Secular Wizard

Chapter 16

Matt’s first blurred impression was of a lot of cobblestones. After a minute he realized from the discomfort that he was lying on more than cobbles. Then he realized that there wasn’t anyone anywhere near, though there did seem to be a goodly number off in the distance, there-lined up, pointing, gesticulating. Then the headache hit. Actually, it had been there all the time-it just required a certain level of consciousness to feel it. His vision stayed blurred, and he gasped with the agony of it. He begged his pulse not to beat, because every throb made his head split all over again. Fortunately, he didn’t beg in rhyme. Through the blinding pain one thought bored: he couldn’t possibly function with his head splitting, and there was only one way to make it stop. What the hell? Whoever the chief sorcerer was around here, he knew where he was, anyway.

The improvement startled him. Suddenly, the headache was only a dull, persistent pain at the back of his head-not as successful a spell as it would have been if he had tried the same verse outside Latruria, but good enough. He raised a hand to touch the spot the pain radiated from, then thought better of it-he didn’t need to start another explosion. In what was left of his mind, he made a note to check himself for concussion when he had time to find a mirror-or conjure one up, more likely. With the pain reduced to a bearable level, he could take stock of his circumstances. Now that he thought of it, he remembered being hit on the head, remembered… Flaminia’s abduction! In a panic, he looked around for Pascal, and saw… A wall of tawny fur. He stared at it for a second, realizing why the onlookers were staying so far back. Then he looked up slowly to the double grin above. “Hi, Manny.”

“It is good to see you alive again, mortal.”

Matt pushed himself up to a sitting position, very carefully. “Somebody tried to kill me again, huh?”

“Yes-one of the soldiers in wine-red tunics. He changed his mind when I dropped down beside you.”

“Dropped down? How’d you get into the city, anyway?”

“Why, I leaped atop the wall, then sprang to the nearest house-top and prowled across the roofs.”

“Like any cat.” Matt nodded. “I kept you in sight all the afternoon, disappointed that there was no need of me.”

“Bet you were real happy to see them jump us, huh?”

“Yes. I could not prevent them from striking, but when the wench was secured and the leader turned back to you with a lifted knife, I knew my moment had come and dropped beside you with a hiss of joy. He was somewhat startled to see me.”

“I’ll bet. How was he?”

‘Too quick to catch, alas.“

‘Too quick for you?“ Matt stared. ”Yes. He shouted a few words I recognized from long ago, and disappeared, along with his soldiers and that scrumptious tidbit of a young woman.“

Matt thought that Pascal would probably agree with him on that last, and that reminded him. “Seen Pascal?”

“Yes. He is on my other side-” Manny glanced away, then back. “-only just now waking.”

“Safe, then-sort of. You say you recognized the soldier’s words?”

“Aye. They were in a language from the East.”

“How far east?”

“From Persia, I believe he called it-the magus who had come to Reme to teach the priests new ways to read the auspices and haruspices.”

“Auspicious indeed.” So the language had been Persian, or maybe older. Chaldean? Sumerian? “What did the leader say?”

“Only, ‘Return whence we came!’ ” The manticore frowned. “Few words indeed, to accomplish so much!”

“Not really, if he had left a spell hanging in the air and only needed a few final words to put it into action. What did he look like?”

“Difficult to say. He was masked, you see-but he had gray hair and beard, was tall and lean, and wore a robe of flaming orange.”

“Just your standard sorcerer, except for the color of the robe.” Matt frowned. “Could have been any senior magus. Any distinguishing features?”

“Only his knowledge of an old and arcane tongue, and the fact that he did attempt to enslave me with a spell of obedience in that tongue.”

Matt looked up, startled “And it didn’t work?”

“Of course not,” the manticore said with disdain. “I already walk under the old geas laid upon me by the ancestor of your mend Pascal, and renewed by that young man himself. They enjoined me by the power of Goodness, which is greater than the evil source of that sorcerer’s power. He would have had to remove Pascal’s spell before he could lay a new compulsion upon me.”

