Matt sighed. "Well, I suppose I should feel good about getting that much of a reaction, at least. But what I want to know is, why does Malingo keep trying these little penny-ante harassments? Why doesn't he just bring out an army and squash us?"
"Because, praise Heaven, I have loyal barons and abbots in the West who would sally out to re-conquer the land, if Astaulf called even a small. army away from them." Alisande sounded a little relieved at having the conversation back in her territory again. "Then, too, the sorcerer fears to risk a battle in the presence of the rightful queen of the land. Though I am yet uncrowned and hence unproven, he's reluctant to risk battle, so long as I have even a few loyal men about me."
Matt did a double take. "How could he be afraid to take on five of us with a thousand or so backing him up?"
"Because a rightfully crowned monarch cannot be beaten." Alisande smiled proudly. "When my forefather Kaprin fought for his crown, his forces lost only when he was not with them. So it has gone for all my line, down through the years. And while Malingo cannot be sure that power is mine, he hesitates to chance it."
"Divine Right again." Matt couldn't keep a trace of sarcasm out of his tone. "The crown automatically gives a monarch a sure instinct for tactics, eh?"
"Nay, 'tis the blood that can win a crown out of chaos-a power of sensing what will win or lose. When a king knows a battle impossible to win, he will find a way to avoid that battle. But if he can be brought to battle, be assured he will win, though he have but a handful of knights against a multitude."
Matt scratched thoughtfully behind his ear. "Where I grew up, we thought it only human to make mistakes."
"And you think I claim to be more than human," Alisande said drily. "Nay, Lord Wizard-I know myself to be quite mortal. In matters of my own life, I may make as many mistakes as other mortals. But on matters of the public good, if a monarch makes so many mistakes that her interest becomes opposed to that of the people, she should abjure all authority over the common weal."
"Yeah." Matt smiled tightly. "But I doubt that Astaulf is going to abdicate willingly."
"True. But having become corrupted, he no longer has claim upon kingly rights and can be brought down. Thus it came about in Ibile and Allustria. There kings came to power, but their descendants grew corrupt. Taxes crushed the peasants, and the barons ran riot. Then the kings were overthrown, to be succeeded by self-made ones who were equally corrupt. Their present kings have turned to sorcery and are sunk in debauchery. Thus has Merovence been a sole bulwark against sorcery, until the coming of Malingo."
"Is that the threat that kept your family clean?" Matt asked.
Alisande nodded. "We were reared knowing we might be beset by an army of foul sorcery at any time. I, like my ancestors, was schooled with sword and Book and the myriad ways our fathers have kept our land free. I was twelve when I followed my father's army against the sorcerer Bakwrog. At fifteen, he gave me command of a thousand foot and a hundred horse against the Baron of Carpaise.
"When my father died..." Alisande's voice faltered, but she blinked and went on, iron in her tone. "'Twas at table and sudden. I was too distraught to think to examine his food, but I now believe that he was poisoned. Then, by right, I was queen. But the land had never been ruled by a woman, and many barons were unwilling to obey. Even the Archbishop hesitated to crown me."
"And while he delayed, Astaulf and Malingo marched in?"
Alisande nodded, swallowing. "They roared through the land like a storm that levels all before it. Against the folk, they brought vampires, incubi, and succubi. Harpies struck from the sky to bring panic and chaos. Thus they came from the south in one week's time." She shut her eyes, bowing her head. "Thus fell my land."
Matt was silent, numbed, shaken-and scared. "So you believe you cannot be beaten in battle-but you can't know. And we're up against a vast army with amazing mobility, a fifth column of assorted monsters, and an air arm."
"Aye," Alisande admitted grimly. "What magic forces can you raise against them, Lord Wizard?"
"Um ... That will require thought." Matt stalled. "I should be able come up with something. And I think we may have a support base to fall back on."
"Support base?" Alisande seemed puzzled. "Of what do you speak„
"Well, I may have wanted to come here in my subconscious dreams-but I don't think I made it on my own."
She thought about that for a moment, then nodded her understanding. "You believe a more powerful wizard aided you. And you think he did it to support my cause?" She shook her head ruefully. "But I know of none such. Nay, you but speculate, and speculation gains us naught. We must depend on proven forces."
