Prologue

Prologue

The tall roan stallion looked up and nickered. The other horses crowded to the doors of their stalls to watch Accerese the groom as he came into the barn with the bag of oats over his shoulder. A smile banished his moroseness for a few minutes. “Well! At least someone’s glad to see me!” He poured a measure of grain into the trough on the stallion’s door. “At least you eat well, my friends!” He moved on down the line, pouring grain into each manger. “And well-dressed you are, too, not like we who-”

Accerese bit his tongue, remembering that the king or his sorcerers might hear anything, anywhere. “Well, we all have our work to do in this world-though some of us have far less than-” Again he bit his tongue-but on his way out of the third stall he paused to trace the raw red line on the horse’s flank with his finger. “Then again, when you do work, your tasks are even more painful than mine, eh? No, my friends, forgive my complaining.” He opened the door to the fourth stall. “But you, Fandalpi, you are-” He stopped, puzzled. Fandalpi was crowded against the back wall, nostrils flared, the whites showing all around its eyes. “Nay, my friend, what-”

Then Accerese saw the body lying on the floor. He stood frozen in shock for a few minutes, his eyes as wide and white as the horse’s. Then he whirled to the door, panic mov-ing his heels-until he froze with a new fear. Whether he fled or not, he was a dead man-but he might live longer if he reported the death as he should. Galtese the steward’s man would testify that Accerese had taken his load of grain only a few minutes before-so there was always the chance that no one would blame him for the prince’s death. But his stomach felt hollow with fear as he hurried back across the courtyard to the guardroom. There was a chance, yes, but when the corpse was that of the heir apparent, it was a very slim chance indeed. King Maledicto tore his hair, howling in rage. “What cursed fiend has rent my son!?” But everyone could see that this was not the work of a fiend, or any other of Hell’s minions.

The body was not burned or de-filed; the prince’s devotion to God had won him that much protec-tion, at least. The only sign of the Satanic was the obscene carving on the handle of the knife that stuck out of his chest-but every one of the king’s sorcerers had such a knife, and many of the guards besides. Anybody could have stolen one, though not easily. “Foolish boy!” the king bellowed at the corpse. “Did you think your Lord would save you from Hell’s blade? See what all your praying has won you! See what your hymn-singing and charities and forgiveness have brought you! Who will inherit my kingdom now? Who will rule, if I should die? Nay, I’ll be a thousand times more wicked yet! The Devil will keep me alive, if only to bring misery and despair upon this Earth!”

Accerese quaked in his sandals, knowing who was the most likely candidate for despair. He reflected ruefully that no matter how the king had stormed and threatened his son to try to Prologue

make him forsake his pious ways, the prince had been his assurance that the Devil would make him live-for only if the old king lived could the kingdom of Latruria be held against the wave of good-ness that would have flowed from Prince Casudo’s charity. “What do I have left now?” the old king ranted. “Only a single grandson, a puling boy, not even a stripling; a child, an infant! Nay, I must rear him well and wisely in the worship of Satan, or this land will fall to the rule of Virtue!”

What he didn’t dare say, of course, was that if his demonic master knew he was raising little Prince Boncorro any other way, the Devil would rack the king with tortures that Accerese could only imagine-but imagine he did; he shuddered at the very thought. “Fool! Coward!

Milksop!” the king raged, and went on and on, ranting and raving at the poor dead body as if by sheer rage he could force it to obey and come alive again. Finally, though, Accerese caught an undertone to the tirade that he thought impos-sible, then realized was really there: The king was afraid! At that, Accerese’s nerve broke. Whatever was bad enough to scare a king who had been a lifelong sorcerer, devoted to Evil and towickedness that was only whispered abroad, never spoken openly-whatever was so horrible as to scare such a king could blast the mind of a poor man who strove to be honest and live rightly in the midst of the cruelty and treachery of a royal court devoted to Evil! Slowly, ever so slowly, Accerese began to edge toward the stable door. No one saw, for everyone was watching the king, pressing away from his royal wrath as much as they dared. Even Chancellor Rebozo cowered, he who had endured King Maledicto’s whims and rages for fifty years. No one noticed the poor humble groom edge his way out of the door, no one noticed him turn away and pace quickly to the postern gate, no one saw him leap into the water and swim the moat, for even the sentries on the wall were watching the stables with fear and apprehension. But one did notice his swimming-one of the monsters who lived in the moat. A huge scaly bulge broke the surface, oily waters sliding off it; eyes the size of helmets opening, gaze flick-ing here and there until they saw the churning figure. Then the bulge began to move, faster and faster, a V-shaped wake pointing toward the fleeing man. Accerese did not even look behind to see if it was coming; he knew it would, knew also that, fearsome as the monster was, he was terrified more of the king and his master. The bulge swelled as it came up behind the man. Accerese could hear the wash of breaking waters and redoubled his efforts with a last frantic burst of thrashing. The shoreline came closer, closer… But the huge bulge came closer, too, splitting apart to show huge dripping yellow fangs in a maw as dark as midnight. Accerese’s flailing foot struck mud; he threw himself onto the bank and rolled away just as saw-edged teeth clashed shut behind him. He rolled again and again, heart beating loud in his ears, aching to scream but daring not, because of the sentries on the walls. Finally he pushed himself up to his feet and saw the moat, twenty feet behind him, and two huge baleful eyes glaring at him over its brim. Accerese breathed a shuddering gasp of relief, and a prayer of thanks surged upward within him-but he caught it in time, held it back from forming into words, lest the Devil hear him and know he was fleeing. He turned away, scrambling over the brow of the hill and down the talus slope, hoping that God had heard his unvoiced prayer, but that the Hell spawn had not. Heaven preserved him, or perhaps simply good luck, for he reached the base of the plain and raced toward the cover of the woods. Just as Accerese came in under the Prologue