“So you were protected by loyalty.”

“Protected in more ways than one.” The manticore shuddered. “It is highly unpleasant to labor in a sorcerer’s command! Some tasty meals, aye, but they do not compensate for being restrained and constrained when I wish to ramble. Would that I could take revenge!”

“But they’re too powerful for you, huh?”

“Or too quick. I almost caught this graybeard on the tips of my daws, but he disappeared a half second too soon.”

“Too bad about that” Matt suspected he had just personally encountered the sorcerer who had been trying to have him assassinated all along. Apparently he had become fed up with his klutzy hirelings and decided that if he wanted the job done right, he’d have to do it himself. But why kidnap Flaminia? Just in case the sorcerer failed to kill Matt, of course. This way, Matt would have to come after the sorcerer. Or was Flaminia herself important in some way Matt didn’t know about? Or maybe Pascal? It seemed unlikely, but you never knew. “How’s your liberator doing?”

The manticore glanced down on his other side. “He rises.”

Pascal’s head appeared above the manticore’s back. He looked like yesterday’s hashed browns unsuccessfully warmed over, but all he could say was, “Flaminia!”

“Stolen away,” Matt relayed. “We have to go get her back.” It didn’t even occur to him that there might be another option. “Of course, we have to figure out where she is.” He pushed himself to his feet and went over to the spectators. They gave way before him, and some turned to run. “I’m not going to hurt you!” The way Matt felt, he couldn’t have damaged a plate of spaghetti. “I just want to know whose soldiers those were.”

They didn’t even try to deny having been mere when the soldiers jumped Matt and his party; they just looked at one another with wide, frightened, but incredulous eyes. “He is a foreigner, after all,” one of them said. “Aye,” said his friend. “You can tell that by his accent.”

Matt frowned. “What difference does that make?”

“It is why you did not recognize their livery,” the man explained. “Meaning their boss is so big and important that anybody here would know him just by his colors?” Matt didn’t like the way this was going. “Okay-who is he?” But the creeping dread in his belly told him that he already knew-he was just hoping he was wrong. “They are the royal colors,” the citizen said. “Those were King Boncorro’s men.”

Matt just stared at him for a moment. Then he gave a short nod. “Thanks. Any idea why they would want to kidnap our young woman?”

Again, the passersby exchanged glances, and a woman said, “Why would any young man abduct a young woman?”

Matt stood frozen. “King Boncorro is a young man, after all,” one of the men said defiantly. “He is a good king, but he has a healthy young man’s appetites-and he will not touch the daughters of the noblemen, as his grandfather did.”

“That is why the noblemen have come flocking back to Venarra,” another man said stoutly, “with all their money-because he treats them with respect, they and theirs.”

“So he makes it up by snagging any of the peasant girls who catch his eye, huh?”

“His eye, or his soldiers’ eyes,” the woman said darkly. “Still, the king may not find her to be of interest,” the first man said in an effort at consolation. “Be of good cheer, friend-if the king does not fancy her, she will be brought back here unharmed. None dare touch her, unless the king gives his leave.”

“And he never has,” another woman pointed out. “How about if one of the lords takes a fancy to her?”

The woman shrugged eloquently. “A nobleman, desire a girl that the king finds unattractive? He would not dare be so far off she fashion!” She said it with a certain smugness-as well she might, since it was probably one of her own defenses. Matt wondered how the king’s taste ran. “Well, thanks, folks. I’ll take my manticore and go now.”

They looked relieved, and certainly no one moved to stop him. As he came back up to Pascal, Matt said, “Bad news. Those were the king’s men who snatched her.”

Pascal blanched-not that he had much color left to begin with. “But why?”

“Because she’s a reasonably attractive young woman,” Matt sighed, “and apparently, he has his share of vices.”

Pascal began to tremble-whether with fear or anger or both, Matt didn’t want to know. “We must free her! But how?”

