than this world,” Matt said slowly.
“Why?” Gilbert cried, anguished, but Matt had no answer for him. Instead, he said, “Let’s do what we have to do, and quickly. We need to get back to Merovence.”
“Can we not stay to fight the Devil, and save this world?”
“Let’s save our own first.” Matt heard his own words, and felt a wrenching within him. He’d spoken truly; Merovence was his home now. He remembered the Uruguayan man down the street, who’d gone to visit his village after ten years in New Jersey, and come back saying that it wasn’t home anymore.
He led Gilbert out around the station and down the walk toward the side street that led to Main. Gilbert stopped, staring. “What manner of lamps are these?”
“Huh?” Matt followed his gaze. “Oh, just ordinary streetlights.”
“To spend so much fuel on lighting an empty street? Amazing!”
Matt thought of telling him that the lights didn’t burn oil, but thought of the smokestack at the powerhouse and bit his lip. “It helps keep people safe,” he said, “so it’s worth it. Come on.”
They walked on down the street, with Gilbert exclaiming softly. “So much pavement! Such huge blocks! So little sewage!”
And here Matt had been getting angry at the litterbugs. He remembered how downtown Bordestang looked at night—dark as an eight ball, stinking with open sewers. Maybe, when they got the genies under control, he ought to tell Alisande about streetlights, storm drains, and sanitation services.
They turned the corner onto Main Street, and Gilbert halted, staring in amazement. “How wondrous!”
“What?” Matt looked down the street, frowning. “Just because people are out late shopping?”
“It is as brightly lit as day! And those canopies, they might house an army!”
“Well, they are hoping that sheltering people from rain between stores might attract customers away from the shopping malls...”
“And all paved, all stone, even the buildings! Are they palaces? They must be, for they’re ablaze with light, and all of stone, as tall as a castle keep!”
Matt turned back, viewing the scene as it must appear to Gilbert, and was forced to admit he had overlooked some of the more amazing aspects of his own world. What made it worse was that this Main Street was nothing special, as towns went.
“They’re just shops,” he said, feeling very lame.
“Shops! If these are shops, what are your churches like?” Gilbert turned on him, eager as a puppy. “Can we not find one, Sir Matthew?”
“I’m afraid we don’t really have time.” Matt had needed the reminder that he’d been knighted. “For every hour here, a week passes in Merovence—don’t ask me to explain the magic of it. Just take my word for it, we have to hurry.”
“Can the church really be so far away?”
Matt tried to remember where the nearest Catholic church was, but no, it was Our Lady of Fatima. “It’s two miles, Gilbert. Come on, we’ve got to go.” He turned to cross the street, then stopped as the light turned red.
Gilbert kept on going.
“Hold on!” Matt squawked, and dove for him. He caught the knight’s shoulder and pulled, which was about the same as lassoing a steamship and hauling. Gilbert slowed just a tiny bit—but he did turn, frowning. “What troubles you, Sir...”
The car horn blared down on them, the headlights blinding. Gilbert froze, and Matt yanked. The knight stumbled back two feet, enough so that the car shot by without running over his toes—or any other part of him, either. It went howling away, but other cars came roaring past. Gilbert stared at them, turning ashen, and started to shake. “What monsters are these?”
“Human, believe it or not,” Matt told him. “Look inside each one, and you’ll see a man or a woman.”
“Witchcraft!”
“No, just our country’s kind of carriages.”
“But what pulls them? Where are the horses?”
“Under the hood.” Matt didn’t feel like trying to explain internal combustion. “They’re very small, but there are a lot of them.”
It turned out not to be the smartest thing to say. Every time they passed a parked car, Gilbert stooped, looking underneath to see the hooves. Matt finally had to tell him, “They pull their legs up when they’re standing still. When they’re running, they move so fast you can’t see them.” He felt bad lying to the kid, but it would have taken a couple of hours to explain, and four more to convince him it was true.
Matt saw what was coming up, and pointed down. “Watch the pavement as you go by.”
Gilbert did, protesting, “I have already seen how amazingly huge are these slabs of rock, and for a mere footpath!” He lifted his head. “But why do you...” He broke off, seeing the neon sign over the tavern door with the glowing pink line drawing of a woman wearing only the shortest of skirts. The sign flashed, making her appear to gyrate above a sign that read, EXOTIC TOPLESS DANCERS.