trees, King Maledicto fi-nally ran out of venom and stood trembling over the corpse of his son, tears of frustration in his eyes. Yes, surely they must have been of frustration. Then, slowly, he turned to his chancellor. “Find the murderer, Rebozo.”

“But Majesty!” Rebozo shrank away. “It might be a demon out of Hell…”

“Would a demon use a knife, fool?” Maledicto roared. “Would a demon leave the body whole? Aye, whole and undefiled? Nay! It is a mortal man you seek, no spawn of Hell! Find him, seek him! Bring the groom who found my son, question him over what he saw!”

“Surely, Majesty!” Rebozo bent in a quick servile bow and turned away. “Let the groom stand forth!”

Everyone was silent, staring about them, wide-eyed. “He was here, against the stall door…” a guardsman ventured. “And you let him flee? Fool! Idiot!” Maledicto roared. He whirled to the other soldiers, pointing at the one who had spoken. “Cut off his head! Not later, now” The other guardsmen glanced at their mate, taken aback, hesi-tant. “Will no one obey?” Maledicto bellowed. “Does my weak-kneed son still slacken your loyalty, even in his death?

Here, give me!”

He snatched a halberd from the nearest guardsman and swung it high. The other soldiers shouted and dodged even as the blade fell. The luckless man who had seen the groom tried to dodge, but too late-the blade cut through his chest. He screamed once, in terror and in blood; then his eyes rolled up, and his soul was gone where went all those souls who served King Maledicto willingly. “Stupid ass,” Maledicto hissed, glaring at the body. He looked up at the remaining, quaking guardsmen. “When I command, you obey! Now bring me that groom!” They fled to chase after Accerese. It was the chancellor who found and followed the fugitive’s trail to the postern and down to the water’s edge, the company of guardsmen in his wake.

“Thus it ends,” sighed the Captain of the Guard. “None could swim that moat and live.” But Rebozo glanced back fearfully at the keep, as if hearing some command that the others could not. ‘Take the hound into the boat,“ he ordered. ”Search the other bank.“ They went, quaking, and the dog had to be held tightly, its muzzle bound, for it squirmed and writhed, fearing the smell of the monsters. Several of them lifted huge eyes above the water, hut Rebozo muttered a charm and pointed at each with his wand. The great eyes closed, the scaly bulges slid beneath the oily, stagnant fluid-and the boat came to shore. Wild-eyed, the dog sprang free and would have fled, but the soldiers cuffed it quiet and, as it whined, cringing, made it smell again the feed bag that held Accerese’s scent. It began to quest here and there about the bank, gaining vigor as it moved farther from the water. Its keeper cursed Prologue

and raised a fist to club it, but Rebozo stayed his hand. “Let it course,” he said. “Give it time.” Even as he finished, the dog lifted its head with a howl of tri-umph. Off it went after the scent, nearly jerking the keeper’s arm out of its socket, so eager was it to get away from that fell and foul moat. Rebozo shouted commands, and half a dozen soldiers ran off after the hound and its keeper, while a dozen more came riding across the drawbridge with the rest of the pack, led by a minor sorcerer in charcoal robes. Down the talus slope they thundered, away over the plain, catching up with the lead hound, and the whole pack belled as they followed the trace into the woods. They searched all that day and into the night, Rebozo ordering their efforts, Rebozo calling for the dogs, Rebozo leading the guardsmen. It was a long chase and a dark one, for Accerese had the good sense to keep moving, to resist the urge to sleep-or perhaps it was fear itself that kept him going. He doubled back, he waded a hundred yards through a stream, he took to trees and went from branch to branch-but where the hounds could not find his scent, sorcery could, and in the end they brought Accerese, bruised and bleeding, back to the chancellor, who nodded, eyes glowing even as he said, “Put him to the question!”

“No, no!” Accerese screamed, and went on screaming even as they hauled him down to the torture chamber, even as they strapped him to the rack-where the screaming turned quickly into hoarse bellows of agony and fear. Rebozo stood there behind his king, watching and trembling as Maledicto shouted, “Why did you slay my son?”

“I did not! I did never!”

“More,” King Maledicto snapped, and Rebozo, trembling and wide-eyed, nodded to the torturer, who grinned and pressed down with the glowing iron. Accerese screamed and screamed, and fi-nally could turn the sound into words. “I only found him there, I did not kill… AIEEEE!”

“Confess!” the king roared. “We know you did it-why do you deny it?”

“Confess,” Rebozo pleaded, “and the agony will end.”