“I was just saying I wanted to meet the king, wasn’t I?” Matt sighed. “I won’t say this gives us a good opportunity-but it certainly gives us a good reason.”

Privately, though, he knew this had to be one of the dumbest things he had ever done. If that sorcerer really was the one who lad been trying to bump him off all along, he would sure as Hell know Matt was coming-straight into his jaws. If the sorcerer worked for the king, the chances were this kidnapping, and the attempt to assassinate Matt, had all been ordered by Boncorro himself. Matt knew he would just have to go in with all enchantments up and ready. He thought of trying a disguise spell, but suspected it would be useless, since the sorcerer had already penetrated his cover once. There was one shred of hope: maybe Boncorro had not ordered this abduction. The townspeople seemed to be familiar with peasant girls being kidnapped on spec-on the chance that the king might desire them. Maybe the sorcerer had just been out shopping for his master-and if it had been his own idea to kidnap Flaminia, maybe it had been his own idea to assassinate Matt. Maybe. But Matt wasn’t putting any money on it. “But how are we to find a way into the king’s castle?” Pascal wailed. “One does not simply walk up to him and demand to speak!”

“No,” Matt said. “One walks up to the nearest nobleman. Come on, let’s go find one.”

He turned away. Pascal glanced at the manticore, startled, but the monster only shrugged and jerked his head toward Matt. Pascal swallowed and followed the wizard. When they looked back, the manticore had disappeared. In this town it was always a short walk to the nearest boulevard. The districts changed from grungy to grand in two blocks. Matt took up station on a street corner and began to play. Pascal, with conditioned reflexes, threw down his hat. A passerby stopped to listen, then threw in a copper when the song ended. Another passerby joined him. Soon the hat was half full, and Matt had a crowd. Then he saw the nobleman’s retinue coming. Matt timed it so the nobleman would just be passing as he sang:

The carriage stopped and the aristocrat peered out through the door, no doubt wondering what there was about this minstrel that was so compelling-he didn’t sound all that funny. Matt went on:

The nobleman laughed, and his lady joined in. He wiped his eyes and said, “Well-spoken, minstrel! In fact, hilariously spoken! Climb up behind, for you must come with me to the king!”

Some show of reluctance was in order. “But your Lordship-”

“Get up behind, I said!” The nobleman frowned. “Are you under the illusion that you have a choice?”

“No, my lord! Right away, my lord!” Matt slung his lute across has back and leaped up to the perch on the back of the coach, calling, “Come on, Pascal!” Then, to the footman who had already moved over to make room for him, “He’s part of the act.”

“Part or not, there is no more room!” the man protested. “There is scarcely enough for three, let alone four!”

“Number four,” Matt said, standing up and grabbing a footman’s handle, “you’ll have to sit between my feet and hold onto my ankles.”

“Stand fast,” Pascal begged as he hiked himself up onto the moving seat, and off they went, with the disappointed commoners protesting loudly, and Pascal trying to count his hat with one hand, the other elbow hooked around Matt’s shin. Off they went, with Matt reflecting that either the mangled version of Gilbert’s verse had been funnier than he knew or his magic was getting stronger. Maybe it was just a matter of getting adjusted to the Latrurian environment. Matt just hoped he wasn’t adjusting too far. The sentries didn’t even bat an eye as their party drove over the drawbridge and into the courtyard. The coach drew to a halt and the footmen hopped down to open the doors. Matt and Pascal hopped down, too, and started to follow the nobleman and his wife, but a footman caught Matt by the elbow. ‘Through the kitchens, you! You’re no better than the rest of us!“ And he led Matt off firmly, while his mate took Pascal in tow. Definitely, he had not worked this spell just to meet the royal cook. ”But your master wants us to sing for the king!“

“He will send for you when it is time.” The footman clearly didn’t think much of this way of hiring new staff. “You’ll stay in the servants’ hall, or whatever sleeping chamber they afford you, until then.”