"And who are those?" Matt asked.
"The Western barons. For a hundred years, they and the dragons have guarded us from those who would have swarmed across the borders. And there are the soldier-monks."
"Soldier-monks?" Matt pricked up his ears, thinking of the Knights Templar of his own world. "I haven't heard of them."
"They are deacons and priests whose service to God is fighting the servants of evil by wielding shield and buckler. They are ever ready to defend the cause of Right. They are the Knights of Saint Moncaire and three lesser orders-the Liegemen of Conor, the Knights of the Hospice, and the Order of the Blue Cross. Their loyalty to the crown cannot be questioned, for it follows directly from their devotion to God."
"Who else can you count on?"
"Unfortunately, only Sir Guy and yourself. But if you can wake the giant Colmain, I shall need no more."
And that, Matt thought, would be quite a job, since Colmain had been spelled by a mighty sorcerer. It would probably be a lot more difficult than bringing back Stegoman from the witch's spell. Automatically, he reached for his silver ballpoint pen, touching it. It wasn't much, but it was somehow a connection with all he had known of his homeworld.
That was when he began to realize what a talisman was.
Late in the afternoon, they rode up from the plain onto an open moor. Matt felt almost daunted by the hugeness of the wasteland that rolled up toward the sky without a single tree or occasional shrub. Even the grass didn't grow very high here-probably because of low rainfall. The bleakness and loneliness made him feel swallowed by immensity.
Sayeesa felt it, too; she shuddered and wrapped her robe more tightly about herself. The rest of the party started looking very serious.
Still, it had to be crossed. By sunset, they were well out in the midst of the moor, surrounded by miles and miles of acres, and all of it scrubby.
Sir Guy pulled up his horse and smiled cheerily. "I suggest we go no further this day and I think we had best set up what defenses we can against those who prowl by night."
Somehow, Matt didn't think the knight was referring to the local wildlife.
He surveyed the emptiness with a singular lack of enthusiasm. "Where do we set up these defenses? I don't see a single good camping place between here and the horizon-any horizon."
Sir Guy shrugged. "The easier our decision, then. One place is as good as another. What says your Highness?"
"I have heard of these moors," Alisande said grimly. "By report, we will come to no decent defense for a day more at least. Aye, let us camp."
Matt dismounted, grumbling, and started looking for something that might serve as fuel for a fire.
"You are too delicate."
Matt looked up. Sayeesa knelt near him, lifting something from the scrub grass. "When you cannot find what you seek, you must needs use what you find-and here on the moor, Lord Wizard, our fuel is dried sheep dung."
Matt reminded himself that the American pioneers had burned buffalo chips. He sighed and started looking for sheep pellets. "Well, when in Rome-I mean, Reme ..."
"Aye. We must do what we must," a deeper voice said.
Matt looked up. Father Brunei was kneeling near the ex-witch, gathering similar fuel. "Yet stand away," he told Sayeesa, "and leave the noisome task to me. A beautiful woman's hands were, not meant for su
ch." He looked up at her, and his gaze burned.
"Neither were yours," she answered curtly. "Are not those the hands that hold the Host?"
The priest smiled ruefully. "A poor parish priest must needs keep his own house and tend his own small garden, Sayeesa. There is dirt and filth aplenty in such tasks."
"You have used my name," she said somberly. "I had liefer you'd call me witch, as your peasants did."
"Why?" Brunel demanded, suddenly all 'priest again. "You should not wish the term, if you no longer are the thing. You should be mindful there is scant honesty in such a pose."
"And yours?" Sayeesa retorted. "What honesty is there in you, that you still wear the cloth?"
She rose, whirling away from him, to take her collection of fuel to Sir Guy, who had managed to cobble together a rough hearth out of stray boulders.
Matt watched her go, then turned to the priest. He wasn't too surprised to find the man's face darkened with rage. "Come on, Father-you can't deny you had it coming."
"In truth, I did. Yet 'tis none the easier to bear for that."
"Then don't give her the opportunity to score on you again. Just leave her alone."
"Aye, the wisest course." The priest climbed to his feet with a handful of sheep dung. "Yet know you what you ask of me?"
