The Secular Wizard Read online

  Matt was still in his early thirties. "There is no shame where there is no cause," he said slowly, "but he who has given cause should indeed be shamed."

  "An insult!" Camano crowed in delight. "You have heard it, my friends—have I not been given insult?"

  "Oh, aye!"

  "Verily!"

  "A most grievous insult indeed!" said his backup group.

  "Not a bit!" Pascal cried indignantly. "He has given no cause for offense, but—"

  Camano's glove caught him across the cheek. "Be still, peasant!"

  Matt rose slowly, his hand on his own sword. "Now, that was definitely unchivalrous, Sir Camano!"

  "Then prove it upon my body, Sir Matthew of Bath!" Camano cried, suddenly angry. His sword whipped out. "If you are truly a knight, or truly Matthew of Bath!"

  "I am Sir Matthew indeed." Matt drew his sword, and with a massive shriek, the ladies leapt from their places and crowded back. The men shouted with delight and rose, too, to clear the tables back, and a space fifty feet across suddenly opened around the two men.

  "Your people are used to this, I see." Matt glanced at the count and his lady, but they were sitting back complacently, as were conte and contessa. The young folk were leaning forward eagerly. "I gather we're the prime entertainment for the evening."

  "Say, rather, that you are!" And with no word of warning, Camano lunged.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Matt leaped back and aside, parrying, then riposted in time to catch another hasty and ill-timed lunge on his blade. He caught it in a bind, stepping right up to Camano corps à corps to say, "No wonder your father was so glad to give me hospitality. Do you d'Arretes always attack your guests?"

  "Mind your manners, commoner!" Camano snarled, and shoved Matt away, leaping back. Matt was tempted to hold rock-steady and make the boy look ridiculous, but decided to be a little charitable and fell back a step. Camano slashed and lunged again; Matt parried both times, then dodged the thrust that followed and stepped in corps à corps once more, catching the youth's sword hand in a vise grip long enough to say, "Didn't your fencing master teach you how to riposte?"

  Camano's answer was drowned in an outraged shout from his buddies, and Matt sprang away—he had just delivered a humiliation, by catching Camano's sword hand. Red-faced and enraged, Camano circled his sword overhead in a figure eight, and Matt felt a twinge of real alarm—if the kid's grip slipped, someone could get hurt! He was tempted to lunge in under the whirling blade, but resisted—Camano might be faster than he looked.

  He wasn't. When Camano slashed out with the blade, Matt saw it coming a mile away and had plenty of time to leap back and swing his own blade to parry. Metal exploded against metal, and Matt felt the impact all the way up to his shoulder. He leaped back in alarm, realizing for the first time that the kid was actually trying to kill him!

  The bystanders shouted and applauded, apparently figuring that Camano had done something skillful. So did Camano—flushed with pleasure, he went into the figure eight again.

  Matt was suddenly done with courtesy. With full seriousness he lunged under the whirling blade, slashing Camano's doublet just the tiniest bit with his sword tip, then leaping out just as the youth cut down with a cry of anger. His blade clashed on the floor, and Matt leaped in to hold down the point, then pivoted to swing his dagger straight at Camano's throat. He slowed his stab, though, and Camano just barely managed to parry with his own dagger.

  The bystanders shouted in anger and alarm.

  For a moment Camano was caught with his arms crossed and his balance precarious. One sidewise kick and Matt could have stretched him on the floor—but it would have embarrassed the young man too much, and his folks were already on their feet, shouting in anger. Matt, ever the good guest, leaped back and let Camano recover.

  The boy's sword swung straight up toward Matt's gizzard.

  It didn't have much force, coming straight up off the floor and without much room for the swing. Matt sidestepped, brought his own sword up under it, and swung the boy's blade high as he stepped in to mutter, "I told you to riposte!" before he leaped clear and waited.

  Face flaming, Camano did indeed riposte and moved around Matt warily, sword tip circling—but his friends were shouting objections, and Count d'Arrete signaled to a guard. Two knights stepped in, swords upraised, crying, "Hold!"