The “sleeping chamber” turned out to be a ten-by-six-foot space with a four-foot-high ceiling that sloped rapidly down to six inches-they were under the eaves. Matt warily eyed a dark spot in the overhead boards and decided not to rest his lute underneath. The loft was hot and stifling. He could hardly wait for dusk. “Everything considered, Pascal, let’s hang out in the servants’ hall.“

“ ‘Hang out’?” Pascal gave him a blank look. “Loiter. Idle. While away time when we don’t have anything to do. Pester the servants and find out about the king.” Pascal’s eyes lit. “Come on.” Matt headed for the curtained hole that served as a door. He tried out the strength of his new spell by singing it to the off-duty servants, then following it up with some popular songs from his own world and time that he had found singularly disagreeable. The servants gathered around with wide eyes and tapping toes, hanging on his every phrase. Grins broke out and people began dancing. Matt decided that the spell worked like a charm. Come to think of it, in this universe, it was a charm. Either that or rock music had a more universal appeal than he was willing to admit, even when it was played on a lute by a third-rate amateur… “Ho, minstrel!” It was the lord’s footman at the door again, the one with his face in a permanent sneer. “Your master summons you!”

“Why, then, I shall obey with alacrity!” Matt struck a final chord and nodded to Pascal. “Let’s go.”

The servants grumbled in disappointment as Pascal followed Matt toward the door. “Don’t worry, we’ll be back,” Matt assured them, then wished he hadn’t. Sometimes he had trouble keeping his promises. They wound a tortuous way through halls that had been accumulating sudden turns for centuries, then came up to a stout oaken door banded with brass and flanked by two guards. The footman announced, “The minstrel Matthew and his assistant Alacrity, responding to the summons of Conte Paleschino.” Matt turned to him, puzzled. “My assistant… ? Oh, right.”

The left-hand guard scowled. “We have permission for a minstrel to enter with you, but none other.”

The footman frowned, but Matt said quickly, “Don’t worry about it. Pascal can hobnob with the off-duty servants while he waits for me. In fact, I thought you had struck up an acquaintance with a young lady there, hadn’t you, Pascal?”

“Aye,” the young man said, giving Matt a very direct look in the eye. “There is a young lady there who is quite fascinating. She dwells with the women who wait upon the king, and seems to partake of their beauty.”

The footman frowned, incensed, but the guard gave Pascal a sly grin. “Aye, lad, back to the servants’ hall with you, to deepen your acquaintance. Can you find your way?”

“Oh, I shall ask if I have need.” Pascal turned away. “I shall see you when you have finished, friend Matthew. I trust you shall be well-received and shall play long for them.”

“Thanks.” Matt could take a hint. Pascal was trusting him to keep the king and his men occupied for a long time. Well, he would do his best to play along-a very long. He turned back to the guard. “Okay. Do I get to see the king now?”

“No. You see his Lordship.” The guard nodded to his mate, who swung the little door open. The footman pushed in front of Matt, snapping, “This way!” Matt let him go first, and followed him in. The huge room they entered was lit only by candles around the walls, and a row of small, narrow windows high above. Matt glanced up, just to check, and sure enough, there were guards stationed next to the windows, on a catwalk that went completely around the huge room. Those weren’t windows, they were arrow slits. Each embrasure was filled with tinted glass-tinted not by intention, Matt supposed, but by imperfect glass-making. Still, the muted background light that it gave the throne room was really very pleasing, especially when it was highlighted by the two ten-branch candelabra at either side of the steps that led up to the throne. The dais wasn’t really very high-only three feet or so-but it was enough to make the king decidedly the center of the room. Matt took a quick glance-all he could manage, as he followed fie footman who was weaving through the crowd. But he retained the image of the king and studied it until he could look again. He didn’t have time, though. The footman was standing by the nobleman from the coach, who didn’t seem to be anywhere nearly as tall now that he was standing on the floor. In fact, he was shorter than Matt, if you didn’t count all the hair piled up on top of his head. “Milord.” The footman bowed. “The minstrel is here.”

