The Secular Wizard Read online

  "Lord Chancellor, I will." Boncorro held the book close to his chest, almost hugging it, and looked up at Rebozo with shining eyes. "Thank you, oh, thank you deeply!"

  It was almost a shame, Rebozo thought, that the lad had been born to be a prince. He would have made a fine sorcerer—if he were led down the path...

  As Rebozo was leaving the next day, Garchi cleared his throat and said, "Understand the boys have been getting up to... to some mischief with the, ah, wenches. I'll see to it that there's no more of that sort of thing."

  "You'll do nothing of the kind!" Rebozo turned to glare at him. "The lad must learn to be a man, Lord Garchi—in all ways!"

  "Why, yes, Lord Chancellor," Garchi muttered, staring in surprise, and found himself wondering if the lad might not be Rebozo's own, after all.

  Boncorro learned a great deal in the next few years—learned from watching through knotholes, and from reading the book of spells. Some of them seemed anything but harmless, and he recoiled naturally, but others he learned and practiced avidly. He stayed firmly away from any that invoked Satan, or worked magic by any other name—but that left a great many, and some of them afforded him views that surpassed anything he saw through a knothole. He began to be interested in that, after all. When Rebozo brought him a thicker book, he was ready for more direct activity in both spheres. As the years went by, he became quit skilled—in all aspects of manhood. Just as Rebozo wanted.

  The king had lost heart. Oh, it wasn't in anything he said or did—he kept on extorting taxes from the merchants and noblemen who respectively gouged their customers and robbed their serfs in order to pay. The king continued to encourage them, just as he kept the taxes low on the brothels and made sure the Watch never imprisoned a pimp; he subsidized the gambling dens and kept the tax high on malt and fruit and juice, but low on beer and wine and taverns. In a word, he did all he had ever done to encourage corruption and wickedness and poverty—but he did not think of anything new.

  More than that—it wasn't what he did, so much as how he did it. He never ranted and raved any more, even if a courtier disobeyed or sneered. He would bark out a rebuke, yes, and signal to a guardsman to beat the foolish rogue, but he seemed too weary to do anything more. He would snarl at a messenger who brought bad news and signal for the whip, but he never killed one outright with his own hands anymore, nor flew into a towering rage. He seemed to be only a shell of the villain he had once been, and didn't even seem to listen to his chancellor any longer—he would only gaze into space, nodding automatically as Rebozo spoke. He spent hour after hour alone in his chambers, gazing out the window sipping from a tankard. At first the tankard held brandywine, and he would be red-eyed and staggering at dinner—if Rebozo could talk him into coming to dinner. The chancellor was not too concerned, though he had to take more and more of the burden of running the kingdom upon his own shoulders. His only fear was that Maledicto would die before Boncorro came of age—or begin a campaign to ferret out the boy. Indeed, when he was deep in his cups, the king would ramble on about having to see his grandson, finding out where the boy had fled. Rebozo would have to remind him that Boncorro was dead, had died hunting the day after his father's death. But Maledicto waved him away irritably, as if he knew the truth, but did not particularly resent what the chancellor had done. The reason was clear when he was sober, for then he would drop occasional scathing remarks about what little monsters children were, especially ones who thought themselves royal, and how the world would be a better place if there were none of them—but in the evening, drunk and staggering, he would turn maudlin and querulous, wondering aloud if his grandson were well.

  Then he turned to white wine, though, and his drunkenness lessened. That concerned Rebozo, though not too much—he merely made sure there was always a measure or two of brandywine mixed with the white in the king's jug.

  But he nearly panicked when the king turned to a brew of herbs boiled in clear water.

  He was right to be alarmed, for as the king's sobriety returned, so did his will—or, rather, his resolution. What he was resolved to do, though, he would not say, neither to Rebozo nor to anyone else. Finally, ten years after his son's death, King Maledicto sent Rebozo on his annual tour of the provincial barons, watched him out of sight, then turned to his court with grim resolution. He summoned Sir Sticchi and Sir Tchalico, ordered them to be ready to ride the next day before dawn, then retired to his bed, where he lay a long time gazing at the canopy—and trembling.