“But I did not do it!” Accerese wailed. “I only found him… YAAHHHH!” So it went, on and on, until finally, exhausted and spent, Accerese told them what they wanted to hear. “Yes, yes! I did it, I stole the dagger and slew him, anything, anything! Only let the pain stop!”

“Let the torture continue,” Maledicto commanded, and watched with grim satisfaction as the groom howled and bucked and writhed, listened with glowing eyes as the screams alternated with begging and pleading, shivered with pleasure as the cracked and fading voice still tried to shriek its agony-but when the broken, bleeding body began to gibber and call upon the Prologue

name of God, Maledicto snarled, “Kill it!”

The blade swung down, and Accerese’s agony was over. King Maledicto stood, glaring down at the remains with fierce elation-then suddenly turned somber. His brows drew down, his face wrinkled into lines of gloom. He turned away, thunderous and brooding. Rebozo stared after him, astounded, then hurried af-ter. When he had seen his royal master slam the door of his private chamber behind him, when his loud-voiced queries brought forth only snarls of rage and demands to go away, Rebozo turned and went with a sigh. There was still another member of the royal family who had to be told about all this. Not Maledicto’s wife, for she had been slain for an adultery she had never committed; not the prince’s wife, for she had died in childbirth; but the prince’s son, Maledicto’s grandson, who was now the heir apparent. Rebozo went to his chambers in a wing on the far side of the castle. There he composed himself, steadying his breathing and striving for the proper combination of sympathy and sternness, of gentleness and gravity. When he thought he had the tone and expression right, he went to tell the boy that he was an orphan. Prince Boncorro wept, of course. He was only ten and could not understand. “But why? Why? Why would God take my father? He was so good, he tried so hard to do what God wanted!” Rebozo winced, but found words anyway. “There was work for him in Heaven.”

“But there is work for him here, too! Big work, lots of work, and surely it is work that is important to God! Didn’t God think he could do it? Didn’t he try hard enough?” What could Rebozo say? “Perhaps not, your Highness. Kings must do many things that would be sins, if common folk did them.”

“What manner of things?” The tears dried on the instant, and the little prince glared up at Rebozo as if the man himself were guilty. “Why… killing,” said Rebozo. “Executing, I mean.

Executing men who have done horrible, vicious things, such as murdering other people-and who might do them again, if the king let them live. And killing other men, in battle. A king must command such things, Highness, even if he does not do them himself.”

“So.” Boncorro fixed the chancellor with a stare that the old man found very disconcerting.

“You mean that my father was too good, too kind, too gentle to be a king?” Rebozo shrugged and waved a hand in a futile gesture. “I cannot say, Highness. No man can understand these matters-they beyond us.”

The look on the little prince’s face plainly denied the idea- denied it with scorn, too. Rebozo hurried on. “For now, though, your grandfather is in a horrible temper. He has punished the man who murdered your father…”

 

Prologue

“Punished?” Prince Boncorro stared. “They caught the man? Why did he do it?”

“Who knows, Highness?” Rebozo said, like a man near the end of his fortitude. “Envy, passion, madness-your grandfather did not wait to hear the reason. The murderer is dead.

What else matters?”

“A great deal,” Boncorro said, “to a prince who wishes to live.” There was something chilling about the way he said it-he seemed so mature, so far beyond his years. But then, an experience like this would mature a boy-instantly. “If you wish to live, Highness,” Rebozo said softly, “it were better if you were not in the castle for some months.

Your grandfather has been in a ferocious temper, and now is suddenly sunken in gloom. I cannot guess what he may do next.”

“You do not mean that he is mad!”

“I do not think so,” Rebozo said slowly, “but I do not know. I would feel far safer, your Highness, if you were to go into hid-ing.”

“But… where?” Boncorro looked about him, suddenly help-less and vulnerable. “Where could 1 go?”

In spite of it all, Rebozo could not help a smile. “Not in the wardrobe, Highness, nor beneath your bed. I mean to hide you outside the castle-outside this royal town of Venarra, even. I know a country baron who is kindly and loyal, who would never dream of hurting a prince, and who would see you safely spirited away even if his Majesty were to command your presence. But he will not, for I will see to it that the king does not know where you are.” Boncorro frowned. “How will you do that?”

“I will lie, your Highness. No, do not look so darkly at me-it will be a lie in a good cause, and is far better than letting you stay here, where your grandfather might lash out at you in his pas-sion.”

Boncorro shuddered; he had seen King Maledicto in a rage. “But he is a sorcerer! Can he not find me whenever he wishes?”

“I am a sorcerer, too,” Rebozo said evenly, “and shall cloud your trail by my arts, so that even he cannot find it. It is my duty to you-and to him.”

“Yes, it is, is it not?” Boncorro nodded judiciously. “How strange that to be loyal, you must lie to him!”

 

Prologue

“He will thank me for it one day,” Rebozo assured him. “But come, now, your Highness-there is little time for talk. No one can tell when your grandfather will pass into another fit of rage.

We must be away, and quickly, before his thoughts turn to you.” Prince Boncorro’s eyes widened in fright. “Yes, we must! How, Rebozo?”

