Secular Wizard

Chapter 1

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 over-hearing. 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 him self 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,

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. It was just lucky for him that magic in Merovence worked by verse. How else could an English major have made a living? Matt had been looking forward to a quiet, inoffensive, and unrewarding existence as an impoverished graduate student, about to graduate to an impoverished instructorship, when Saint Moncaire of Merovence had plucked him off his college campus and into an alternate universe where he was needed to help unseat a usurper and put the rightful queen back on the throne. It helped that he had fallen in love with that rightful queen and, after proving to her that marrying him was the best policy for her country, managed to take her to the altar. But it had been two years since the wedding, and they still didn’t have any children. Matt couldn’t help feeling that he must be doing something wrong-and in Merovence, doing something wrong could have very serious consequences. Consequences such as going to the fair and being accused of witchcraft, for all the wrong reasons. Matt finally managed a smile as he saw the irony in getting out of a charge of black magic by working white magic-all magic in this universe worked by the power of Good, or the power of Evil. Somehow, Matt had a notion the peasant could appreciate the humor of it, too. He wondered how he had gotten himself into such a fix. Of course, he hadn’t, exactly-Queen Alisande had helped a lot. She had received reports of discontent along the border between Merovence and its neighbor to the south, Latruria-discontent that seemed to have its roots in rumors of fine living in a country that had, only five years before, been mired in poverty. Matt remembered his frustration at trying to find something more substantial in the way of information. “Isn’t there anything a little more specific?” he asked Alisande. “A boost in the gross national product, maybe? An increase in capital investment? Subsidies and price supports, maybe?”

Alisande made an impatient gesture. “Speak clearly, Matthew. Terms such as these are only for wizards.”

Matt was tempted to agree with her, but he tried to translate anyway. “Are Latruria’s farmers having better harvests all of a sudden? Are her craftsmen making more carts and wagons? Are they building more new hovels?”

“I do not know,” Alisande said, “nor do my informants. They speak only of rumors of better living - aye, even better than here in Merovence.”

Matt frowned. “Thought you had done pretty well at boosting the standard of living, and in less than ten years, too.”

“I had hoped so,” Alisande admitted, “but these rumors do make me wonder. How have they come into Merovence? Has this new King Boncorro sent agents to spread discontent among my people?”

“I wouldn’t put anything past a sorcerer-king. Of course,” Matt amended, “we don’t know that he is a sorcerer-but his grandfather was, and his father died from too much goodness, if your spies had the story right. So it would make sense for Boncorro to be a sorcerer, too.”

“Certainly we have had no word that he is saintly,” Alisande agreed, “and until we have such, we must assume he is a pawn of Hell, as was his grandfather before him. Certainly the fruits of these rumors are such as would please the Devil-our serfs are growing quarrelsome and fractious, and more indolent in their farming.”

“Which makes for a smaller harvest, and that makes them grumble all the harder,” Matt said dryly. “How is the nobility taking it?”

“The elders are only concerned, as of yet-but they are concerned even more about their children.”

“The younger generation is getting rebellious, huh?”

Alisande frowned. “An odd notion-and no, I would not say they challenge their parents, though I hear they do become surly and contentious.”

“How about ‘insolent’ and ‘impertinent’?“

“Then you have heard these reports!”

“No, but I’ve worked with kids.” For a moment, Matt felt a very irrational urge to go back to teaching college. Maybe if he founded the first University of Merovence… NO! Temptations were to be resisted! “I take it the young noblemen are becoming moody and defiant?”

“Aye, and the young noblewomen, too.”

“Why not?”Matt reflected that discontent was very egalitarian-it was no respecter of rank or sex. “Any particular reason?”

“Nay.” Alisande frowned, gazing out the high, narrow windows of her solar at the gardens below. “The only clear issue seems to be that they are cozening and wheedling and demanding that their parents send them to my court.”

“Oh, so that’s how you heard about all this! They made such pests of themselves that a dozen or so lords are petitioning you for posts for their offspring, eh?”

