Boncorro shrugged. “It is clear and simple indeed, though it took me long enough to reason it out.” His smile became quite charming. “I had time enough to devote to it, however, while I waited for my grandfather to die.”
The chancellor looked up, startled. Apparently, he hadn’t heard this part before. “I saw the poverty and squalor of the peasants for myself,” Boncorro went on, “and heard Baron Garchi, the country lord who fostered me, grumbling often about the grinding burden of the king’s taxes and how we should have to manage with less in order to pay them. I could not believe anything but that my grandfather himself must be badly in debt, though his debtors dared not seek payment-and I discovered I was right, when I came to the throne; the treasury was empty, and a host of moneylenders respectfully paid me visits.”
“Fortunately, you had figured out what to do about it.”
“I had, between lessons and… sports. I reasoned that the king’s poverty must have come from the peasants’ poverty, for if they had no more to give, he would have no more to take.”
Matt nodded. “That makes sense. So you figured Item One was to find ways for the peasants to raise more grain.”
“No, to keep more of what they already raised-and Item Two was to make certain their lords would not steal it from them. So I lowered taxes and appointed reeves to see that the lords collected no more than was their due.”
The chancellor scowled fiercely. Boncorro noticed and gave him a smile. “You did not approve of my reforms, did you, Rebozo?”
“Nay, Majesty, and still do not! Disaster shall yet come from these newfangled notions!”
“Not so quickly as it would have come from maintaining the old ones,” the king returned. Well. So Boncorro could enforce his will, even on his inherited Lord Chancellor. Matt decided he must be stronger than he looked-although he had to admit the young man was looking stronger every minute. “What was Item Three?”
Boncorro turned back to him. “Encouragement of trade-for no matter how much wealth my people produce for me, I shall be richer yet if they bring in gold from other lands. I could go on at length, Lord Wizard, but the long and the short of it is this: the king must plan the flow of money as a farmer must plan the ditches he digs to bring water to his crops-and manure them well, as assurance against starvation. The chance of profit encourages the peasants, tradesmen, and merchants to produce more.” He gave Matt the winning smile again. “Thus far, it has seemed to work.”
Matt nodded. “A planned economy combined with private enterprise-good recipe. You’re way ahead of your time, King Boncorro.”
“Aye.” Rebozo flashed Matt a venomed glance. “But what shall he do when his time catches up with him, eh?”
Boncorro laughed, richly amused. “I shall never fear rashness, Rebozo, for I shall always have you beside me to croak of doom!”
The last thing Rebozo needed was to have somebody encourage the king-so Matt did. “When your time catches up with you, O King, it shall give you the wealth of Midas.”
“Yes, it will.” Boncorro gave him a keen glance. “Money makes more money, as seeds make more grain-but I see that you know of this, Lord Wizard”
“I know about capital and investment, yes.”
“I shall remember that spell.” Boncorro’s gaze was suddenly intent, totally concentrated as he sucked up Matt’s words to engrave them into his memory. “Is there more to it?”
“Yes, but it takes a long time to tell, and I know only a little of it. You seem to be ahead of me, anyway.”
“Perhaps,” Boncorro said guardedly. “My ideas have yet to prove themselves in fullness.”
“Especially since you have more changes to make,” Matt inferred. Rebozo stared in alarm. Boncorro’s lips pursed in amusement. “You are quite percepjve. Lord Wizard. I can see that you would be a dangerous enemy indeed.”
“Yes,” Matt said, choosing his words carefully, “but I could also be a doughty friend.”
“Aye, if we both served the same Power-but since I serve only my own interests, I doubt that we shall.”
Rebozo almost collapsed from sheer relief. Matt realized that the chancellor had been afraid he would try to convert Boncorro. It wasn’t just your father and grandfather you copied spells from, was it? You had other wizards show up to try to persuade you to serve God.“
Rebozo winced and glared hatred at him. “Yes, I did,” Boncorro said slowly, “though how you could have guessed that is beyond me. Still, a worthy effort deserves a worthy reward, Lord Wizard, so I shall tell you of it. I could scarcely go for a walk in Baron Garchi’s woods without a holy hermit popping out of the underbrush to show me wondrous spells as evidence of the power of God. I took their spells, but left their Faith.”