Gilbert almost passed out. Matt hauled on his arm and made sure he passed on instead. Unfortunately, that meant the monk had a half second’s look through the open door at the exotic dancer herself, pushing forty and very tired of it all. The young knight forced his gaze away and shuddered. “Do all your people think of nothing but the flesh?”
“No,” Matt said. “They spend a lot of time thinking about money, too.”
“Covetousness!” Gilbert muttered. “Greed and lust! A void within the soul giving rise to an aching hunger that they seek to fill with the things of the flesh, and are doomed to despair thereby!” He turned back to Matt. “I can see why you were not fitted for this world, Sir Matthew.”
Matt was silent, staring at the street in front of him for a few paces, wondering if Gilbert was really as perceptive as he sounded, or if he was just spouting memorized doctrine. Offhand, Matt didn’t remember hearing that explanation before. “You surprise me, Sir Gilbert,” he said honestly, then pulled the young knight into the nearest discount store before he could ask.
Gilbert halted, stunned all over again. “Are these truly garments?”
“Sure are.”
“So many of them?”
Matt tried a new tack. “What do you think you’d see if you went inside a merchant’s warehouse?”
“Perhaps...” Gilbert admitted, and let Matt pull him over to a rack that held long, loose “duster” coats.
“You’re not going to be here that long.” Matt pulled the largest size off the rack and held it up by the shoulders. “Maybe we can get away with just covering you up. Here, slip your arms into the sleeves.”
Gilbert managed it without letting go of his walking stick, shoving one hand through to take the cane while he slipped in the other. He shrugged the coat into place and Matt stepped back to look him over, frowning. “A little long, but it fits okay in the shoulders. Swing your arms and see it if binds.”
Gilbert windmilled each arm, then nodded. “There is no binding.”
“That’ll do, then.” Matt led him back toward the door. “Who knows? It might scare away muggers... uh, footpads.”
“Why should a mere coat do that?”
“ ’Cause they’ll maybe think you’re hiding a sword under it.”
“Would that I were! But why should they think that?”
“ ’Cause it’s big enough.” TV and movies were another set of things Matt didn’t feel lik
e explaining. He was glad he was only going to be here with Gilbert for an hour or two.
He paid with his credit card—that was another good thing about so little time having elapsed in this universe. He reminded himself to send a payment in from Bordestang.
Then they went out into the night again—and a woman with a tired, weary voice called to Gilbert. “Hey, fella.”
“Yes, damsel?” Gilbert turned to look—and froze.
Matt groaned.
The garment she wore might have been called a dress, though it was about five yards short of fabric by Merovence’s standards. It fit her like a second skin, a fabric that sheened softly in the streetlights, fairly begging to be touched. The hemline was a foot above her knees, and her heels were so high that Matt felt they should have had a warning to stay away from the edge. Her hair was bobbed in the latest mode from cheap salons—it wasn’t her fault that it made her look like a Merovencian boy. But no juvenile male ever had such a voluptuous figure, or troweled on so much makeup.
The weary voice recited mechanically, “You wanna have a nice time?”
Gilbert turned red in the face and started making choking noises.
“He’s a lay preacher,” Matt explained, and hurried Gilbert away from the harsh, mocking laugh behind him before the woman could make the obvious pun.
A block farther on, Matt pulled him to a halt under a sign that said BUS. Gilbert managed to stop gurgling long enough to draw in a deep, shuddering breath. He used it to intone, “That painted Jezebel!”
“Not that bad,” Matt said. “She doesn’t kill people, or try to convert them to a pagan religion. In fact, if she doesn’t do what she does, her, uh, ‘master’ will beat her and, uh, starve her.” Once again, he didn’t feel like explaining—about drugs.
Gilbert stared at him, appalled. “She does not choose this immorality?”
“It beats starving,” Matt said.
“Surely the Church would have given her bread!”
“Bread wasn’t enough. Her ‘master’ probably told her she’d be rich if she did what she’s doing. Now she’s found out that he’s the one who gets rich, and she only keeps the smallest part of the money men give her.”
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