The Secular Wizard

by Christopher Stasheff

  "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 the 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 the first line and stayed that way so thoroughly that Matt knew were charmed—literally. Boncorro listened closely, too, with an 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, but that it didn't bother him; he was that sure of his own power to 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 been 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, "without 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 is 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 Majesty. Your good regard is enough."

  It sure was, Matt tho
ught 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.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Matt found his way back to his garret, and found it stifling hot. It seemed that all the heat of the whole castle had risen to this one little space under the eaves. The tiny window was open, with Pascal sitting by it stripped to the waist and sweating buckets. He was staring out at the sunset with so dejected a look that it could have set an example for all bloodhounds.

  Matt closed the door gently, then sat down across from him and a little way back. After a while Pascal said, "You need not be silent, friend Matthew. This is not a funeral."

  Isn't it? Matt wondered. "You were in time, then?"

  "In time for what?" Pascal said impatiently. "In time to meet Flaminia? Yes, for the servant girl contrived to bring her down to the hall, with two of the other... handmaidens to accompany her. They were most beautiful," he added as an afterthought.

  But not beautiful enough to distract him from Flaminia, or ease his current depression? Matt frowned, puzzled. "You spoke with her? She hasn't been... harmed?"

  "Nor bedded by the king? No, though he may choose to sample her delights this very night." Pascal shuddered.

  "So we're in time to save her from a fate worse than death?"

  "Yes," Pascal said, "if she wants to be saved."

  Matt stared. "You don't mean she likes the idea of becoming one of the king's concubines?"

  "No, she assured me of that."

  Matt waited. When nothing else was forthcoming, he prodded. "You didn't believe her?"

  "Well, let us say that she spoke with no great amount of conviction."

  Matt frowned. "She doesn't figure it's her duty to her country or anything like that, does she?"