  Cold or fear notwithstanding, the king arose in the darkness of predawn, dressed himself for a journey, buckled on breastplate and helm, and went out to meet his two knights. They mounted their chargers and rode out across the drawbridge in the eerie light of false dawn.

  They rode for several hours without a word, but the king seemed never to doubt where he was going. Sir Sticchi and Sir Tchalico exchanged puzzled glances now and then, but neither could enlighten the other at all.

  They came into a little village, scarcely more than a hamlet gathered around the ruins of a church, and the two knights moved together. "The king has heard of some priest who has gone into hiding," Sir Sticchi said to his companion, sotto voce. "No doubt he has come only to apprehend the rogue." But his face was taut and his voice quavered.

  "If it were only apprehending, why would he come himself?" Sir Tchalico sounded angry in his fear. "He could have sent us alone!"

  "We, the only two of his knights who are secretly pious? Oh, do not look so scandalized, Tchalico—I heard it from court gossip; it is widely known, just as I'm sure you must have heard about me."

  "Well... I have," Tchalico admitted. "I wondered, now and again, why the king let us live, let alone keep our rank."

  "Why, because he had some such use as this in mind for us, no doubt! What shall we do now, Tchalico? He must have brought us here as a test! No doubt he means to torture the poor monk to death, and force us to watch!"

  "When he knows we shall not stand idly by," Sir Tchalico agreed, his face grim, "knows we shall leap to the priest's defense—whereupon we shall be unmasked, and he shall slay us with magical fire or some such torture." He felt a sudden cold clarity thrill through him, and straightened in his saddle. "It has come, Sticchi—the hour of our martyrdom."

  Fear showed in Sticchi's eyes, cavernous fear—but it passed in a moment, and the fierce delight of battle burned in its place. "Then let us go to meet our deaths with joy, for tonight we'll dine in Heaven!"

  "To Heaven let us sail," Sir Tchalico agreed, "and here is our boatman, though it is doubtless the last thing he intends."

  They drew rein only a few feet behind the king, who had himself stopped in front of a hovel meaner than the rest, so ill-kempt one might think it was vacant, and tumbling with neglect. But the king sat straight and roared out, "Friar! Monk and shave-pate! Come out to meet your king!"

  Eyes watched from huts all about, and a few burly peasant men emerged, fear evident in every line of their bodies, but their faces grim and determined, their fists clenched, sickles and flails in their hands. But the king paid no heed; he only called out again, "Man of the cloth! Man of the clergy! Come forth!"

  Still the village sat in silence. The king took a deep breath to call again, but before he did, a peasant came out, one no cleaner than the rest, with a tunic just as patched and frayed as theirs, his hands just as callused from toil—but he wore a hat beneath the sun of June, where the rest of them did not.

  "Uncover before your king!" Maledicto roared.

  The peasant raised a trembling hand and took off his hat. The bald spot was too regular, too perfect a circle to be natural; it was a tonsure.

  "Do you deny you are a priest?" Maledicto demanded.

  Suddenly, the fear was gone, and the peasant straightened with pride. "Nay, I will boast of it! I am a priest of the Church, and I serve God and my fellow man!"

  Why did the evil king not wince at the holy Name? Why did he not raise his whip to strike, or draw his sword?

  A
nd why was he kneeling in the dust before the peasant, hands clasped and head bowed, intoning, "Bless me, Father, for I have sinned!"

  The peasants stared, flabbergasted.

  "Turn away!" Sir Sticchi barked. "Have you never heard of the seal of the confessional?"

  The peasants came to themselves with a start and turned away into their houses. In seconds the village seemed empty.

  The words came pouring forth from the king's mouth, the tale and toll of a century of sins; the priest barely had time to whip a worn, threadbare stole from his pocket and yank it around his neck. As he listened to the list of horrors, his face grew haggard and his shoulders slumped. In a few minutes he was kneeling beside the king; in a few more he had clasped the old man's trembling hands and was listening, nodding, wide-eyed, in encouragement.

  "It would seem we are not to be martyred after all," Sir Sticchi said, staring and numb.

  "Do not believe it for a second," Sir Tchalico snapped. "I doubt not the Devil heard as soon as the king said 'Bless me,' and dispatched a demon before he'd said 'sinned.' Sell your life dearly, Brother Sticchi—for the king's sake, and for the kingdom's! We will pay with our lives, but we must buy him enough time to—"

  Flame erupted not ten yards from them.