“Very good, very good.” The count shot Matt a keen glance. “You had best be as amusing for the king as you were for me, fellow.”

“I shall do my best, my lord.” Matt bowed, managing to keep a straight face-if the count knew that Matt technically ranked him, he would have had to push his jaw shut. Of course, if the count knew that this minstrel had been born at a station lower than his own, he would have had apoplexy. Matt entertained a brief vision of the count having apoplexy with an open jaw, then put it resolutely behind him as his new “master” brought him up to stand before the dais. The count bowed, and Matt followed suit. “Your Majesty!” the count cried. “May I present the minstrel of whom I spoke!”

A ripple of interest passed through the ranks of the crowd of courtiers-anything to break the boredom, Matt decided. If he was amusing, all well and good. If he wasn’t, they’d have fun watching him be flogged. But when he looked up at King Boncorro, he had difficulty believing this handsome young man would flog a minstrel just for poor singing. The bilious, scrawny old man standing behind him-well, he looked ready to flog Matt right now-but the king himself was in his mid-twenties, about ten years younger than Matt himself. His face was open and seemed guileless, his blue eyes frank and honest, his nose straight and his chin firm without being too large. He looked like a real nice guy, all-American and addicted to Mom’s apple pie. Of course, Matt reminded himself, these people didn’t know about America-for all he knew, it might not be there; he hadn’t gotten around to looking yet-and probably didn’t know about apple pie, either. If Boncorro was really skilled at deception, one of the first things he would have learned was to look honest and guileless. Matt decided to withhold judgment, but couldn’t help liking the kid anyway-which, no doubt, was just what Boncorro intended. “A minstrel, are you?” the young king asked. “Can you sing?”

“No, Majesty,” Matt said honestly, “but my lute can, and my mouth says the words.”

The crowd emitted a noise that sounded as if they weren’t sure whether or not to laugh. Boncorro decided the issue for them by giving a chuckle. “Not only a minstrel, but a jester, too! What songs can you sing, then?”

‘I can sing you of my trade, Majesty.“

“To sing of singing?” Boncorro’s smile firmed with amusement. “Well, then, let us hear it!”

Matt sang “I’ve Jibe and Joke” again. The crowd went silent at first line and stayed that way so thoroughly that Matt knew were charmed-literally. Boncorro listened closely, too, with agreeable smile, but with a guarded look that told Matt that the king knew well and truly that he was being subjected to a spell, that it didn’t bother him. He was that sure of his own power dispel the charm, if he thought it necessary. Matt’s blood ran cold at the thought of that kind of power in one so young. Of course, Boncorro could have been wrong-he might not have proven as powerful as he thought… Then again, he might. When he finished, the crowd applauded, and Boncorro nodded approval. “Not bad, not bad at all-and your voice is far better than you led me to believe.”

“Well, yes,” Matt conceded. “I’m just not too good at hitting the right pitch, your Majesty, that’s all.”

The king smiled. “Well, your words were so fascinating that we did not concern ourselves with it. What is this ‘wisdom of the East’ of which you speak?”

Matt was curious. “Is your Majesty not more concerned with what thoughts a minstrel would consider to be the wisdom of the West?”

“No,” the king said, with absolute conviction. “I know what we of the Western world consider to be wisdom-it is religion, and I’ll have none of it, or the magic of Evil, and I’ll have none of that, either.”

The old man standing behind the throne looked very upset at that. Somehow, Matt didn’t think he was the religious type. “Why, just as your Majesty says.” Matt was taken aback by the young man’s intensity-but then, he had known other people who had rejected religion with an almost religious fervor. “Maybe you would prefer the wisdom of the East.”

“What is it, then?”

The old geezer behind the throne was watching Matt very narrowly. Matt mustered his wits, trying to oversimplify drastically-not too hard, considering how little he knew. “Broadly speaking, there are three kinds-but the one of them is so like that of the West that I think you would find it of little interest; it has to deal with who should take orders from whom, and how to keep things orderly in a kingdom.”