“It made sense, while you were still an impressionable young boy,” Matt said judiciously. ‘There was a chance they might have been able to convert you, and through you, when you came to power, the whole kingdom.“
“They were fools!” Boncorro’s eyes flashed. “They succeeded with my father, and what happened to him? A dagger in the back, an early death! Satan’s minions have too firm a hold on this land; they would never have permitted a saintly prince to become king!”
Rebozo relaxed and gave Matt a vindictive glare. “So,” Matt said slowly, “your grandfather was a Satanist who devoted himself to every sin he could think of, and made as many people miserable as he possibly could. That disgusted your father, so he rebelled by becoming holy and devout, dedicating himself to doing good works-and he tried to protect himself by learning as many Good-based spells as he could.”
“The more fool he! What profit did it give him?”
“Probably a lot, but not where you can see it.” Matt ignored Rebozo’s murderous glare and went on. “Be honest. You admired him, didn’t you? Even loved him, maybe-and decided you were going to be just like him.”
For a moment he thought he had gone too far, for the murderous rage in Rebozo’s eyes was echoed in Boncorro’s. Matt hastened to add, “But what does a little kid know, huh?‘
Boncorro must have missed the sarcasm, because he relaxed, and the mayhem faded from his face. “Even as you say-it was foolishness. I learned that from the point of the assassin’s knife that slew my father.”
“So you grew up rebelling against both Good and Evil-but you were smart enough not to let it show until Grandpa was dead Didn’t his death make you wonder about the power of Evil?‘
“No, but I think that my grandfather began to have second thoughts when Father was slain. Surely he must have realized that his wickedness had not brought him happiness!”
“No, Sire!” Rebozo protested in alarm. “What could make you think that?”
“Why, your own reports, Rebozo.” The king turned to his chancellor. “You told me that he was sunk in gloom for the last ten years of his life.”
“Nay, Majesty! The revels began again only a few weeks after Prince Casudo’s death, and were wilder and more intense than ever!”
“Almost desperate, you might say?” Boncorro smiled thinly. “As if he was striving mightily to gain pleasure, but found he could not, no matter how depraved his sporting?”
“I said no such thing!”
“You did not have to,” Boncorro said with a hard smile. “So the missionaries haven’t given up on you yet,” Matt said slowly. The chancellor’s head snapped up so sharply that Matt had a wild hope his neck might break. It held, worse luck, but he stared at Boncorro in total and absolute panic. “You see far more than most men, with very little evidence.” Boncorro frowned. “Still, it is even as you have guessed-ever and anon, as I am going through town or forest, an innocent-seeming beggar will pop up to trumpet the virtues of Faith to me. Will they never learn?‘
“Probably not, when your reign is such a huge improvement over your grandfather’s-though I do wonder if maybe your reforms haven’t produced just as many Hell-bound souls as his cruelty did.”
Boncorro looked very interested. “Why, how is that?�
�
“I’ve seen it on my way south,” Matt said slowly. “The extra money and leisure have made people start itching to have Heaven on Earth. They’ve heard rumors of the high life here, and are flocking in to get their share of excitement. They’re holding a continual party on their way south, with drinking binges and free sex all around. Husbands are leaving their wives, wives are leaving their husbands, and young people are leaving their villages.”
“Why, herein is pleasure,” Boncorro said, “not misery!”
“Yes, but they’re sinning hand over foot-and ending up in misery when they get here. It’s almost as if they’re using up a lifetime’s worth of pleasure in a few months. They come into Venarra broke and exhausted, and find out that the king isn’t giving everybody a fortune on a silver platter, and that there aren’t even enough honest jobs to go around. They stagger back home to their villages drained and pale, or die on the way.”
“He lies, Sire!” Rebozo cried. “They parade in by the score, yes, but many of them stay in Venarra!”
“Yes-in the brothels and the jails. The girls get recruited by the pimps and procuresses, the boys get taken on as apprentice thieves. They make life more dangerous for your average citizens and steal wealth instead of making it.”
“They are not forced to it,” Boncorro countered, “though I see I must set up some sort of scheme to keep them from having to sell themselves or die.”
