The Secular Wizard Read online

  They shifted even more because the young king spent an hour a day in the library, locking the door securely to make sure he would not be disturbed. There were a few old Greek and Reman manuscripts in there, but most of the shelves were filled with books of sorcery. The spells he actually used, though, were scarcely sorcerous at all, such as the ward that held the library doors constantly locked against even Rebozo's magic when the king was not there. Where had he learned such power? Some of his spells were actually based on Goodness, and gave Rebozo a real shock when he encountered them, a shock that had aftereffects of nausea and palpitations that went on for hours. At least, the chancellor consoled himself, none of them invoked the power of the Saints or their Master. But that was cold comfort indeed. Where had the son of a sorcerer learned such magic? Surely not in Baron Garchi's castle—though the country lord was far from the most sinister in the kingdom, too easygoing to be truly evil in any way, he was nonetheless fond of his pleasures, and most of them rather wicked; some were definitely corrupt. He had done his best to raise the boy in debauchery, even as he had raised his own sons—and now look what had happened! Had there been some secret priest among the baron's servants? Some copy of some holy book that the prince had found? Rebozo resolved to give Garchi and his castle a thorough housecleaning—as soon as King Boncorro allowed him time enough. If ever.

  The demands were almost constant, first redecorating the castle to Boocorro's taste, then supervising the strengthening of the defenses of the town and the castle, as well as preparing for the coronation. It was while he was wrapped up in all of this that the king had laid his network of spells in and around the castle, giving Rebozo such a rude shock when he discovered them. He thought he would have some respite after the coronation was over, but Boncorro called him in the very next morning, not long after dawn—and the chancellor was dismayed to see that the young king had obviously been awake for at least an hour already!

  He sat at a table in his solar, surrounded by books and papers. He looked up as the chancellor entered, and his face lit with a smile. "Ah! Rebozo, old friend!" He stood and came around the desk to clasp the chancellor by the shoulders. "And how are you this morning?"

  "Quite well, thank you, your Majesty." Rebozo reflected sourly that he had felt better before having to confront the young king's energy and enthusiasm.

  "Good, good! Then to work, eh?" Boncorro swung around behind the table and sat again. "We must begin new ways today, Rebozo!"

  "New ways?" Rebozo felt a chill of apprehension. "What innovations have you planned, your Majesty?"

  Boncorro looked down at his papers. "There is a law that any priests who are discovered are to be executed on the spot."

  "Surely your Majesty will not repeal that law!"

  "No—but I wish to see that it is no longer enforced." Boncorro looked up at him. "It is too easy for someone with a grudge against his rival to slay him out of hand, then claim he was a secret priest. Issue commands that no priests are to be slain, or even arrested."

  "But your Majesty! That will mean that people will start flocking to Ma—their M-M-M—"

  "To Mass," Boncorro finished for him. "It would seem I am not so far gone in sorcery as you yourself, Rebozo, for I can still say the word. Yes, people will go to the priests—but only those who wish to. If Grandfather did nothing else, he did at least free the common folk from fear of religion and the tyranny of the clergy—only those who truly believe, or wish to, will go."

  "Satan will scourge the Earth of you!"

  "No, he will not," Boncorro contradicted, "for I am scarcely a saint, Rebozo, and I am not abolishing the law that prohibits the priests, or their services. There is still room for the Devil to think I can be swayed to his service—and more grounds for that than I like to admit."

  "More grounds indeed," Rebozo said heavily. "You are a young man Majesty, with a young man's appetites, and a young king's lust for power."

  "As I am even now showing," Boncorro agreed. "But I am not turning this country toward the powers of Heaven, Lord Chancellor—only toward my own."

  And Rebozo realized that this was true. Somewhat reassured that his young king was not really trying to do good, but only to tighten his hold over his kingdom in a way his grandfather never had, the chancellor went out to give the necessary orders.

  The king said, "Send word to all the noblemen that the taxes are being reduced to half of their income."