“You are right,” the king said impatiently, “I know enough of that already. And the other two?”

“The one teaches that all life is more suffering than joy, and that the main goal in living is to be able to escape life.”

Boncorro frowned. “Why, a naked blade can accomplish that soon enough!”

“Only if death lets you stop existing,” Matt pointed out, “with-out going to Hell.”

Boncorro became totally still. “I think I do wish to learn this wisdom. How can one cease to exist when one is dead?”

“Only with great difficulty,” Matt said, “for this wisdom teaches that unless you have lived the life of a saint, you will be reborn in another life, and have to live it over again, and the next, and the next, until you do manage to live a life of perfect purity.”

Boncorro relaxed, disappointed. “There is no profit for me in that. I am a king, and cannot live a life of purity, for we who rule must ever make the hard choice between the lesser of two evils. Besides, I wish to make my life one of pleasure and joy, not one of suffering.”

“And your people’s lives, too?” Matt watched him keenly. Boncorro shrugged. “If their happiness will make my life more pleasurable, yes-and I think it will. The more they prosper, the more tax they can pay, and the more wealthy I will become. The more content they are, the less likely they are to rebel, and the less difficulty I will have keeping this crown on my head.”

So. A materialist, and one devoted to the good of his people, even if his reasons were less than noble. On the other hand, Matt wasn’t all that sure he believed the king was really so self-centered. “What of this third form of Eastern wisdom?” Boncorro demanded. “Alas, Sire! I fear it will interest you even less, for it teaches that everything that exists is only a small part of a greater, single whole-that all the universe is one unified entity, and that human happiness can be gained by working to live in harmony with all the rest of the world about you.”

Boncorro smiled sourly. “If that is so, then even the wolves and lions do not know of that harmony, for they slay and feed on other animals.”

That is a problem,“ Matt admitted, ”though I’m sure the Taoists have an answer for it. Unfortunately, their idea of living in harmony with the rest of the universe involves learning how to eat as little as possible and do without anything but the absolutely essential belongings-even clothes.“

Boncorro gave him a cynical smile. “No, I do not think that wisdom will make my people happy, and will certainly not make me so-unless it teaches how a king may cease to exist when he dies.”

The old guy behind him looked very worried. No, your Majesty,“ Matt admitted. ”Just the other way around-they try to find eternal life, by living lives of virtue.“

“Which doubtless entails poverty.” Boncorro gave him a sour smile. “What use eternal life, if there is so little of pleasure in it?”

There is spiritual rapture,“ Matt clarified. ”But only for the virtuous? Nay, I think competent kings could not gain that inner pleasure.“

“So do they, your Majesty. In fact, one sage actually came right out and said that governing a kingdom would make it impossible for him to live a virtuous life.”

“Perhaps he did have some wisdom, after all.” Boncorro gave an approving nod. ‘Tell me of him.“

“A king sent his men to invite the sage to come advise him on the best way to govern his kingdom. They found the wise man in the wilderness, wearing worn, rough clothing. He refused the king’s invitation. They asked him why, and the sage said, ‘What would you expect a turtle to say, if you invited him to dinner-when the dinner was going to be turtle soup, made out of himself? Would you expect him to be delighted to come to the palace, or to prefer to continue to draggle his tail in the mud?’

‘Why,’ said the messenger, ‘he would refuse.’

“And so do I,‘ said the sage. ’Be off with you, then, and leave me to draggle my tail in the mud.‘ ”

The king stared in surprise, then threw back his head and laughed. “A point most apt, and a sage indeed! But it is an insight that is of no use to me. So much for the wisdom of the East.”

“But there is another Western wisdom that you might find more useful,” Matt said, desperate to keep him interested. “There is also the learning of the ancient Greeks, who had begun to search for knowledge that came from neither Faith nor Wickedness.”