Rebozo gave Matt a glare that could have blistered his skin, if he had only been able to say aloud the spell that went with it. He couldn’t, of course-not with his king listening. “Perhaps work for the men, building more barracks to hold a larger army,” Boncorro mused, “or repairing all the bridges and halls and monuments that my grandfather let fall to ruin-”
“Nonsense,” Rebozo scoffed. “Where would we get the money?”
‘True.“ Boncorro nodded. ”We must find them work that will bring in its own revenue-that, in addition to public works.“
Matt interrupted before the man reinvented the whole New Deal. “How about the women?‘
“The very thing!” Boncorro snapped his fingers, turning to Matt. “Set them to weaving! Train them to the finest in needlework-most of them excel in it already, if Baron Garchi’s peasants are any guide. We would export carpets, tapestries, the finest in craftmanship!”
“But it is men who are weavers!” Rebozo was beginning to sweat.
“Not in their own homes,” Boncorro countered, “and not in other countries. No, let us build a new industry with some of these truant country lasses.”
“The crown cannot risk so much!”
“The crown is the only one who can.” There was steel under Boncorro’s tone now. “Naetheless, I would not have the crown own everything-”
Rebozo let out a bleat of agony. “Of course the crown owns everything! Your Majesty, if you must persist in this folly, at least ensure that all the revenues come to yourself!”
“No, I must manure my fields.” Boncorro looked off into space, a certain whimsical light coming into his eye. “We shall find some enterprising young merchant who wishes to work twenty hours a day for the next six years or so, and lend him the money to begin such an industry-no, five young merchants! Then, as they pay us back, we shall find other young merchants to begin similar works! What a marvelous idea!”
“Socialistic capitalism.” Matt was keenly interested in watching a power play in action-not that there seemed to be much Rebozo could do to stop the king. Either he wasn’t really a very powerful sorcerer, or the king was. Of course, Rebozo might have been playing a more subtle game than either of them realized… “What was it you said?” The king’s attention returned to Matt. “I would say your Majesty is a materialist,” Matt said carefully. “Somewhat idealistic perhaps, but a materialist nonetheless.”
“Not if materialism is a religion.” Boncorro regarded him narrowly again. “Well, it seems to be, to some people-but rest assured, it isn’t to you. You seem to have introduced something entirely new to medieval society.”
“Have I indeed! And what is that?”
“Secularism,” Matt said. “Worldliness that is neither wicked nor virtuous in itself.”
“Why, then, a secular king I shall be! For I have most thoroughly rejected both Good and Evil, Lord Wizard, of that you may be sure!”
“No wonder, having seen your grandfather killed by the one, and your father killed in spite of his devotion to the other. But as I understand this universe we live in, your Majesty, you don’t have that kind of option-you have to be one or the other. Even if you manage to balance the two during your lifetime, you can’t escape the consequences after your death.”
“Be still!” The king scowled. “Bid me not think of mine end when I am still young!”
“Memento mori.” Matt wondered if Latin here was close enough to the Roman language of his own world for the king to understand it Apparently so; Rebozo’s stare verged on panic. But Boncorro’s education was apparently lacking, for he only frowned and said, “I will not think of the afterlife, not until I have found some mystic charm that will make my soul cease to exist completely when my body dies! I may not receive the rewards of virtue, but I will at least cheat Satan of the punishments of wickedness.”
And to think most people wanted immortality! “How would you feel if I started a speech to you by saying, ‘O King, live forever!’?‘
“An intriguing notion! Do you know how it may be achieved?”
“Afraid not,” Matt admitted. “Still, it is a worthy line of inquiry,” Boncorro said judiciously. “I shall have to find a sorcerer of an inquisitive turn of mind and set him to the investigation of it.”
The chancellor stared in surprise, then developed a very thoughtful look. That was one train of thought Matt figured he’d better derail. “Your people say you are a good king, your Majesty-even a great one.” After all, a little flattery never hurt. Boncorro grinned, lapping it up. “I would never deny it.” But there was a guarded look in his eyes; he knew flattery when he heard it, and suspected the motives. “Your magic, now, Lord Wizard-do you draw on the power of Goodness?”
“Oh, yes,” Matt said, “though it’s sometimes accidental.”
Rebozo looked at him as if he were primed to explode, but Boncorro only frowned. “By accident? How can one be good by accident?”