  Rebozo stared. "To half?"

  "Half." The king turned a sheet of foolscap around so that Rebozo could read it. "I have cast up accounts and found that we can easily maintain this great castle, all our army, and all our servants on half. Indeed, there will remain a substantial sum to squirrel away in the treasury." He sat back with a sigh, shaking his head. "It is quite empty. I was horrified to discover how Grandfather had spent it all."

  Rebozo was horrified to discover that Boncorro did not approve of the old king's extravagances and pleasures. "Majesty, it is those luxuries and affairs of state that held the barons' loyalty!"

  "Stuff and nonsense," said the young king. "It was fear of the royal army and the king's magic that held them in line, naught else—a royal army that will do quite well without a florin's worth of ale for each man, for each day. They will fight all the better for being sober."

  "But these are merchants' tricks!" Rebozo cried. "Where did you learn such lowly notions?"

  "From the traders in the fairs, while my foster brothers were learning how to be fleeced by tricksters," Boncorro replied. "I will not disdain any knowledge, if it is sound and will help me to hold my kingdom."

  "But magic, your Majesty! Sorcery! Virgins cost dearly, and animals for slaughter, and dead bodies! There must be money for my sorcery!"

  "My magic is far less expensive," King Boncorro assured him, but nevertheless effective for all that. Indeed, I look forward to the first baron who seeks to rebel." His eyes glinted with anticipation. "Once I have settled with him, no others will dare."

  Rebozo stared into the guileless blue eyes and felt his blood run cold.

  "Tell the barons their taxes are lowered," Boncorro said softly. "That much of my message they will be glad to hear."

  Rebozo recovered. "Majesty—is it not enough to tell only the dukes? Cannot they send word to their barons, as they always have?"

  "They would not; they would continue to draw every groat of the old tax from their vassals, aye, even if it took thumbscrews to draw it. I wish to make sure that every lord knows of this news, every knight, every squire—for I also wish you to see to it that their own tax on their serfs is cut by at least a third!"

  Rebozo stared, aghast. "Now they will rebel," he whispered.

  Boncorro grinned like a wolf. "I await it with eagerness."

  "But Majesty—why?"

  "So that I can teach them that I am no less formidable than my grandfather, Rebozo, and my magic no weaker, though nowhere so twisted."

  That, Rebozo doubted—and he had no wish to see the prince he had formed and nurtured drowned under a wave of greedy barons. "Majesty, in this world, you cannot balance yourself between the Deity and the Devil. You must choose one or the other, for every single action is either Good or Evil."

  "Then I shall choose neither, but another source of power altogether."

  "Your Majesty," Rebozo cried, exasperated, "you cannot! In another world, perhaps, but not in this one! And this is all the world you will ever know! Every single action in this world sends you either one step closer to Hell, or one step closer to Heaven! Every thought you cherish, every breath you draw!"

  "Then I shall play one off against the other," King Boncorro told him, "as good statesmen have ever done with powers that they cannot conquer. Go send my word to the dukes, Chancellor—and to the earls, and the barons."

  Rebozo knew a royal command when he heard one, especially since the young king had addressed him by his title, not his name. He bowed, resigning himself to the worst. "As your Majesty wills. Am I dismissed, or is th
ere more you would tell me?"

  "Oh, I think that is quite enough for one morning," Boncorro said, smiling. "Go do your work, Chancellor, while I think up more troubles for you."

  Rebozo wished he could be sure the young man was joking.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Matt fingered a turnip absently as he eavesdropped with all his might. It wasn't easy—the marketplace was alive with noise and color, particularly noise. Rickety booths draped in bright-hued cloth crowded every available inch of space; the fair's marshals kept having to order merchants to move their booths back to leave the mandated three yards of aisle space, especially where those pathways opened out into the small plazas where the acrobats and minstrels performed. There were even fiddlers and pipers, so the fair always had strains of music underlying its raucous clatter.

