Secular Wizard

Chapter 8

It was nice to know how it felt to be a star. Everywhere Matt went, everyplace he stopped long enough for Pascal to toss down his hat, people came running to jostle each other as they tried to get closer, to see and hear the minstrel. Somehow, it never occurred to Pascal that they might be attracting more attention than he wanted-but it occurred to Matt, sure enough. For himself, Matt didn’t mind-he was the bait in his own trap, so to speak. But for Pascal, it was another matter. “I am likely to draw some unpleasant attention from an evil sorcerer or two,” he reminded Pascal as the young man poured him another stoup of ale from the inn’s pitcher. “I’d really rather you not get thrown into prison for my sake.”

Pascal shrugged. “It is worth the risk. Your glory reflects on me, and any ounce of fame is more likely to sway the fair Panegyra to my suit.”

Matt just hoped that suit wasn’t spades. That first village turned out to be typical; Matt had learned a lot there, but he didn’t find out too much more about conditions in Latruria, no matter how many towns and roadside inns heard his “songs.” The people were well fed and well cared for. The country looked very prosperous, and though the serfs and yeomen were deferential when a lord passed by, they didn’t cringe, nor did the lords treat them cruelly. The girls in the villages didn’t have to turn their faces to the wall as the gentlemen passed by. People gathered around, winced at any mention of Heaven or blessing, but looked similarly nervous at mention of the Devil. If ever there was a country that believed in the golden mean, this was it. They had been punished too often for having spoken of holy matters, and punished too often by those who were dedicated to Evil. Matt began to realize all over again that witches and sorcerers who had sold their souls to the Devil had done it in more ways than one. They were now completely devoted to evil and wickedness, to selfishness, hatred, and doing harm to others wherever they could. The only difference between the mighty sorcerers and the low seemed to be their capacity for hatred, and the magnitude of their sins-as Kipling said of the little devils, “They weep that they’d been too small to sin to the height of their desire.” The sorcerers devoted themselves to their work of misery-making with the single-mindedness of the fanatic, whether it was out of despair, a wish for revenge on their fellow humans, or the feeling that once having turned away from Heaven, they were doomed irrevocably. If “sold my soul to rock ‘n’ roll” meant that the person in question was so totally dedicated to his favorite form of music that there was little room for anything else in his life, so selling one’s soul to the Devil implied that the seller was totally dedicated to evil and the harming of his fellow beings. Small wonder that the mere mention of them still made the Latrurians start looking over their shoulders-or that, six years after King Boncorro’s coronation, there was still a feeling of jubilance, of release, like that of children let out to play on the first day of spring. But when grown-ups are turned loose to play, they do it with a bit more dedication than children, and some of their games are not nice at all-especially when they have been raised with no mention of morality. Matt leaned across the table in the common room of the inn and murmured, “Every girl I’ve seen seems to make flirting a major hobby.”

Pascal looked up at him in surprise. “Do not all girls?” So it had spread to Pascal’s home in southern Merovence, too. Matt wondered what had happened to the demure young miss who sat modestly by and waited for the boys to come to her. Gone and scarcely remembered, apparently-along with the mammoth and the saber-tooth. Didn’t any of them have enough confidence in their own beauty and attractiveness to be sure they were male bait? Not in this inn, at least. He looked around him, figuring percentages. The common room was long and wide, but low-ceilinged, filled with trestle tables, benches, and smoke rejected by a chimney that was almost drawing properly-not enough to make anybody choke or wheeze, but enough to drift up along the ceiling beams, where a century or so of such vapors had turned the wood black. Laughter and chatter filled the air, along with the clink of mug against pitcher and the sound of pouring. The air was pungent with the aroma of ale and roasting pork. The serving maids giggled at the pinches they drew, or turned on their tormentors with mock severity-or, if the men were handsome enough or looked prosperous enough, batted their eyelashes and exchanged a few double entendres before they hurried away about their errands. “Your fingers are too hard, sir! Belike from wielding the hoe!”

“Nay, lass, ‘tis from counting coins all the day.”

“Coins, is it? Your master’s they must be-for I see naught but coppers before you!”

“Oh, but there is more in my purse.” The man patted his pouch with a grin. “There now, weigh it and see for yourself!”

The girl leaned over to cup her hand under the merchant’s purse and judge its weight. “A man of substance, are you?”

The merchant shrugged. “Discover for yourself, if you wish-when you are done with your day’s chores.”

“And if I find none more appealing than yourself,” the girl retorted, “which should not be hard.”