"Oh, I think I've got a pretty good idea. You're not the first man to be born with hot blood."
"Easily said." The priest gave him a dark glare. "Yet what am I to do, when such temptation's forced on me?"
"Pray." Matt's smile was bleak. "I know I will."
Dinner was, to say the least, a little on the tense side. Father Brunel kept trying to strike up a conversation with Sayeesa, who answered politely for about two sentences before she cut him off. Then, when she tried to be polite for a third sentence, she suddenly seemed to be communicating the kind of secret message that every man was born to decode. Her eyelids drooped, her mouth started to curve into a languid smile, and Matt found himself becoming uncomfortably aware of her body. Hope leaped and burned in Brunel's eyes; almost imperceptibly, he edged near her-and Sayeesa stiffened, her allure disappearing as if she'd slammed the lid on a box. Brunel's face flamed with anger.
Alisande stepped into the breach with alacrity, challenging the priest on a point of theology. Reminded of his office, Brunel sullenly turned away from Sayeesa to answer the princess.
From that point on, Alisande maintained a very energetic conversation with Brunel, while Sir Guy kept Sayeesa talking. Whenever Brunel tried to win the attention of Sayeesa, the princess and Sir Guy were always in his way. It was a dazzling display of mental footwork, but Matt found it singularly exhausting.
Finally he gave up. He gulped his last mouthful of roast moorhen, wiped his hands on a tuft of grass, and rose, turning away from the firelight.
"Lord Matthew!" Alisande's voice rang out like a challenge. "Where go you?"
"Out for a walk," Matt tossed back over his shoulder. "Don't worry. I won't do anything foolish, your Highness."
Her frown darkened. "'Ware, Lord Wizard. You yet lack knowledge of this world."
"Oh? Is there something especially dangerous about this particular stretch of moorland that you might want to tell me about?"
"Naught of which I know," Alisande said slowly. "Naetheless, be mindful-we are besieged, beset upon all sides. Not a step do we take that is not noted by our enemy. And should he catch one among us left alone, he will surely cut him out and cut him down."
"He can try," Matt said evenly, and immediately wondered at his own brass. "But I'm in a state of Grace now, your Highness, at last. And if I see anything but heather moving, I'll yell loud and quick'."
"Yet may you be too far for us to reach you." Alisande glanced at Sayeesa and Father Brunel with an agonized look; then her mouth firmed with decision, and she pushed herself to her feet. "Lend me a sword, Sir Guy. If he must needs stroll about, indifferent to his danger, I'll pace beside him."
"Oh, f' cryin' out unprintably!" Matt burst out. "What do you think I am, a kid who doesn't know enough not to talk to strangers? ... All right, all right! If you don't trust me to take care of myself, I'll take a bodyguard. Stegoman! Whaddaya say?"
The dragon rose, grinning. He looked back at the princess. "I shall keep him safe. Though I bedoubt me an he will need it. Do not fash thyself, Highness."
"I shall," she said somberly, and Matt wondered at the sudden trace of hurt behind her flinty mask.
Then she turned away, closing her eyes, and Matt felt anger seethe as he strode out across the moor. What did she expect of him, anyway? What was she trying to do to him? Or...
Was he doing something to her?
For a moment, hope leaped in his chest. Illusion, the monitor at the back of his mind schooled him sternly. Never believe.
It was true, and the taste of it was like bile in his throat. He reminded himself that he was a commoner born, and Alisande was royalty. True, he was technically a lord now, but it was the birth that mattered. Princesses didn't get seriously involved with anything short of dukes.
"What troubles thee?" Stegoman rumbled beside him. "I can return, if thou wouldst be alone."
"No! I'm glad of your company," Matt said quickly. "Stegoman, why were we created male and female? It only makes problems for us."
The dragon made a low, grating sound that resembled a chuckle. "Problems? Wait till thou hast mated and hast a nest of hatchlings."
Matt looked up, startled. "You? Ah-I mean..."
"Thou didst not see me as the family sort? Nay, thou hast the right of it." The dragon's eyes gleamed. "But as an eldest son, I have watched a parent's writhings and compared them with mine own. 'Tis a wretched life, unmated and wanting-or mated and responsible. In either case, wherein lies the sense?"