  There was a surprising variety of produce for a town so far inland—but then, Fairmede had grown up around the merchants, for it sat right against the Alps, at the foot of a pass through the mountains, and beside a river, too—a small river, but one that ran northwest to join a larger, and the towns grew bigger as the river ran farther. Merchants came down on barges to meet other merchants coming in over the Alps, and peasants came flocking from the countryside on both sides of the mountains, to sell food to the merchants. There were vegetables and fruit, pork and poultry, cloth and furs, ribbons and thread, pots and pans and crockery—even spices and silks from the East. Those were being sold by the few professional merchants; most of the other vendors looked to be peasants, trying to turn a few pennies by selling the surplus the lords allowed them to keep. Matt knew that in Merovence, Queen Alisande insisted her lords leave their serfs at least a little for a cash crop; and the new King of Latruria, the kingdom to the south, seemed to have decided on the same policy—at least, to judge by the conversation Matt was working so hard at overhearing.

  At the next booth the serf who was selling fruit was boasting a bit. "We have two cuttings of hay each summer now, and the harvests of wheat and barley have been rich these last three years, very rich."

  "That may be so," said a goodwife, "but how much of it do you take home?"

  "Half now! A full half! Ever since young King Boncorro came to the throne, we have paid to our lord only half of what we grow!"

  "Truly?" asked a musclebound peasant. "Your young king made his noblemen give you that much?"

  "Aye! And of our share, my wife and I live on three parts and sell one! She has copper pots now! I have an iron hoe, and our children wear shoes!"

  "Shoes?" A third peasant stared, eyes huge. She was young, with a baby in her arms, and the hulking youth beside her was as amazed as she. "Real shoes, of leather?"

  "Aye! No more of wrapping their poor little feet in rags to keep out the winter's chill! Real shoes, of soft leather, with hard soles!"

  The girl turned to her husband. "Mayhap we should follow him home."

  " 'Tis not so far." The youth frowned, his gaze still on the fruit seller. "We could journey home easily enough, to pass the holidays with our parents."

  "You do well enough here," the older woman protested.

  "Well enough, but still we must give two parts in three to Sir Garlin!" said the girl. " 'Twould be sweet indeed to have shoes for the little one, when she is old enough to walk."

  "There's truth in that," the young husband admitted.

  "We have built ourselves new houses," the fruit seller boasted. "No more of such tumbledown huts as we had seven years ago! We live behind walls of wattle and daub now, and new straw for the thatch every year!"

  "A cottage," the girl murmured, eyes shining. "A true cottage!"

  "Are you going to make love to that turnip, or buy it?" the peasant behind the vegetables growled.

  Matt came out of his reverie with a start, realizing that he'd been squeezing the turnip for several minutes. "No, I guess not." He put it back. "Kind of soft on one side—I think it might be rotten."

  "Rotten! Do you say my produce is bad?"

  Matt surveyed the rest of the display with a jaundiced eye—rubbery carrots, sickly looking parsnips, and radishes that had a distinctly brown tinge to them. "I've seen sounder produce in a silo."

  "THIIIEEEF!" the man yelled. "Ho! Watchmen! Here is a hedge sorcerer who steals!"

  "Shhhh! Hush it up!" Matt glanced around frantically—this wasn't exactly the way to be inconspicuous when you were trying to gather information. "Shut up, will you? I'll buy it, then! I'll give you a real, genuine copper penny! A whole penny, for that one measly turnip!"

  "THIIIEF!" the man called again. "HO! HO, THE WATCH!"

  "Okay, forget it!" Matt turned away, meaning to walk fast—but before he'd gone two steps, a hand the size of a loaf clapped down on his shoulder and swung him around to confront the men of the Watch. "Where do you think you're going, peasant?"

  Well, what was Matt supposed to say? "I'm not really a peasant, I'm just dressed like one because I wanted to wear something comfortable"? "Hi there, boys, I'm the Lord Wizard of Merovence, glad to see you're on the ball"? He was supposed to be gathering information in disguise, not starting a riot. How was he going to get out of this one, without letting them know who he really was? "I didn't steal anything, watchmen—I just refused to buy."