“Should it not?” The man grinned. “When should I come to ask again?”

“When the moon is high, if you are not! Enjoy the savories while you may!” She went off with a swirl of her skirts, and the man turned with a grin to the pastries she had left. “Harmless enough,” Pascal judged. “Why do you frown so?”

“Mostly because the man was wearing a wedding ring. Doesn’t he even think about his wife?”

“Why?” Pascal shrugged. “He is far from home, and she is not likely to learn of what he does. Besides, do you think she will be any more chaste than he, while he is away on his travels?”

“Well, uh…” Matt turned back, feeling very naive. “I kinda had some notion like that, yeah.”

Pascal stared. “Is this the fashion in the queen’s capital?”

“It will be if she has anything to say about it,” Matt said grimly. “She also might start enforcing some of the rules of chivalry.” He nodded toward another amorous tableau. “They could use it.”

Here, it was no serving maid, but a lady in her traveling clothes who was sipping her wine and laughing at the remarks a knight was making as he stood beside her, leaning over to look down at her face and her décolletage. Another knight leaned close behind her, looking down over her shoulder, and murmured something in her ear that made her face redden. Then she blushed again at something the first knight said and lowered her eyes, but made no move to cover her décolletage-nor to edge away when the knight in front stepped so close that his thigh pressed against her, leaning close to murmur something, or when the knight behind sat down and slid up tight against her side, leaning around in front to add a comment of his own. She looked up sharply, a glint in her eye, then turned to the first knight and nodded as if accepting a challenge. She rose to take his hand and turn away toward the stairs. “‘Tis only sport.” Pascal frowned. “Why are you so pale?”

“Because those two going up the stairs are both wearing wedding rings-and I have the sneaking suspicion that whoever they’re married to, it’s not each other.” Matt turned back to the younger man. “Where I come from, that’s counted a deed unworthy of a knight-and as to it being only sport, I have a notion that it’s going to become a very strenuous sport indeed.”

Pascal shrugged. “Exercise is good for the body-and in any case, ‘tis no concern of ours.”

‘True,“ Matt said reluctantly. He had to remind himself that though they might be close to Merovence, they were nonetheless not in it Nor all that close anymore by medieval standards. They had been moving steadily for at least a week and were almost a hundred miles into Latruria by now. He certainly had no jurisdiction here. The lady turned back to give the seated knight a saucy, dismissive glance, saying something that apparently wounded him, for he leaped up and drew his sword. The lady fell back with a shriek, and the first knight whirled, his sword whipping out. ”Sir knights, no!“ the innkeeper wailed, but his cry was drowned in the clatter of overturned benches and the thunder of feet as the other patrons jumped up and leaped back, pulling their tables with them, leaving a wide clear space around the two rivals-then jostling one another for front-row seats. ”They’ve done this before.“ Matt frowned. ”Everybody knows what to do.“

“Aye, and what to expect. I’ll lay a silver penny on the one with the moustache!”

Matt turned to him, appalled. “A couple of men are ready to carve each other to bits, and you’re going to bet on them?”

“Why not?” Pascal shrugged. “Everyone else does. Besides, they will fight whether we bet or not-so why not wager?”

“We might be able to stop them instead!”

“Peasants, interfere with knights? They would both turn on us, and sliver us with their swords!”

Matt turned back to watch, numbed, trying to think of a way to stop them-short of using magic, of course. In passing, he noticed that both knights were wearing wedding rings, but it didn’t particularly surprise him. “Do not be so concerned, Sir-I mean, Minstrel Matthew. Be-like their honor will be satisfied with first blood, and none shall be slain.”