“Like this.” Rebozo shook out a voluminous dark cloak he had been carrying and draped it around the boy’s shoulders. “Pull up the cowl now.” Boncorro pulled the hood over his head and as far forward as it would go. He could only see straight in front of him, but he re-alized that it would be very hard for others to see his face.

Rebozo was donning a cloak very much like his. He, too, pulled the cowl over his head.

“There, now! Two fugitives dressed alike, eh? And who is to say you are a prince, not the son of a woodcutter wrapped against the night’s chill? Away now, lad! To the postern!” They crossed out over the moat in a small boat that was moored just outside the little gate.

Boncorro huddled in on himself, staring at the huge luminous eyes that seemed to appear out the very darkness itself-but Rebozo muttered a spell and pointed his wand, making those huge eyes flutter closed in sleep and sink away. The little boat glided across the oil-slick water with no oars or sail, and Boncorro wondered how the chancellor as making it go. Magic, of course. Boncorro decided he must learn magic, or he would forever be at others’ mercy. But not black magic, no-he would never let Satan have a hold on him, as the Devil did on his grandfather! He would never be so vile, so wicked-for he knew what Rebozo seemed not to: that no matter who had thrust the knife between his father’s ribs, it was King Maledicto who had given the order. Boncorro had no proof, but he didn’t need any-he had heard their fights, heard the old man ranting and raving at the heir, had heard Prince Casudo’s calm, measured answers that sent the king into veritable paroxysms. He had heard Grandfather’s threats and seen him lash out at Casudo in anger. No, he had no need of proof. He had always feared his grandfather and never liked him-but now he hated him, too, and was bound and determined never to be like him. On the other hand, he was determined never to be like his father, either-not now. Prince Casudo had been a good man, a very good man, even saintly-but it was as Chancellor Rebozo had said: that very goodness had made him unfit to be king. It had made him unfit to live, for that matter-unsuspecting, he had been struck down from behind.

Boncorro wanted to be a good king, when his time came-but more than anything else, he wanted to. And second only to that, he wanted revenge-on his grandfather. The boat grounded on the bank and Rebozo stepped out, turning back to hold out a hand to steady the prince. There were horses in waiting, tied to a tree branch: black horses that faded into the night. Rebozo boosted the boy into the saddle, then mounted himself and took the reins of Boncorro’s horse. He slapped his own horse’s flank with a small whip, and they moved off quietly into the night, down the slope and across the darkened plain. Only when they came under the leaves did Prince Boncorro feel safe enough to talk again. “Why are you loyal to King Maledicto, Rebozo? Why do you obey him? Do you think the things he commands you Prologue

to do are right?”

“No,” Rebozo said with a shudder. “He is an evil man, your Highness, and commands me to do wicked deeds. I shall tell you truly that some of them disgust me, even though I can see they are necessary to keep order in the kingdom. But there are other tasks he sets me that frankly horrify me, and in which I can see no use.”

“Then why do you do them? Why do you carry them out?”

“Because I am afraid,” Rebozo said frankly, “afraid of his wrath and his anger, afraid of the tortures he might make me suf-fer if he found that I had disobeyed him-but more than anything else, afraid of the horrors of his evil magic.”

“Can you not become good, as Father was? Will not… no, of course Goodness will not protect you,” Prince Boncorro said bit-terly. “It did not protect Father, did it? In the next life, perhaps, but not in this.”

“Even if it did,” Rebozo said quickly, to divert the boy from such somber thoughts, “it would not protect me-for I have com-mitted many sins, your Highness, in the service of your grandfather-many sins indeed, and most of them vile.”

“But you had no choice!”

“Oh, I did,” Rebozo said softly, “and worse, I knew it, too. I could have said no, I could have refused.”

“If you had, Grandfather would have had you killed! Tortured and killed!”

“He would indeed,” Rebozo confirmed, “and I did not have the courage to face that. No, in my cowardice, I trembled and obeyed him-and doomed my soul to Hell thereby.”

“But Father did not.” Boncorro straightened, eyes wide with sudden understanding. “Father refused to commit an evil act, and Grandfather killed him for it!”

“Highness, what matter?” Rebozo pleaded. “Dead is dead!”

“It matters,” Prince Boncorro said, “because Father’s courage has saved him from Hell-and yours could, too, Rebozo, even now!”

There was something in the way he said it that made Rebozo shiver-but he was shivering anyway, at the thought of the fate the king could visit upon him. Instead, he said, “Your Prologue

father has gone to a far better place than this, Prince Boncorro.”

“That may be true,” the prince agreed, “but I do not wish to go there any sooner than I must.

Why did Father not learn magic?”“Because there is no magic but evil magic, your Highness.”“I do not believe that,” Prince Boncorro said flatly. “Father told me of saints who could work miracles.”“Miracles, yes-and I don’t doubt that your father can work them now, or will soon. But miracles are not magic, your Highness, and it is not the Saints who work them, but the One they worship, who acts through them. Mere goodness is not enough-a man must be truly holy to become such a channel of power.”Prince Boncorro shook his head doggedly. “There must be a way. Chancellor Rebozo. There must be another sort of magic, good magic, or the whole world would have fallen to Evil long ago.” What makes you think it has not? Rebozo thought, but he bit back the words. Besides, even Prince Boncorro had heard of the good wizards in Merovence, and Chancellor Rebozo did not want him thinking too much about that. What quicker road to death could there be, than to study good magic in a kingdom of evil sorcery? “Will Grandfather ever die?” Boncorro asked.