  The priest cried out and shrank away, but King Maledicto held his hands with an iron grip and kept him near enough to hear as the sins poured out of him, so fast as to be scarcely intelligible.

  It was no demon, but a horrible, glittering serpentine thing that stood on a dozen clawed feet while four more pawed the air. A saddle was fastened between those upper legs, a saddle for a man in a flame-red robe, masked and hooded, nothing showing but his eyes. In his hand swung a battle-axe two feet across, far too big for any mortal man to swing.

  Sir Sticchi bellowed, "For God and Saint Mark!" and kicked his charger into a gallop.

  "For the Saints and the Lord!" Sir Tchalico echoed, and came charging after.

  They careened into the monstrosity before it could take two steps. It screamed and lashed out at them with steel-sharp claws; its rider bellowed rage in a voice that shook the village, and swung his axe. Sir Sticchi shouted in pain as the blade cut through his armor and into his shoulder, but he struck anyway, his sword thrusting into the monster's chest. It screamed in agony and anger, blasting him with breath that blackened and pitted his helmet. Sticchi's horse screamed in fright, but the knight held it in place, hewing and hacking and madly singing a battle hymn. Sir Tchalico joined in, striking from the other side, and beast and rider alike howled in pain and rage. Sword and tooth and talon and struck again. Sir Sticchi fell, blood fountaining from a torn throat; his horse screamed and ran. Sir Tchalico howled in agony as flame enveloped him; then he fell, and the monster stamped down, through his armor, through his chest, and the horse neighed in terror and wheeled to run. But the twisting axe cut it down, and the monster stepped over the bodies, reaching out for the king.

  "Ego te absolvo!" the priest cried an instant before a huge battle-axe flashed before his face, and the king's head fell to the ground. A second later, the priest's head rolled beside it in the dust.

  The monster screamed in terrible pain, and its rider howled in frustration—for the king was dead, as was the priest who had shriven him, but three souls had gone to Heaven, and one to Purgatory instead of Hell. Satan was cheated, and his minion suffered far more than the victims had. Fire exploded around them, and monster and rider were gone—but the peasants did not come out for the bodies until the smell of brimstone had faded away.

  "So good to see you again, Lord Chancellor!" Garchi raised a hand to pound the chancellor on the back, then remembered and withdrew the slap. "Your lad does well, very well indeed."

  "You have followed my instructions, then?"

  "We have—but alas, it did no good," Garchi said with a sigh. "Oh, the lad can wench and swill with the best of them—but he doesn't. Not all that often, at least. He'll only bed one wench a night, and not even every night, at that. I've never heard one of them complain of his treatment, though."

  Rebozo thought that he might be more reassured if the women had complained—but he had enough tact not to say so. "I regret to hear it; a boy his age ought to enjoy the leisure to play while he can. Should have, I should say—I fear that time is at an end."

  "Oh?" Garchi looked up, alert, but neither sad nor glad. "You're taking him from us, then?"

  "I fear so—he must begin his work in this world. Send him to me, Lord Garchi."

  "When he's done with... the matter at hand, of course."

  "Of course."

  Garchi didn't mention that the task at hand was a book in Latin, about the lives of the old emperors. He wasn't sure Rebozo would be happy about it.

  Consequently, Rebozo was rather surprised when the servant announced Sir Boncorro only fifteen minutes later. Rebozo did not have to rise, since he was still pacing. The prince came in right behind. "Your pardon for not dressing more elaborately, Lord Chancellor, but I did not wish to keep you waiting... What means this?"

  The chancellor had sunk to one knee, bowing his head. "Long live the king!"

  For a minute Boncorro stood frozen, as the meaning of the salutation sank in and he adjusted his mind to it. He seemed to stand a little taller, even straighter than he had. "So it has happened. The Devil has tired of my grandfather, has withdrawn the sorcery that kept him alive, and the king is dead."

  "Long live the king," Rebozo returned. Boncorro stood still a moment longer, to let the shock and numbness pass—and then came the first fierce elation of triumph. Grandfather was dead, and Boncorro was still alive!