“Yes, I have heard of that.” Boncorro sat forward, his attention suddenly focused. Matt was surprised at the force of the young man’s gaze. “They say that scholars have unearthed scrolls that were moldering in libraries, or even dug them from the earth sealed in jars, and that, slowly and with great pain, they have begun to translate them. I have even read a few of their ancient tales of their gods and heroes. But how is it that you, a mere minstrel, know of this?”

“Ah, your Majesty! A minstrel’s stock-in-trade is news, and the discovery of things long past is just such news as I thought to have in store, for a king’s court.”

“Why, what foresight you had.” Boncorro grinned. “Have you read these scrolls, then?”

“Alas! I am fortunate to be able to read the language of Latruria itself, let alone that of the ancient empire or its elder neighbor! But I have heard that scholars have uncovered the thoughts of a man named Socrates.”

The old geezer behind the throne gave a start of alarm. Matt gave him a closer glance-he had a long white beard and a perpetually worried expression. His eyes narrowed as he met Matt’s gaze, and Matt suddenly felt a very definite dislike for the man. Heaven only knew why-he looked nice enough, if rather dyspeptic. Then he remembered that Heaven might very well know why, indeed. “Majesty.” The old geezer took a step closer to the throne. “Surely such talk of long-dead Greeks is a waste of your most precious time!”

“It beguiles me, my Lord Chancellor,” the king said.

“But it is surely of no-”

“I said it beguiles me, Rebozo.” There was sudden iron in the king’s tone, and the old man took a quick step backward. “Now, minstrel, tell me of this Greek of whom you have heard. What manner of man was this Socrates?”

“Why, what men term a ‘philosopher,’ your Majesty.”

“ ‘Philosopher’?” Boncorro frowned. “Let us work that out from the roots… It means, ‘lover of wisdom,’ does it not?”

“It does, your Majesty, though I personally think the term may have been misused,” Matt said, with a hard smile. “Socrates claimed to love truth and to be preoccupied with searching for it, but from what I’ve heard of the man, his searching discussions with his students really seemed to be more a very subtle way of persuading them to agree with his ideas.”

Boncorro smiled with slow amusement, and Matt tried to ignore the restless shuffling and coughing from the spectators who, having the traditional courtier’s attention span-i.e., that of a gnat-were beginning to become bored. But the king seemed almost excited. “And how does a man go about searching for truth?”

The old geezer’s alarm turned into five fire trucks and a hook-and-ladder. “Alas!” Matt said “I know so little of this Socrates! But it seemed he thought all knowledge could be gained by reasoning, through a system called ‘logic’ ”

The geezer relaxed a little. “I have heard of this logic.” Boncorro frowned. “Wherein do you find it lacking?”

“It is more a question of how one finds it lacking, not where,” Matt said sourly. “The only way is to test its findings by observation of the real world, then perhaps even to attempt to put those findings into practice on a small scale; they call that ‘experiment.’ ”

The geezer’s alarm was back, and had added a paramedic van. Boncorro smiled slowly. “And how shall one test the conclusions of logic against reality, when they concern the human soul?”

“That, no one can do,” Matt affirmed. “That is why such matters should be the only true domain of philosophy.“

Boncorro threw back his head and laughed. All the courtiers looked startled, especially the old geezer-but he sent the paramedics home and began to relax. “I think that I will keep this minstrel about awhile, to play the fool for me,” Boncorro said to Conte Paleschino. “I thank your Lordship for bringing him to me, but I shall relieve you of his upkeep for the time being. I must find a way to reward you for this, my lord.”

The count fairly beamed. “No reward is necessary, your Majftssy. Your good regard is enough.”

It sure was, Matt thought sourly-especially since the king’s good will would sooner or later be transformed into hard cash, by grants of land or monopolies. Well, Conte Paleschino had won some royal favor, the king had won a new and rather odd jester-minstrel, and Matt had won access to the king-so everybody had gotten what they wanted out of this transaction. Except, maybe, the old geezer behind the throne.