  Matt was all too glad to step back and lower his blade.

  Camano leaped forward, stabbing.

  The knights shouted, caught at him, and conveniently missed.

  Matt caught the kid's lunge on his blade and circled tight, ending with a sharp downward thrust. Camano's blade struck sparks from the floor again, and Matt set his dagger to the boy's throat. "They said hold!"

  Camano froze, glaring hatred at Matt, his chest heaving.

  "Unhand that boy, sir!" the Count d'Arrete cried.

  "Gladly, milord." Matt sprang away—but he brought Camano's sword with him. The boy cried out as the hilt wrenched out of his hand, then he stood there cradling his fingers. Matt quelled a surge of contempt and presented the weapon to one of the intervening knights, then quickly sheathed his own blade before anyone could make an issue of it.

  That didn't stop them, of course. Everyone at the high table was roaring in anger, and Count d'Arrete called out, "How poorly you repay our hospitality, sir! Did you not know the lad meant only sport?"

  Sport? Yeah, sure, it had only been all in good fun—as long as their boy was winning! But Matt couldn't say that aloud; instead, he bowed and said, "I assure you, my lord, I only answered in sport myself—in sport, and to give a younger knight some edification in his use of the blade."

  The court stared at the subtle insult, and the Count reddened.

  "I'm sorry to see I have offended." Matt bowed again. "Since I have transgressed against your hospitality, I shall take my leave of you. Thanks for this good dinner, sir."

  The Count blanched; courteous though the words might have been, everyone present knew it for the set-down it was, especially since they all knew that Matt had really been the injured party, and that if there had been any offense against the hospitality of chivalry, it had been Count d'Arrete's, not Matt's.

  "Nay, sir, stay!" the Count cried.

  Matt paused, then slowly turned.

  "Right or wrong, I cannot turn a guest out in the middle of the night! Surely there has only been a mistake of intention here, Sir Matthew, not a true wish to offend!"

  "Of course, my lord." Matt bowed yet again. "I trust you do not think that I truly intended insult!" Humiliation, maybe, but outright insult? Well, not quite—on his side, at least. "As for young Sir Camano, young men and wine have always made a volatile combination."

  Count d'Arrete stared in surprise. Then he laughed, clapping his hands. The whole court took the cue and laughed with him, and the tension was broken.

  "Yes, quite apt, Sir Matthew!" Count d'Arrete nodded and chuckled. "I was as hot-blooded as he, in my youth."

  "I do not doubt it for a second," Matt murmured.

  "Come, sit down!" The count waved at the seat on the bench Matt had been occupying before. "You must still be my guest at board, and yet stay the night in my castle! You shall find our other sports more congenial than this, I trust!"

  Matt sat, but he didn't trust anything, not for a second.

  A footman showed him to his room with a flambeau and lit a candle on the table before he left. Matt suppressed the urge to tip, and locked the door securely behind the man, then looked out the arrow slit to make sure there was no convenient way for anyone to climb in before he sat down to think over the day's events. There wasn't a question in his mind that Camano d'Arrete had meant to kill him, making it look like an accident—not hard, considering what a klutz the boy was when it came to using a sword. He had taken Matt by surprise, and Matt hadn't really been all that far from using magic.

  Everything considered, it made for a very full report to his queen. Matt took parchment, quill, and ink out of his s
addlebags and sat down to write.

  "My dearest darling," the letter began, and what came after that is absolutely none of our business, at least for the first paragraph or two. Suffice it to say that the letter reassured Alisande on a number of points, then went on to report on the mission she had given him:

  There doesn't seem to be anything resembling a definite plan to make the people discontent. It's just that the families down here have relatives on the other side of the border, and they visit back and forth—and, of course, they talk about the really important things in life, such as taxes and houses and how well the children are eating. For a long time, the Merovencian branches of the families have been able to brag about how well-off they are—but now, the Latrurian relatives are catching up, and even getting ahead in some ways. This is happening with serfs, yeomen, gentry, and nobility alike—the Smiths suddenly feel as if they're falling behind the other Smiths, and the Joneses in Merovence feel that they're not keeping up with the Joneses in Latruria.