  Then he stepped forward to clasp Rebozo by the shoulders and lift him to his feet. "You must not kneel to me, old friend. You have ever been my companion in adversity, my shield in danger. You shall always stand in my presence, and may sit when I sit."

  "I—I thank your Majesty for this high privilege," Rebozo stammered.

  "You have earned it," Boncorro said simply. The chancellor stood a moment, looking at him. Prince Boncorro had grown into a fine figure of a man—six feet tall, with broad, muscular shoulders and arms, legs that showed as pillars in his tights, but shapely pillars indeed, and a very handsome face, with straight nose, generous mouth, and large blue eyes, beneath a cap of golden hair. It was a face that seemed deceptively frank and open, but Rebozo knew that appearance was mostly illusion. He also knew that of the women who came to Boncorro's bed, few came reluctantly.

  "You do not mourn, your Majesty?"

  Boncorro permitted himself a smile of amusement. "I shall appear properly grief-stricken in public, Lord Chancellor—but you know better than any man that I rejoice at my grandfather's death. I feared him and hated him as much as I admired and loved my father—and I have no doubt it was he who gave the order to kill his own saintly son. Indeed, I charge you with the task of finding the man who struck the blow."

  Rebozo stared. "But—But—it was the groom! The man who found the body!"

  Boncorro waved the idea away impatiently. "He discovered the corpse, that is all. There is no reason to believe he thrust the knife himself."

  "He confessed!"

  "Under torture. All his confession means is that he wanted the pain to stop."

  Rebozo felt a cold chill enwrap him; the prince—no, king, now—was showing wisdom far beyond his years. "Then who could have done it?"

  "Who gained by it?" King Boncorro fixed the chancellor with a piercing gaze. "Only me—and Hell. I know that I did not slay him. Now how did my grandfather die?"

  "Why—beside two knights, his only guards; they were dead, too. And a peasant..."

  "How was he slain? With what weapon?"

  "His... his head was... he was beheaded, Majesty."

  "Beheaded?" Boncorro frowned. "Were there any other wounds?"

  Definitely, he saw too much for a youth of twenty. "There was a dagger—in his back, between the shoulder blades."

  Boncorro's face lit with keen d
elight. "Describe the dagger!"

  "It... it was—" Chancellor Rebozo paused to picture the dagger in his mind. "—double-edged, the blade sloping straight to the point on both sides... an oval for a hilt... The handle..."

  "Say it, man!"

  "I cannot!" Rebozo looked away. "It was sculpted, it was... obscene... evil."

  "Like the dagger that slew my father!"

  "Very like it," Rebozo said unwillingly. "A twin."

  "Then the same man did it, or two assassins who served the same lord! Find me the murderer of my grandfather, Rebozo, and I doubt not you shall find me also the murderer of my father!"

  The chancellor stared. "Then—you still wish me to serve you, your Majesty?"

  "Of course. You saved my life when my father died, you served my grandfather from fear rather than desire, and you have always been gentle and kind to me. I can think of no man more capable, nor one I would more readily trust and wish to have by me. Now make ready for us to go to the capital."

  "Surely, Majesty," the chancellor said, and turned away, a gleam of satisfaction in his eyes.

  A local bandit was tortured until he confessed to the murder of the king and his knights. Unfortunately, Baron Garchi and his sons were overly zealous, killing the outlaw and his whole band on the spot.

  None of them owned a dagger with an obscene and horrifying hilt. None of them rode a flame-skinned monster, or carried a battle-axe of any size; they were all archers and swordsmen. But Rebozo was satisfied and reported his results to the king.

  The king was not convinced.

  At least Boncorro didn't start making changes the instant he arrived at the royal castle. He waited until after his coronation—three weeks. That also gave him time to recruit his own bodyguards, and to lay protective spells against them. He also laid protective spells against everyone else, throughout the castle and all around it. They sent Rebozo into constant nervous agitation—wherever he went, the blasted things sent his blood tingling! It was unnerving to know that the king didn't really trust him—though the chancellor had to admit that Boncorro seemed to trust him more than anyone else. It was even more unnerving to Rebozo to know that the king had learned so much magic—so much that he didn't really need the protection of his chancellor's sorcery. That made Rebozo more nervous than anything else—not being needed. He felt as if he stood on sand, and the sands were constantly shifting beneath him.