Alisande looked up at him in surprise. “Sometimes I despair of your density, husband, but at times like this, your perceptiveness amazes me. How did you guess?”

“Because fond but exasperated parents will do almost anything to get the high school graduates out of the house. I take it you can’t find enough posts for them all?”

“I cannot,” Alisande said slowly, “and I am not altogether certain that I want such surly young courtiers, especially not in such numbers. What else could I do with them, Matthew?”

“Found a university,” Matt said promptly, “a place for higher learning. It keeps the monks out of trouble, too, at least the ones who like to spend their time hunting up old Greek and Latin texts and trying to find out more about how the universe works. Bring them here to the capital and build a cloister full of workrooms and lecture halls. Then tell some of your more enterprising citizens to build extra inns, and let the nobility know that you’ve found a great dumping ground for the kids, so they can get them out of their hair for their four most fractious years.”

“That has a costly sound,” Alisande said, frowning. “You noticed that, huh? And we don’t even have college-age kids yet! But don’t worry, the younger folk will come flocking, to gather around the scholars and learn-or at least pretend to for a few hours every day, so they have an excuse to get down to the serious business of partying.”

“What assurance would we have that the teachings of these scholars would be true and good?”

Matt shrugged. “That isn’t a requirement, where I come from. Can’t prove most of it, anyway. What matters is teaching the kids to think seriously about what they’re doing and about the world around them-get them to make plans for the future, give them a chance to think over what they believe and how they should live those beliefs, before they actually have to go out and start making decisions that will affect the lives of thousands of people around them. It’s a chance to build the foundation of their lives, dear-and hopefully, to find some bedrock to build it on. When they’re actually out there dealing with the work of this world every day, they won’t have time to think over what’s right or wrong, or best and wisest for everybody. They have to do that before they start their lives’ work.”

“And they must be right,” she said, with a jaundiced look, “and for that, I am not altogether certain I trust these teachers you would bring.”

Matt shrugged, “Politicians never do. That’s why they make the budget renewable every year.”

“Still, there is merit in the notion.” Alisande gazed out the window pensively, and Matt wondered if she was thinking about the children they didn’t even have yet. “It is for the future, though,” she said at last, “and we must deal with this matter in the present. I tell you frankly, Matthew, that I suspect subversion from the sorcerous kingdom of Latruria.”

“Fair guess,” Matt said judiciously. “Just because we chased the sorcerers out of your kingdom once, doesn’t mean that they’ve given up on trying to win it back. So you think King Boncorro might be sending agents across the border to stir up discontent?”

“Yes, and to make the young folk of all classes yearn for a life of leisure and luxury.”

Matt smiled. “Don’t we all?”

“True, but those of us who are grown know that we must labor for it and earn it. Yet even for mature folk, if rumor says there is Heaven on Earth for free, many will flock to seek it.”

“Or start agitating for you to provide it for them,” Matt said, nodding, “carefully avoiding the issue of who is going to provide the food, or build the houses.”

“I do not say that King Boncorro is doing that,” Alisande said, “but only that he might.” She turned to look at her husband. “Would you travel south to discover the answer for me, Matthew? I know you have been restive of late.”

“Well, yes,” Matt admitted. “I can take only so much of court life before I start going a little crazy from all the intrigue and backstabbing. I don’t know how you can take it, darling.”

“I glory in it.” Alisande gave him a toothy smile. “There is a certain thrill and excitement in keeping these courtiers in line, and making them be productive for the land as a whole to boot.”

“Yeah, and I’ll bet you’re the kind who tap-dances on crocodiles for fun. Okay, honey, I’ll go hunting-my Chief Assistant Wizard, Ortho the Frank, should be able to handle anything routine.”

“He did well for me, when we had need to follow you into Allustria,” Alisande said. “You have trained him admirably.”

“Not too well, I hope,” Matt said, with a wary glance. “Still, he’ll know how to get hold of me if anything really big comes up. Want me to leave today?”

“Soonest gone, soonest come back.” Alisande caught his hand and tugged. “Do purge your restlessness and come back to me quickly, mine husband. The nights will be long till you’ve returned.”