  It's happening in the marketplaces, too. Peasants come in from Latruria to sell produce for themselves and for their lords, and while they're standing around waiting for customers, of course they get to gossiping with the peasant in the next booth, who's from Merovence. A few potential customers happen by—Merovencian, of course—and overhear the conversation, then ask a few more questions. First thing you know, rumor is spreading through the market that the peasants in Latruria are living in outright luxury.

  With the gentry and the lords, the greed is different. After all, they don't have much choice about their houses—they inherited the castles, and there's always the chance of war, so they can't just move out and build mansions. Nonetheless, some of the Latrurians are bragging about building palaces and just keeping the castles as forts.

  They all have the luxuries, too, so there's no point in wanting more. But the young folk can crave excitement—and they do. The rumors of King Boncorro's court are that it is a positive paradise for sybaritic devotees of vice. Of course, rumor doesn't say "vice," it says "fun," but the upshot is the same—there's always something to do, always something exciting going on, always the chance of a duel or an affair, and just time enough to recover from one ball before you start getting ready for the next. The tales of old King Maledicto's court are still hanging around, but where they talked about cruelty and depravity and vicious old men ruining the young folk, the stories about Boncorro's court are of the good-natured, generous king letting his people play and have fun while he watches, getting his kicks out of seeing people be happy.

  The bind is that there might be some truth in that. If there is, it's going to be awfully hard to fight, because rumors that have facts to back them up have a certain gloss of sincerity to them. I suppose we could close the border and keep the Latrurians out, but somehow it just doesn't seem right to keep relatives from visiting each other, especially since, to these people in the marches, borders are a nuisance during peacetime. It would be wrong to set up and enforce a rigid border watch unless it was really necessary.

  Besides, it probably wouldn't work. My world has seen some pretty strong evidence that no border guards can keep out ideas and news. I've picked up some strong hints that the peasants on both sides of the border are accomplished smugglers, and there's no way they're not going to swap stories as they barter goods. So the only thing to do is to boost the standard of living in Merovence and make your court the kind of shining, ideal place that Emperor Hardishane's court was—at least, in the legends.

  That's if the stories are true. If they're false, all it takes is a few eyewitnesses to start spreading the truth. I know that truth has a hard time competing against sensational lies, but believe me, I can wrap such a fascinating story around the truth that people really will listen.

  First, though, I have to find out what the truth is—and there's only one way to do that. So I'll start out for Latruria in the morning, to see for myself. I should cross the border about mid-afternoon, and have some idea of what's really going on by noon the next day. Of course, if the rumors turn out to be true, I'll have to go on and visit King Boncorro's court, but that shouldn't take long—I expect to be home in a week, maybe two. Until then, take care of yourself—and try to look forward to our reunion as much as I'm going to.

  Thereafter followed a few more paragraphs that were, to say the least, very private, and certainly no business of anybody but Matt and Alisande. They would have reduced Alisande to an emotional puddle, if she had read that far.

  Unfortunately, she never got past the bit about King Boncorro's court. By the time her ladies-in-waiting had revived her, they had begun to suspect that something was wrong.

  Actually, the ladies-in-waiting had been suspecting for a couple of weeks that something was very, very right—but the queen fainting when she read a letter from her husband made the very right turn very wrong, especially when revival brought a flood of tears. Such emotional behavior was very much unlike Queen Alisande—but very like the woman who had been contending with early-morning bouts of nausea for the past fortnight.

  They had been looking forward to widespread rejoicing as soon as the news became official—the kingdom was due for an heiring—but their high hopes might be brought low if the poor queen had so bad a shock as to make her miscarry. Almost as bad was the possibility that the child might be born with his father fled or defected to the side of Evil, and a shriek such as Alisande had uttered just before she fainted was cause enough to make them worry almost as much about that. So two of them fluttered about trying to revive her while a third ran for the doctor, and the fourth picked up the letter to scan it quickly. She blushed at the first two paragraphs, turned pale at the next few, and dropped it before reading the last. "No wonder her Majesty fainted! The Lord Wizard sends to tell her he will go into Latruria!"