Rebozo shook his head. “Only two know that, Highness-and one of them is the Devil, who keeps the king alive.”

The other, Prince Boncorro guessed, must be God-but he could understand why Rebozo would not want to say that Name aloud. Not here in Latruria-and not considering the current state of his soul. It was half a year before Chancellor Rebozo came to Baron Garchi’s gate again. “Welcome, welcome, Lord Chancellor!” cried the bluff and hearty lord. “Come in and rest yourself! Take a cup of ale!”

“Ale will do.”

The implication was clear, so Garchi sighed and said, “I have wine, if you’d rather.”

“Why, yes,” Rebozo said. “The cool white wine that your country is so famous for, perhaps?”

“The very stuff.” Garchi reached up to clap him on the shoulder, but thought better of it.

“Come in out of the sun!” He started to lead the way, then remembered himself and bowed the Lord Chancellor on before him. Rebozo acknowledged the wisdom of the move with a nod, then asked, “How is your charge?”

“Oh, the lad thrives! Our country air is good for him-and it is also good for him to run and play with my own cubs.”

Rebozo fixed him with a steely glare. “They do not mistreat him, I trust?”

“Not a bit,” Garchi assured him. “Oh, there was the beginning round of fights, as there always Prologue

is with boys…”

“You supervised it carefully, I trust!”

Garchi nodded, a little nettled. “Carefully, but without their knowing. When it got too rough, one of my knights just ‘happened’ to come by.”

“How rough?” Rebozo snapped. “Well, your little wolfling had my middle boy down and was setting in to beat him with a fierceness that took me quite aback, I can tell you. My youngest had already picked a fight with him and been soundly trounced-they’re the same age, I’d guessed- and my eldest was standing by, looking as if he was going to jump in to help his brother, for all I’d told him not to. Lad’s four-teen,” he explained. “But your knight stopped them?”

“Aye, and saved my middle boy a nasty beating, I fancy! Had to take your lad aside and explain to him that fights between boys don’t need to be for life or death, that it’s only a little more se-rious than a game.”

“I’m surprised he believed you.”

“Not sure he did, but he’s been nowhere nearly so vicious since-and they’ve had their dustups, of course, for all they’ve been fast friends from that first day; boys will be boys, y’know.”

“They will,” Rebozo agreed, with the air of one who doesn’t really understand. “Where are they now?”

“Oh, out rabbiting, I expect. Quite taken to hunting, the lad has, though he’s so demmed serious about it that it makes me chill in-side.” He gave the chancellor a keen glance. “Is he really yours? Thought powerful sorcerers like you didn’t indulge.”

“We do not, but you need not concern yourself with whose bas-tard he truly is.”

“Oh, I don’t, I don’t,” Garchi said quickly. “Shall I send for him?”

“No, I’ve time enough to wait an hour or two-and refresh myself. You will have a bath drawn?”

“They’re heating the water now,” said Garchi, who didn’t un-derstand this obsession with washing. “I’ll have the boy sent ‘round to you as soon as he comes in, eh?” Prologue

“Oh, let him clean up first. After hunting, I expect he’ll need it.” It was only an hour later that Boncorro stood before the chancellor-or the other way around, perhaps; Rebozo was amazed at the way the boy made him feel as if it were he who had been summoned. The lad was smiling, though. “It is so good to see you again, my Lord Chancellor!”

“I am sorry that it has been so long, Highness,” Rebozo said. “I had to wait until your grandfather sent me on a tour of the provinces, to remind the lords of the tax they owe him.”

“Of course. I knew I would have to wait long for news of home.” Rebozo took the hint. “Your grandfather continues in good health, and has somewhat emerged from his gloom. He still lapses into long periods of brooding, though, and gazes out the window at nothing.”

“I should feel sorry for him,” Boncorro conceded. “Yes, perhaps,” Rebozo said, a trifle disconcerted. “And how have you been faring, your Highness?”

“Oh, well enough, though it was somewhat rough at first. I have friends now, or acquaintances, at least.”

“Yes, Lord Garchi tells me you have made companions of his sons, and that you were hunting even now.”

“They are skilled at that.” Actually, the boys had led Boncorro to a knothole they had discovered, where they could peek into the chambermaids’ sleeping quarters. They had taken turns watching the strapping young women disrobe and slip into their beds. Boncorro had dutifully taken his turn, though he couldn’t really understand why his playmates seemed so excited about the whole matter. Way down deep, he had felt some stirring within him as he watched a well-curved peasant lass go through her ablutions, and he had to admit it had been somewhat pleasant-but surely nothing to make such a fuss about. “I remembered it was your birthday soon.” Rebozo drew a package from beneath his robe. “I regret we cannot celebrate it more elaborately-but take this, as a token of good wishes.” Boncorro took the package, astonished. “Why, thank you, Chancellor! What is it?”

“Well, there would be no surprise if I told you.” Rebozo smiled. “Go ahead, unwrap it.” Boncorro did, and held the book up, staring. “A book of spells!”