“You’re laying odds again,” Matt groaned. The fight was brief, and made up in verve what it lacked in skill. The knight who had lost out on the lady’s favors had a lot of unused testosterone to get rid of, but his rival was riding a high of having already won. Swords clattered and clashed as the two men fenced their way back and forth across the floor-and they did not settle for first blood. The spectators cheered when one knight’s point scored the other’s ribs-but the wounded knight only howled with anger and pressed the fight harder. A loud groan went up from the audience-the people who had bet mat first blood would end it, no doubt, and for a moment the clash of steel was drowned out by the clink of coins as the losers paid their bets, then turned right around and set a new stake. Matt noticed two portly peasants working their way through the crowd, collecting coins and putting them into their hats-primitive bookies, no doubt. Meanwhile, the knight with the bloody chest managed to tear through his rival’s doublet, where scarlet stained the cloth, spreading, making its owner spit with anger and redouble his efforts. Finally, one blade stabbed through the opponent’s arm, and the sword dropped from suddenly nerveless fingers as its owner howled with pain. The winner yanked his sword free, triumph lighting his eyes, as the man who had been the woman’s first choice sank back onto the nearest bench, clutching at his wound. The victor wiped his blade, sheathed it, and turned to offer his arm to the lady. Without the slightest hesitation, she took it-indeed, pressed up close to him with a look that would have melted a beehive-and up the stairs they went, both totally oblivious to the loser. Blood was welling up out of his forearm, and the innkeeper was shouting for a surgeon, but most of the crowd was making too much noise grumbling about losing or crowing about winning, for any to hear him. Certainly nobody seemed to have the slightest concern for the knight who sat staring at the blood dripping onto the floor. Matt felt a stab of pity for him, then remembered that he had been fighting for the chance to cheat on his wife, and felt only a grim regret that he was himself human. He went over to the man nonetheless and examined his wound. “The blood’s flowing evenly,” he said. “I don’t think he cut a vein or artery, by some miracle.”

“Be still!” the knight gasped. “Am I not in enough hazard, that you must speak of forbidden things?”

Matt looked up in surprise. “Forbidden things?” Oh-yes. Miracles. “Okay, you won on a real long shot.”

“Nay! I lost the lady’s favors!”

“But kept your life.” Matt looked up at the innkeeper. “Two measures of brandywine!”

The innkeeper stared, at a loss, but one of the serving wenches had a bit more presence of mind, and brought two small glasses of amber fluid. Matt handed one to the knight. “Drink it. You’ll need it.”

The man took the glass and drank greedily-and Matt poured the other over the wound. The knight howled and hurled the glass away, but Matt blocked the blow and said, “Just hold on, Sir Knight. That brandywine will do you more good where I’ve poured it than where you have.”

“It burns!” the knight cried. “Oh! The pain!”

“I thought knights never showed their hurts,” Matt jibed. The man went still and gave him a very cold stare. Matt didn’t pay attention-he was busy winding the nearest napkin around the wound. “The brandywine should stop the worst of the flow of blood, and it will make your arm a lot cleaner than you did. I’d tell you to find a doctor fast, but for some reason, I think you might have more luck with a poultice from the innkeeper’s wife.” He glanced up. “Or from your own.”

The knight reddened. “Mind your manners, peasant!”

Interesting, Matt thought-manners mattered, but morals didn’t. “As you wish, Sir Knight.” He stood up. “I’m afraid that’s all I can do for you, though, except for maybe telling you a story to take your mind off the pain.”

The man looked up at him with suspicion. “That might be welcome. What is its subject?”

Matt glanced around quickly and noticed the eyes turning toward him at the mention of a story. “Of the Lord Orlando,” he told the knight, “nephew of the emperor Charlemagne.”

“I have never heard of him.”

“Small wonder-he’s only a figment in a romance,” Matt sighed, “at least, in this world. Still, it’s a great story, and it never claimed to be historically accurate. Would you hear it?”

“Aye!” chorused all the customers, and Matt decided to get to work. One hour and two flagons of ale later, Matt and Pascal were two ducats richer. “Well, we have paid for our night’s lodging, and perhaps tomorrow’s as well.” Pascal didn’t seem to notice Matt’s part in the earning. “We could hire a chamber for the night!”

Remembering the couple who had gone upstairs, Matt was somehow not as eager for the idea as he might have been. He also remembered the bedbugs at the last inn. “No, let’s just wait them out and sleep by the fire.” He took his blanket from his pack. “They’ve started stacking the tables already. Any minute now, the innkeeper should be chasing out the ones who aren’t staying the night.”

“Well, we shall have to guard our money carefully,” Pascal sighed, “but when have we not had to? We should reach my cousin’s house tomorrow evening, at least. We can expect proper beds then.”

Privately, Matt thought they were much more likely to wind up in the barn-but maybe Pascal was right, maybe the fact that he was planning to run off with his host’s daughter wouldn’t make any difference. At least, if they didn’t tell the squire what Pascal was intending to do, he might not kick Matt out until after the young man had eloped. Or been immensely disappointed. Personally, Matt thought that was the much more likely option. When the daytimers had been chased out, and the all-night visitors were all wrapped up and arranged as near the fire as they could manage, Matt noticed that Pascal was still awake, with a brooding frown on his face as he gazed off into space at some un- seen horror. Matt told himself it was none of his business, but the assurances didn’t work. With a sigh, he sat up and moved closer to his traveling companion. “What’s keeping you awake?”