He followed the pull to zero in on her lips, and made it a very long kiss. After all, it was going to have to last him a while. Matt shivered at the memory of that kiss, and of what had followed, then resolutely forced his mind back to the present and this southern fair. He had indeed left that afternoon, buying a pack and some trade goods in town, then strolled south, trading and swapping pots and pans and copper coins while he absorbed information. The farther south he went, the juicier the scandal. He’d found that Alisande was right-there were murmurs of discontent, and people were beginning to think that maybe Latruria was better run than Merovence.

By all reports, people in Latruria seemed to live better, even the serfs-and everybody had at least some money. The commoners were believing every rumor they heard. But those rumors weren’t coming from government agents-they were coming from relatives. Matt was amazed to learn that there was no attempt to guard the border from anything except an invading army, and no one really thought that would come. Oh, the marcher barons guarded the roads, but mostly to collect taxes and tolls-they didn’t seem to be particularly worried about invasion. And the peasants were traveling back and forth across the fields with a blithe disregard for the invisible line that presumably ran right across the pasture and down the middle of the river. Small boats crossed the river both ways, with no concern for any law but Nature’s, and that only in regard to the current and the weather. Not that there was any law, of course. The only one Matt could think of was that sorcerers were barred, along with armed bands. Everybody else was legal-if they paid a tax. Some people didn’t want to, of course. There was an inordinate amount of smuggling going on. The marcher barons didn’t seem to care, maybe because import taxes were supposed to go to the queen. Why should they care, if there was nothing in it for them? Oh, they sent out patrols, every few days, to ride through the pastures and fields along the invisible line-but they seemed far more interested in hunting small game than illegal immigrants. They made a lot of noise, too, playing pipes and joking and laughing; any peasants out to visit their in-laws on the other side had plenty of time to take cover and wait until the riders had passed out of sight.

Not that Matt objected to any of this, exactly, though it would have been nice to have the tax money. Still, he was the last person alive to try to keep relatives from visiting one another, or of taking up job opportunities-that was as apt to work in favor of the people of Merovence as those of Latruria. His travels had led him to this market, almost on the border. He had seen the river traffic, bank to bank, for himself-no one seemed to find anything wrong in it, which was fair enough, if one overlooked the little matter of taxes; and Matt personally wouldn’t really want half a bushel of turnips as a medium of exchange. The merchants seemed to be paying their import tariffs and grumbling about them as he would expect-but not grumbling with any real conviction, because the tariffs weren’t that high. Of course, they did keep mentioning that when they were taking goods into Latruria, they didn’t have to pay any tax at all… He had heard peasants bragging about how well they lived, about having meat for dinner every other week, real meat-chicken! And fish three nights out of seven; about the repeal of the Forest Laws, and it being legal to hunt and fish as much as they wanted, provided they didn’t kill too many animals, or fish the ponds empty. They bragged about their new cottages, about the woolen cloaks their wives wove with the wool they bartered for with the shepherds; about their new tunics, for they could keep more of the flax they grew-indeed, about all the things the people of Merovence had been looking down on them for lacking. Now it was the Latrurian relatives who could brag, and they were making up for lost time. No wonder the peasants of Merovence were grumbling-and meaning it.

Matt decided he had just about had enough of this disguise. He was ready for something a bit more genteel, and a little smoother on the skin. Time to check up on the moods of the aristocracy. Accordingly, he ambled out of the fair and the rudimentary town that had grown up around it-only a couple of blocks of houses and more permanent shops. The houses were long and low, built of fieldstone, but large enough for four big rooms-more than your average peasant expected, but just about right for town dwellers. The shops were two-storied and half-timbered, with the living quarters upstairs and the shop downstairs-the pride of their owners, no doubt, until their cousins from Latruria had started bragging. That was all there was to it; two blocks of that, and he was out of the town. No city wall or anything-this was a burg that hadn’t really decided to be permanent yet. Of course, Matt could have taken the road, but he had reasons to want to avoid any undue amount of notice.