  "Into that land of iniquity?" Lady Julia gasped. "Surely he would not be so foolish!"

  "Would he not?" Lady Constance said grimly. "He went into Ibile for no stronger reason than that he had misused the name of God. In truth, his championing of her Majesty's cause when she was in prison scarcely speaks much for his prudence!"

  "Ah me, the woes of wedding a gallant but reckless man!" Lady Julia sighed.

  "Still," said Lady Beatrice, "he should be reckless only on her behalf, not in spite of... See! Her eyelids begin to flutter!"

  "Oh, where is that doctor?" Lady Constance cried.

  "No... doctor!" Alisande protested, forcing herself to sit up.

  "No, Majesty!" Lady Constance cried in alarm. "Do not rise so suddenly!"

  "Do not speak as if I am ill!" Alisande snapped. "It was a moment's shock, nothing more!" But she stumbled as she pushed herself to her feet.

  Lady Constance was there to catch her arm. "What could there have been in that letter to so affright your Majesty?" She glared Lady Beatrice to silence.

  Alisande hesitated, torn between her very human need for a confidante and her monarch's duty to take the full weight on her own shoulders. Then she remembered that word of Mart's expedition was bound to become public knowledge, very public and very quickly, and allowed herself to speak. "My dunce of a husband has gone into Latruria!"

  The women gasped in shock. It wasn't difficult—they had never heard the queen refer to the Lord Wizard so rudely before.

  "But Majesty!" Lady Constance regained her poise first. "Latruria is a kingdom of sorcery and dark Evil!"

  "Perhaps no longer," Lady Julia said quickly. "The young King Boncorro may not be so bad as his grandfather!"

  "Or may be worse," Lady Constance said darkly. "I have heard tales to chill the blood about the doings of old King Maledicto!"

  "Aye—the maidens ravished and tortured, the rebels flayed and quartered." Lady Julia shuddered.

  But Lady Beatrice turned deadly pale. "More unnerving are the stories of the folk he had tortured so that he and the folk of his court might laugh at their screams!"

  "Laugh, and worse," Alisande said darkly. In spite of
herself, she shivered, and her hand went automatically to her abdomen—but she forced it away.

  "It is whispered that he commanded his sons be slain," Lady Beatrice gasped, "even that he slew the eldest with his own hand!"

  "Aye," Lady Julia said severely, "and that only the youngest was saved from his murderous sire, by his devotion to God—surely a miracle, in the midst of a court dedicated to the Devil!"

  "Surely," Lady Constance agreed, "and it is said that it was lust overcame him, and that one sin cracked his holiness enough to make him subject to the evil will of King Maledicto!"

  "And that the king would then have slain his grandson," Lady Beatrice finished, "had not some virtuous soul spirited him away into hiding—a hiding so complete that even King Maledicto's sorcery could not spy him out."

  Lady Elise burst through the door with a dark-robed graybeard right behind her, puffing as he lugged a heavy satchel. Elise cried, "Here is the... Oh! Your Majesty is well!"

  "No doctor, I said!" Alisande waved the graybeard away angrily, then instantly relented. "Your pardon, Doctor. It was only a faint, a moment's giddiness, nothing more."

  The doctor didn't exactly look reassured. "Still, your Majesty should permit—"

  "Nothing! I need nothing! There is too much to do, too suddenly, to permit of time for medicine!"

  The doctor started to interrupt, but Alisande overrode him. "Away, kindly doctor! I must turn to planning strategy!" And she very deliberately turned away from him.

  The doctor glared in outrage—he was one of the few members of the court privileged to do so—but when he saw she was not looking, gave it over and went out the door, shaking his head and grumbling.

  "I regret your bootless errand, Lady Elise," Alisande said, "but it was truly for naught."

  All four ladies exchanged a very significant glance as Lady Elise said slowly, "A hundred bootless errands I will run gladly, your Majesty, so long as the one that is truly needed be among them. But what gave you cause for such distress?"