“You had said you meant to learn magic,” Rebozo explained. “They are only simple spells, Prologue

scarcely more than a village herb wife would use-but enough for a beginning.”

“Yes indeed!” Boncorro stared at it, round-eyed. ‘Thank you, Chancellor! Thank you deeply!“

“Guard it well!” Rebozo raised an admonitory finger. “Simple or not, those spells could cause a great deal of trouble if everyone were to know and use them. Let no one else open it! The first charm inside is one that will keep any but you from opening that cover-learn it at once, and use it often!”

“Lord Chancellor, I will.” Boncorro held the book close to his chest, almost hugging it, and looked up at Rebozo with shining eyes. “Thank you, oh, thank you deeply!” It was almost a shame, Rebozo thought, that the lad had been born to be a prince. He would have made a fine sorcerer-if he were led down the path… As Rebozo was leaving the next day, Garchi cleared his throat and said, “Understand the boys have been getting up to… to some mischief with the, ah, wenches. I’ll see to it that there’s no more of that sort of thing.”

“You’ll do nothing of the kind!” Rebozo turned to glare at him. “The lad must learn to be a man, Lord Garchi-in all ways!”

“Why, yes, Lord Chancellor,” Garchi muttered, staring in sur-prise, and found himself wondering if the lad might not be Rebozo’s own, after all. Boncorro learned a great deal in the next few years-learned from watching through knotholes, and from reading the book of spells. Some of them seemed anything but harmless, and he re-coiled naturally, but others he learned and practiced avidly. He stayed firmly away from any that invoked Satan, or worked magic by any other name-but that left a great many, and some of them afforded him views that surpassed anything he saw through a knothole. He began to be interested in that, after all. When Re-bozo brought him a thicker book, he was ready for more direct activity in both spheres. As the years went by, he became quit skilled-in all aspects of manhood. Just as Rebozo wanted. The king had lost heart. Oh, it wasn’t in anything he said or did-he kept on extorting taxes from the merchants and noble who respectively gouged their customers and robbed their serfs in order to pay. The king continued to encourage them, just as he kept the taxes low on the brothels and made sure the Watch imprisoned a pimp; he subsidized the gambling dens and kept the tax high on malt and fruit and juice, but low on beer and wine and taverns. In a word, he did all he had ever done to encourage corruption and wickedness and poverty-but he did not think of anything new. More than that-it wasn’t what he did, so much as how he did it. He never ranted and raved any more, even if a courtier disobeyed or sneered. He would bark out a rebuke, yes, and signal to a guardsman to beat the foolish rogue, but he seemed too weary to do anything more. He would snarl at a messenger who brought lid news and signal for the whip, but he never killed one outright with his own hands anymore, nor flew into a towering rage. He seemed to be only a shell of the villain he had once been, and didn’t even seem to listen to his chancellor any longer-he would only gaze into Prologue

space, nodding automatically as Rebozo spoke. He spent hour after hour alone in his chambers, gazing out the window sipping from a tankard. At first the tankard held brandywine, and he would be red-eyed and staggering at dinner-if Rebozo could talk him into coming to dinner. The chancellor was not too concerned, though he had to take more and more of the burden of running the kingdom upon his own shoulders. His only fear was that Maledicto would die before Boncorro came of age-or begin a campaign to ferret out the boy.

Indeed, when he was deep in his cups, the king would ramble on about having to see his grandson, finding out where the boy had fled. Rebozo would have to remind him that Boncorro was dead, had died hunting the day after his father’s death. But Maledicto waved him away irritably, as if he knew the truth, but did not particularly re-sent what the chancellor had done. The reason was clear when he was sober, for then he would drop occasional scathing remarks about what little monsters children were, especially ones who thought themselves royal, and how the world would be a better place if there were none of them-but in the evening, drunk and staggering, he would turn maudlin and querulous, wondering aloud if his grandson were well. Then he turned to white wine, though, and his drunkenness lessened. That concerned Rebozo, though not too much-he merely made sure there was always a measure or two of brandy-wine mixed with the white in the king’s jug.

But he nearly panicked when the king turned to a brew of herbs boiled in clear water. He was right to be alarmed, for as the king’s sobriety returned, so did his will-or, rather, his resolution. What he was resolved to do, though, he would not say, neither to Rebozo nor to anyone else. Finally, ten years after his son’s death, King Maledicto sent Rebozo on his annual tour of the provincial barons, watched him out of sight, then turned to his court with grim resolution. He summoned Sir Sticchi and Sir Tchalico, ordered them to be ready to ride the next day before dawn, then retired to his bed, where he lay a long time gazing at the canopy-and trembling. Cold or fear notwithstanding, the king arose in the darkness of predawn, dressed himself for a journey, buckled on breastplate and helm, and went out to meet his two knights. They mounted their chargers and rode out across the drawbridge in the eerie light of false dawn. They rode for several hours without a word, but the king seemed never to doubt where he was going. Sir Sticchi and Sir Tchalico exchanged puzzled glances now and then, but neither could enlighten the other at all. They came into a little village, scarcely more than a hamlet gathered around the ruins of a church, and the two knights moved together. “The king has heard of some priest who has gone into hiding,” Sir Sticchi said to his companion, sotto voice. “No doubt he has come only to apprehend the rogue.” But his face was taut and his voice quavered. “If it were only apprehending, why would he come himself?” Sir Tchalico sounded angry in his fear. “He could have sent us alone!”