He hiked across the fields, being careful where he stepped, heading for a barn he saw in the distance. It turned out to be a communal barn-the townsfolk ran some livestock of their own, at a guess. It was certainly big enough for a knight’s estate. Fortunately, the cows were all out grazing at the moment, and the pigs were wallowing in the spring mud and the May sunshine. Matt ducked into a stall, found a patch of clean straw, and pulled a doublet and hose out of his pack. Okay, they were wrinkled-but what would you expect, for a minor lord who had been on the road for a week? Which was exactly what Matt planned to claim, and it was true enough, in its way. He changed clothes, packed his peasant’s tunic and leggings away, and sauntered out of the barn, feeling a bit more his old self, in spite of the pack slung over his shoulder. Now he wanted to meet the owner-or whoever was in charge. There he was, or at least a likely source of information: a middle-aged peasant, chewing a stalk of hay while he leaned on his shovel, surveying the pasture and counting cows. Matt sauntered up to him. “Ho there, goodman!”

The man looked up, startled. “Ho yoursel - uh, good day, milord.” But he darted a suspicious glance at the peddler’s pack. Matt swung it around to the ground. “I found an old packman hard up on his luck. I took pity on him and bought it all for three pieces of gold.”

The herdsman stared; the sum was enough for retirement, if you didn’t mind living skinny. “However, I’ve no mind to go lugging it about,” Matt said. Would you store it for me? And if I don’t come back for it by Christmas, give it to some deserving lad who wants an excuse to travel for a bit.“

“To be sure, my lord.” The gears were grinding inside the peasant’s head; Matt could have sworn he could hear them. If this foolish lord had given three pieces of gold in charity, what might there be in that pack that could even begin to justify such a sum? Matt had a notion that if there were anything of real worth, it wouldn’t make it to Midsummer, let alone Christmas. “My horse went lame,” Matt went on, “and someone told me I might be able to hire one here.”

“Well, not hire,” the man said slowly, “but Angle the cartwright has a colt he is willing to sell for five ducats.”

“Five?” Matt stared. “What is it, a racehorse?”

“It is high, I know,” the peasant said apologetically, “but the beast is still too young to discover if he will be worth anything as a warhorse, and Angle does not wish to chance losing money. Myself, if the colt were mine, I would bargain-but since it is not, I can only direct you to Angle’s shop.”

Matt sighed. “No, I’ve no wish to go hiking back to town.” He really didn’t, especially after that tangle with the Watch-having a peasant recognize him in lord’s clothing would be bad enough, but having a watchman catch him at impersonating a lord could be a lot worse. Real trouble, in fact, with the upshot being him having to reveal his true identity-and he wasn’t quite ready to do that. “Well, five ducats is far too much, but if I must pay it, I must. I’ve only the royals of Merovence, though. Will you take four of those?”

“Gladly!” the herdsman said, and watched with avid attention as Matt counted the golden coins into his hand. Well he might, Matt reflected sourly-the royal was worth almost two of the ducats; he was paying about seven ducats for a nag that couldn’t be worth more than two! It was significant, though, that the man had asked for the coins of Latruria, rather than those of Merovence. He hoped it indicated nothing more than Latruria’s nearness. Surely the peasants of Merovence couldn’t have more faith in a foreign king than in their own queen! At least, when he saw the colt, he could see it was worth two ducats-though the distinction between a plow horse and a warhorse was a bit ambiguous, when the chargers had to be built to carry a full load of armor. This draft animal was testimony to the fact that a smart stallion, scenting a mare in heat, can outwit even the strongest stable and the smartest groom, for the colt was at least half Percheron. The other half wasn’t much smaller or less massive, either-but the colt was a hand or two short of a Clydesdale and built a little more lightly; it wouldn’t quite have blended in with a team of horses pulling a TV beer wagon. All in all, Matt didn’t feel too badly about having been robbed, especially since the herdsman threw in a saddle and bridle. They were old and cracked, but they worked. So, mounted as befitted the dignity of a wandering knight, Matt rode up to the local castle, braced for them to ask where his armor was.