Pascal flushed. ‘Too much wine, belike.“

“Wine doesn’t hinder sleep-it helps. That fight bothering you?”

“Only the silver penny I lost on it.” But Pascal’s answer was too quick, too elaborately casual. “It is bothering you.” Matt frowned. “What’s the matter? I thought I was the one who was preoccupied with morals here.”

“You are! I am not! ‘Twas only… well, ’twas seeing that knight go off with that lady, ten years younger than he at least, and realizing what randy goats they must have been, both of those who fought over her…”

“Oh.” Matt straightened “It isn’t blood that bothers you-it’s the affluent older man soliciting the favors of the younger woman.”

Pascal just glowered at the fire. “I hope your cousin doesn’t find men’s brawling attractive,” Matt said. “I doubt it-or at least, I doubt that she is worse than any, in that regard. I have heard that all women thrill to see men fighting over them.”

“That’s a popular fancy, yes. But you think she might find older men attractive?”

“How could she?” Pascal demanded, his eyes glittering with anger. “He is twice her age at least, and belike is paunchy and foul of breath into the bargain!”

Matt frowned, studying him, then hazarded a guess. “You don’t think she’d be able to ignore all that if he were rich enough?”

Pascal shot up from his blanket, face an inch from Matt’s as he growled, “How can you defame a pure innocent maid so!”

“I didn’t,” Matt said hastily, “just made a guess. So you don’t know that he’s ugly and feeble?”

“How could he be aught else?” Pascal bleated. Matt forced a smile. “Some of us manage to keep in shape, even if we do have desk jobs. But not too many teenagers find forty-five-year-old men attractive. You’re probably safe on that score.”

“But I have only youth,” Pascal mourned, “no beauty of face or form, no wealth, no rank! I shudder to think on it, but I cannot help it, not when I saw that knight ascend the stairs with that lady to their temporary ecstasy! What manner of man is he, who will soon be debauching my fair cousin?”

“Nice question.” Matt wondered how the prospective bridegroom had made his fortune. He also wondered what the knight’s wife would say if she ever found out what was going on tonight. He didn’t think her own infidelities would insulate her feelings, as Pascal seemed to believe. In his experience, most people thought that their own little sins were perfectly all right-it was just everybody else’s that were wrong. The windows were gray with the coming dawn as Matt shook Pascal awake. “Come on, lazybones! I want to get an early start.”

Pascal rolled one eye open, took in the light-or lack thereof-and closed his eyes with a groan. “ ‘Tis not yet dawn!”

“Yeah, but we have a lot of miles to cover, and we don’t want to get there staggering and worn out. We want to be at your cousin’s castle by mid-afternoon, remember?” Actually, Matt didn’t want to be there in the common room when the knight and lady came back downstairs-now that he was a husband himself, he found that he had a tougher time watching other people’s adulteries. He resolutely refused to think why. But before Pascal could even get up, the knight came down the stairs. It wasn’t the victorious knight, though, it was the loser-and it wasn’t the lady who was with him, but one of the serving wenches, hanging on his arm and laughing gaily at some jest he was making. Matt realized he was staring and wrenched his gaze away just before the knight happened to glance around the room, smiling, one arm around the girl’s shoulders, the other in an improvised sling. “You look like a fish being served up for dinner,” Matt muttered to Pascal. “Better get up and start moving.”

The young man had been staring as if his face wore a matched pair of fried eggs. Now he gave his head a quick shake and turned to climb out of his blanket, then fold it up. Matt followed suit, relieved to find that he wasn’t the only one taken by surprise. The knight sat down at a table, still grinning. “I could eat my horse, or at least as much food as he!”

“ ‘Tis early still, but I shall bring you whatever is hot.” The wench favored him with a slumberous look. The knight laughed softly, with one last tug at her fingers, and she turned away, tossing her head at the chorus of catcalls with which her fellow serving maids greeted her. “Jealous witches! Simply because he did not choose one of you!”

“Who else among us was so quick with comfort and nursing?” a buxom wench countered. “Was the loser worth your time?” The girl smiled and flaunted a brooch. “Gold!” The buxom one lost her smile, eyes round. “And more in coin,” the wench told her. The other girls hissed envy. She tossed her head again and flounced over to pick up her tray. “It is good to be charitable to poor wounded knights.”