  "Because he said the turnip was rotten!" the peasant shouted. "If it was, he must have turned it himself, because when I brought it, it was—" His eye lit with inspiration. "—it was sound! All my vegetables were good! Now look at them! Why he should hate me so much as to turn my produce bad, I can't think—I've never met him before in my life!"

  "Or mine," Matt snarled. "What would I want your moldy vegetables for?"

  "Moldy! Do you hear, watchmen? He has turned them to mold!"

  "This is a serious charge, fellow," the beefy watchman said. "If what he says is true, you have practiced magic without leave from the count!"

  "How about if I had leave from the queen?"

  The watchman gave him a sour smile. "Oh, aye, and how if I had a gold sovereign for every word you've said? What would a ragtag road conjurer like you know of the queen?"

  For a moment Matt was tempted to conjure up a dozen gold coins, just to prove the man wrong—tempted to reveal himself as really being the Lord Wizard of Merovence; but he reminded himself that if he did, he could forget about learning anything more in this market about the discontent that was brewing here by the southern border with Latruria. He improvised fast. "But I'm not even a conjurer! Just a packman looking for something to pack!"

  The watchman frowned. "This man accuses you of turning his vegetables bad."

  "And he did!" the peasant cried. "Would I have set out from Latruria with a cartful of vegetables that were not sound? What could I hope to get for them?"

  The same as any con man hopes for, Matt thought, but aloud he said, "There! See? You've heard it yourself! His vegetables are sound!"

  "Were sound!" the peasant brayed. "Were sound, until you came to finger each one and bewitch it!"

  "That's nonsense!" Matt grabbed a turnip, muttering,

  "Here's old Penny, coming to town,

  With a whole load of veggies,

  Not one of them sound!

  But the rot shall be gone

  As each tuber I touch,

  And the healing shall run

  Through each leaf and each bunch!

  Hard times in the country,

  As we for pennies farm!"

  It wasn't much of a verse, but improvisation had never been Matt's strong point. He had started it with a folk song, though, so it should have some effect.

  And it did—the bad spot on the side of the turnip diminished and disappeared even as he thrust it under the watchman's nose. "There! See? No rot! And this one!" He put the turnip back and pulled out a dingy parsnip. As soon as he touched it, the root began to look distinctly healthier, and by the time it reached the watchman, it was positively glowing with vitamins. "Not a spot of decay! Try a carrot!" Matt turned back to the booth and noticed that
the Vegetable Revivification Project was spreading out in a circular wave, just as he had ordered. He grabbed a limp carrot for show and held it up. "Fresh and crisp as if it had just been pulled." And sure enough, it was.

  "It would seem that is not the only thing being pulled." The watchman shouldered past him, glaring at the vendor. "We've too much to do to have you wasting our time on pranks, peasant!"

  "I beg your worships' pardon." The peasant bowed, trying to restrain a gleeful smile. "I must have been mistaken; no doubt it was just the one turnip he was fingering that was bad."

  "Another false alarm, and we will be fingering you," the watchman promised, and turned away to join his mates, grumbling. Matt chose the course of prudence and followed them away from the booth before the peasant could try to blackmail him as a sorcerer—because the whole load of vegetables had been about as bad as you could get and still be marginally edible. Not that Matt had anything to fear, of course—he just couldn't retaliate without blowing his cover. So he followed the Watch, seething, because the man who had made trouble for him was going to make a lot more money than he would have if he hadn't gone picking on Matt. The Lord Wizard hated to see vice rewarded. No, be honest—he hated to lose. For a moment, he was tempted to recite another quick verse and turn all the peasant's produce to mold and mildew, but he resisted the temptation—petty revenge wasn't worth it. Besides, using magic for hurt, rather than benefit, was the first step on the road toward black magic, and Matt didn't dare go that route. The Devil had too many grudges to settle with him.