“We, the only two of his knights who are secretly pious? Oh, do not look so scandalized, Tchalico-I heard it from court gossip; it is widely known, just as I’m sure you must have heard about me.”

“Well-I have,” Tchalico admitted. “I wondered, now and again, why the king let us live, let alone keep our rank.”

 

Prologue

“Why, because he had some such use as this in mind for us, no doubt! What shall we do now, Tchalico? He must have brought us here as a test! No doubt he means to torture the poor monk to death, and force us to watch!”

“When he knows we shall not stand idly by,” Sir Tchalico agreed, his face grim, “knows we shall leap to the priest’s defense-whereupon we shall be unmasked, and he shall slay us magical fire or some such torture.” He felt a sudden cold clarity thrill through him, and straightened in his saddle. “It has come, Sticchi-the hour of our martyrdom.” Fear showed in Sticchi’s eyes, cavernous fear-but it passed in a moment, and the fierce delight of battle burned in its place. “Then let us go to meet our deaths with joy, for tonight we’ll dine in Heaven!”

To Heaven let us sail,“ Sir Tchalico agreed, ”and here is our boatman, though it is doubtless the last thing he intends.“ They drew rein only a few feet behind the king, who had himself stopped in front of a hovel meaner than the rest, so ill-kempt one might think it was vacant, and tumbling with neglect. But the king sat straight and roared out, ”Friar! Monk and shave-pate! Come out to meet your king!“

Eyes watched from huts all about, and a few burly peasant men emerged, fear evident in every line of their bodies, but their faces grim and determined, their fists clenched, sickles and flails in their hands. But the king paid no heed; he only called out again, “Man of the cloth!

Man of the clergy! Come forth!”

Still the village sat in silence. The king took a deep breath to call again, but before he did, a peasant came out, one no cleaner than the rest, with a tunic just as patched and frayed as theirs, his hands just as callused from toil-but he wore a hat beneath the sun of June, where the rest of them did not. “Uncover before your king!” Maledicto roared. The peasant raised a trembling hand and took off his hat. The bald spot was too regular, too perfect a circle to be natural; it was a tonsure. Do you deny you are a priest?“ Maledicto demanded. Suddenly, the fear was gone, and the peasant straightened with pride. ”Nay, I will boast of it! I am a priest of the Church, and I serve God and my fellow man!“ Why did the evil king not wince at the holy Name? Why did he not raise his whip to strike, or draw his sword? And why was he kneeling in the dust before the peasant, hands clasped and head bowed, intoning, “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned!” The peasants stared, flabbergasted. “Turn away!” Sir Sticchi barked. “Have you never heard of the seal of the confessional?”

The peasants came to themselves with a start and turned away into their houses. In seconds the village seemed empty. The words came pouring forth from the king’s mouth, the tale and Prologue

toll of a century of sins; the priest barely had time to whip a worn, threadbare stole from his pocket and yank it around his neck. As he listened to the list of horrors, his face grew haggard and his shoulders slumped. In a few minutes he was kneeling beside the king; in a few more he had clasped the old man’s trembling hands and was listening, nodding, wide-eyed, in encouragement. “It would seem we are not to be martyred after all,” Sir Sticchi said, staring and numb. “Do not believe it for a second,” Sir Tchalico snapped. “I doubt not the Devil heard as soon as the king said ‘Bless me,’ and dispatched a demon before he’d said ‘sinned.’ Sell your life dearly, Brother Sticchi-for the king’s sake, and for the kingdom’s! We will pay with our lives, but we must buy him enough time to-” Flame erupted not ten yards from them. The priest cried out and shrank away, but King Maledicto held his hands with an iron grip and kept him near enough to hear as the sins poured out of him, so fast as to be scarcely intelligible. It was no demon, but a horrible, glittering serpentine thing that stood on a dozen clawed feet while four more pawed the air. A saddle was fastened between those upper legs, a saddle for a man in a flame-red robe, masked and hooded, nothing showing but his eyes. In his hand swung a battle-axe two feet across, far too big for any mortal man to swing. Sir Sticchi bellowed, “For God and Saint Mark!” and kicked his charger into a gallop. “For the Saints and the Lord!” Sir Tchalico echoed, and came charging after. They careened into the monstrosity before it could take two steps. It screamed and lashed out at them with steel-sharp claws; its rider bellowed rage in a voice that shook the village, and swung his sword. Sir Sticchi shouted in pain as the blade cut through his armor and into his shoulder, but he struck anyway, his sword thrusting into the monster’s chest. It screamed in agony and anger, blasting him with breath that blackened and pitted his helmet.