“Aye, if they be rich and spendthrift!” another girl sneered. “And lacking in taste,” a third contributed. The chorus of jibes went on until she had taken her tray away, still with a self-satisfied smile; she obviously felt that she had pulled off a coup right beneath their noses. So, obviously, did they. “I find I have small appetite for breakfast,” Pascal told Matt. “Let us take a loaf and eat as we march.”

“Good idea.” Matt went to the innkeeper to pay their score and pick up some bread. He was glad to see that Pascal’s part of Merovence hadn’t been completely corrupted by Latruria-yet They passed out of the village, managing not to be shocked by the number of people who were up and about-at least to judge by the smoke rising from chimneys and, in the case of peasant huts, smoke holes. Pascal seemed not even to notice, and Matt had become inured to a culture in which people went to bed with the dark and woke with the light. It wasn’t quite that bad at Queen Alisande’s court, where the candles, fueled by the royal exchequer, burned until well after ten p.m.-but it still made Matt do a mental double-take when he realized that most of the common folk were up and about when he would have been just getting to bed in his protracted college days. They hadn’t gone more than two rods past the village limits when a soft padding behind them made Matt turn around. Sure enough, it was Manny. “Did you eat well?”

“Aye, though the cowherd seemed inclined to dispute ownership with me.”

“You didn’t eat him, too, did you?” Matt said anxiously. “Nay. After all, ‘twas in your interests he objected.”

“Ours?” Pascal frowned. “Aye. ‘Avaunt!’ cried he. ‘I’ve sold that beef to a minstrel!’ ‘He is my master,’ quoth I-it galls me, but I find these simple peasant folk cannot comprehend how a monster might be loyal to a family, even as one of its servants might be.“

“I have a little difficulty understanding it myself,” Matt confessed. “Not objecting, mind you-I guess Great-Grandpa did a better job enchanting you than he knew. So what happened to the cowherd?”

“He did not agree with me.”

“I told you not to eat him.”

“Nay, ‘twas with my words he failed to agree, not my stomach. At the last, I became angered and told him that ’twas for me you had bought the steer, and he seemed doubtful enough that he left me to my repast.”

Matt sighed. “I can’t imagine why.”

“Certainly the wisest choice,” Pascal agreed. “Then you slept well?”

“Aye; green grass is soft enough for me. Why you plaguey people seem to think you have need of feather beds and such, I cannot fathom-nor why you will not allow me to accompany you into the towns.”

“Bad for business,” Matt explained. “We’re trying to attract crowds, not chase them away.”

“So you have said-though I should mink that no matter how well they pay you, they would pay better to be sure I would go away.”

“Well, yes,” Matt said judiciously, “but that way, they might be a little more careful what they said around us, and I’m out to pick up gossip. Matter of fact, with you along, I don’t think we’d get close enough to overhear anything they said.”

Manny sighed. “Mortals are such flighty creatures. Delicious, mind you, but excitable nonetheless.”

“Yes, I’ve noticed that myself. But for the time being, Manny, we’ll keep the present system, if you don’t mind.”

“Not greatly,” the manticore sighed, “so long as you buy me a cow before you go parading into the town. Still, as I’ve said before, you need only whistle the phoenix’s call, and I shall bound to your rescue.”

“I remember the notes,” Pascal assured him. “But how can you be sure ‘tis the cry of a phoenix?”

“Why, because I heard the bird cry out thus just before he burst into flame.”

Pascal looked suddenly worried. “Don’t worry, you’ve done it once already, and nothing happened,” Matt said by way of reassurance. He turned back to Manny. “No chance that another phoenix will come to answer it, is there?”

The manticore shrugged. “I cannot say with certainty-but I have heard the phoenix is a most singular bird.”

“Meaning there’s only one of him, I hope,” Matt mused, “though I’m not sure I’d really be all that unhappy to see one.”

“Would it not depend on whether it came to help you, or hurt you?” Pascal offered. “Yes, that might affect the way I felt,” Matt admitted. “Now, Manny-when we get to the castle we’re heading for, village rules apply, okay?‘

“So long as there is a fat bullock staked out for me every night,” the manticore said, “I will be as invisible as the very wind. But you will make me feel unloved, mortal.”

“How about if I try to find a lady manticore for you?”

Manny’s grins widened. “That would be even better than a bullock.”

“No promises,” Matt temporized, “but I’ll keep my ears open for information about one.” And they went on down the road, with Matt pondering the complexities of manticore reproduction.