"Yeah. As they say in my world, you can't live without 'em and you can't live with 'em," Matt mused. "You never do control your own life. Ever since I came here, I've been slapped about, with no idea of where I'm going or why. Somebody grabs me and throws me to somebody else, who throws me to still another. Now I'm marching across a strange moor with a knight I don't know, a princess without a throne, a priest who shouldn't be, and an ex-witch. I'm getting a little tired of it all. It's time I got back in control."
Stegoman lifted an eye-ridge. "Thou dost desire power?"
"Not to control anyone else's life-just mine. I mean, I scarcely know what I'm doing any more-or why. For all I know, I could help Alisande gain the throne, only to see her set up the kind of government I abhor."
"And what kind wouldst thou not abhor?"
"Oh-the greatest good for the greatest number, I suppose."
"Ah, thou dost speak of peasants. And what is their lot now under Astaulf?"
Matt remembered the burned village and shuddered. "Okay, you win that point. But would Alisande be any better?"
"Her blood is not corrupted," Stegoman said. "She will therefore rule like her father. I saw his reign the five years I have roamed this land, and always there was food and fuel. The barons knew their rights and duties. And each year, all had a little more than they needed. But now?" His back fins writhed in a shrug. "Hunger stalks, bandits ride, and few fields are planted. 'Twill be a long, hungry winter."
Matt sighed. "Yeah. So I guess I stick with the princess."
"Yet still thine assent lacks joy." The dragon eyed him doubtfully. "Mayhap thou must decide the why."
"Why?" Matt began an automatic answer, then stopped. His reason was no longer obvious. "You're right. Why am I doing it?" He mulled it over. "Maybe because..."
"Aye?"
"Well, I guess, back in my own world, I didn't amount to much at anything I tried; and I've tried lots of jobs. But here, things seem to work. Put the two-bit scholar, the so-so poet, the doubtful logician, and the indifferent swordsman together-and you've got a wizard. So now I have this feeling of achievement, and a chance to be a success. All the half-gifts I was born with add up to one big Gift, here."
"A talent
must be trained, though," the dragon mused. "Did then thy studies provide such training in magic?"
"Well, no," Matt admitted. "Or, wait, maybe they did, in a way. I picked up some training in logic and the scientific method. With them, it's just a matter of figuring out the rules."
"Rules? But there are no rules of magic! As I have told thee."
"There must be laws and rules," Matt stated. "You just have to figure them out. Observe several events and find what they have in common; then you can see what proceeds from them. If you know how one proportion changes, you have a good guide to how the other does."
Stegoman's head performed a loop-the-loop. "I hear thy words, but thy meaning lies beyond me. Dost mean, if I have two gold pieces and wish ten, I've but to write 'two' on a parchment, then change it to `ten', and I'll have ten pieces in my purse?"
"No, no! The symbol is not the thing. At least ... not in my world..." Matt's voice trailed off, and his eyes lost focus.
Here the symbol was the thing-or was at least closely enough connected with it. And words were spoken symbols. So it followed that the right spoken words might directly affect things. The problem was to use those word-symbols effectively.
Well, obviously poetry seemed to work. And apparently rhyme helped. Maybe the voice sounds, when reinforced, set up some kind of magical resonance. Umm, what had that professor kept repeating about poetry? Dense-that was it; good poetry had much greater density than prose. It was heavy in imagery that could have a lot of different referents, not just one.
So it should follow that better poetry would make better magic.
Probably it would work still better if it were sung-too bad he didn't have a better singing voice-especially if the pitches were chosen to resonate correctly with the meaning. The most effective combination of melody and words would be those that were written to reinforce each other and their referents.
It all seemed to fit together so well that Matt wondered why nobody here had been able to see the way magic worked.
Then a flash of insight supplied the answer. He'd been using linear thinking to analyze things. But thought in this world was not linear-it was gestalt. People didn't break things down into parts; they thought in total concepts and hunches. To them, magic was a thing, not a series of processes. Matt decided he'd have to do some heavy thinking about that, but it appeared that his linear approach should give him a big advantage here.
Her Majesty's Wizard Page 17