“You should know,” Matt said, amused. “However, in my case, it’s because I’m preoccupied. You see, I’m usually more concerned with the power of poetry than with its source.”
“Why, what a fascinating notion!” Boncorro cried. “I have always loved verse! In fact, I intend to install a Poet Laureate when my treasuries are restored to their proper level!”
“Even kings have to stop and think about what they can afford,” Matt sighed, “in this case, a venture that definitely won’t produce a profit.”
“Yes, but perhaps you have found a way to do so!”
“Oh, I doubt that,” Matt said. “Even here, poetry doesn’t exactly make gold.”
“By reputation, though, it has made you powerful!”
Matt shrugged uncomfortably. “The pen is mightier than the sword, your Majesty.”
“Is it indeed?” A slow smile curved Boncorro’s lips. “Let us experiment, Lord Wizard!”
A chill fanned out over Matt’s back. “Oh. You’ve decided to test how strong I am, huh?”
“You could call it that.” Rebozo gave him a nasty grin that revealed some gaping holes in medieval dentistry. “Yes, let us look at it as a test of your powers!” Boncorro urged. “For I would hate to be thought lacking in hospitality, even if the guest is uninvited! We shall accord you accommodations, Lord Wizard!”
Matt frowned. “Let me get this straight. You’re going to give me a place to stay, and that’s going to test how strong a wizard I am?”
“It is a matter of the sort of accommodations,” the chancellor said, his eyes glittering. “Oh,” Matt sighed. He settled his lute more firmly on his back. �
�You mean I get to spend the night in the dungeon.”
“The night,” Rebozo agreed, “or much longer.”
“So the test of my powers is finding out if I can escape from your dungeon?”
“If you are so mighty a wizard as to warrant my listening to your advice,” the king said, “you will no doubt be able to escape my prison with ease.”
Matt shook his head sadly. “Really, your Majesty! I had expected better of you!”
“Oh?” Boncorro said in surprise. “Surely you realize that I cannot have you wandering at liberty about my kingdom, Lord Wizard! Are you so certain of your ability to escape, then?”
Matt shrugged. “I’ve escaped from a few jails before this, and I’ll be surprised if yours is much of an improvement.” He looked up at the guards, who were shuffling their feet nervously. “Well, let’s go to it, boys!”
“You do not object?” Rebozo asked, amazed. “Object? Of course I object! But I don’t mind. I always meet the most fascinating people in dungeons.” As long as Flaminia and Pascal were safe out in the countryside, a night on moldering straw might even be restful. The chancellor gave Matt a whetted glance. “His Majesty has a special dungeon for competing magi! If you can escape this prison, Lord Wizard, you must be doughty indeed!”
For the first time Matt began to feel a stab of doubt-doubt that built quickly into apprehension as Boncorro spread his hands and began to chant in a language Matt didn’t even remotely begin to recognize. He had always mistrusted foreign languages, ever since he pulled that D in Freshman German. Besides, how could you counter a poem if you didn’t know what it meant? Not that that had stopped the postmoderns… Boncorro spun his fists together as if tying a knot-and disappeared. Disappearing, Matt was used to-he’d come up against half a dozen wizards and sorcerers who could disappear. But he’d never before run into one who could take everybody else with him-as well as all the buildings in the vicinity, and the cobblestones of the street, and, now that you mentioned it, even the sky and the sun. He hadn’t taken the light, though. At least Matt could see everything that was left, even if the light was gray and wan and formless. It was the epitome of indirect lighting-it didn’t even cast his shadow. Of course, that could have been because there was no surface for the light to cast his shadow onto-and it might have been pale because it was filtered through all that fog. All fog-everything was fog. Matt looked about him-it was like being inside a cloud, only this time there was no jet plane around him. Just to check, he looked underneath him, but all he could see was more of the same gray mist. He stared about him wild-eyed, trying to stifle the panic that was climbing up his throat. He told himself that he should take a bold step forward to break out of this prison-but found that he was afraid to. Okay, there seemed to be something solid beneath his feet just now-but was it the only spot of substance in this pocket universe? He stood, tense and stiffened, afraid to take a single step, to move so much as an inch for fear of a never-ending fall. He had to give it to Boncorro-as a dungeon for sorcerers, this was a beauty!
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