His horse screamed in fright, but the knight held it in place, hewing and hacking and madly singing a battle hymn.Sir Tchalico joined in, striking from the other side, and beast and rider alike howled in pain and rage. Sword and tooth and talon and struck again. Sir Sticchi fell, blood fountaining from a torn throat; his horse screamed and ran. Sir Tchalico howled in agonyas flame enveloped him; then he fell, and the monster stamped down, through his armor, through his chest, and the horse neighed in terror and wheeled to run. But the twisting sword cut it down, and the monster stepped over the bodies, reaching out for the king. “Ego te absolvo!” the priest cried an instant before a huge battle-axe flashed before his face, and the king’s head fell to the ground. A second later, the priest’s head rolled beside it in the dust. The monster screamed in terrible pain, and its rider howled in frustration-for the king was dead, as was the priest who had shriven him, but three souls had gone to Heaven, and one to Purgatory instead of Hell. Satan was cheated, and his minion suffered far more than the victims had. Fire exploded around them, and monster and rider were gone-but the peasants did not come out for the bodies until the smell of brimstone had faded away. No good to see you again, Lord Chancellor!“ Garchi raised a hand to pound the chancellor on the back, then remembered and withdrew the slap. ”Your lad does well, very well indeed.“

“You have followed my instructions, then?”

“We have-but alas, it did no good,” Garchi said with a sigh. “Oh, the lad can wench and swill Prologue

with the best of them-but he doesn’t. Not all that often, at least. He’ll only bed one wench a night, and not even every night, at that. I’ve never heard one of them complain of his treatment, though.”

Rebozo thought that he might be more reassured if the women had complained-but he had enough tact not to say so. “I regret to hear it; a boy his age ought to enjoy the leisure to play while he can. Should have, I should say-I fear that time is at an end.”

“Oh?” Garchi looked up, alert, but neither sad nor glad. “You’re taking him from us, then?”

“I fear so-he must begin his work in this world. Send him to me, Lord Garchi.”

“When he’s done with… the matter at hand, of course.”

“Of course.”

Garchi didn’t mention that the task at hand was a book in Latin, about the lives of the old emperors. He wasn’t sure Rebozo would be happy about it. Consequently, Rebozo was rather surprised when the servant announced Sir Boncorro only fifteen minutes later. Rebozo did not have to rise, since he was still pacing. The prince came in right behind. “Your pardon for not dressing more elaborately, Lord Chancellor, but I did not wish to keep you waiting… What means this?”

The chancellor had sunk to one knee, bowing his head. “Long live the king!” For a minute Boncorro stood frozen, as the meaning of the salutation sank in and he adjusted his mind to it. He seemed to stand a little taller, even straighter than he had. “So it has happened. The Devil has tired of my grandfather, has withdrawn the sorcery that kept him alive, and the king is dead.”

“Long live the king,” Rebozo returned. Boncorro stood still a moment longer, to let the shock and numbness pass-and then came the first fierce elation of triumph. Grandfather was dead, and Boncorro was still alive! Then he stepped forward to clasp Rebozo by the shoulders and lift him to his feet. “You must not kneel to me, old friend. You have ever been my companion in adversity, my shield in danger. You shall always stand in my presence, and may sit when I sit.”

“I-I thank your Majesty for this high privilege,” Rebozo stammered. “You have earned it,” Boncorro said simply. The chancellor stood a moment, looking at him. Prince Boncorro had grown into a fine figure of a man-six feet tall, with broad, muscular shoulders and arms, legs that showed as pillars in his tights, but shapely pillars indeed, and a very handsome face, with straight nose, generous mouth, and large blue eyes, beneath a cap of golden hair. It was a face Prologue

that seemed deceptively frank and open, but Rebozo knew that appearance was mostly illusion. He also knew that of the women who came to Boncorro’s bed, few came reluctantly.

“You do not mourn, your Majesty?”

Boncorro permitted himself a smile of amusement. “I shall appear properly grief-stricken in public, Lord Chancellor-but you know better than any man that I rejoice at my grandfather’s death. I feared him and hated him as much as I admired and loved my father-and I have no doubt it was he who gave the order to kill saintly son. Indeed, I charge you with the task of finding the man who struck the blow.”

Rebozo stared. “But-But-it was the groom! The man who found the body!” Boncorro waved the idea away impatiently. “He discovered the hat is all. There is no reason to believe he thrust the knife himself.”

“He confessed!”

“Under torture. All his confession means is that he wanted the pain to stop.” Rebozo felt a cold chill enwrap him; the prince-no, king, was showing wisdom far beyond his years. “Then who could have done it?”

“Who gained by it?” King Boncorro fixed the chancellor with a piercing gaze. “Only me-and Hell. I know that I did not slay him.Now how did my grandfather die?”

“Why-beside two knights, his only guards; they were dead, too. And a peasant…”

“How was he slain? With what weapon?”

“His… his head was… he was beheaded, Majesty.”

“Beheaded?”Boncorro frowned.“Were there any other wounds?” Definitely, he saw too much for a youth of twenty. “There was a dagger-in his back, between the shoulder blades.”

Boncorro’s face lit with keen delight. “Describe the dagger!”

“It… it was-” Chancellor Rebozo paused to picture the dagger in his mind. “-double-edged, the blade sloping straight to the point on both sides… an oval for a hilt… The handle…” Prologue

“Say it, man!”

“I cannot!” Rebozo looked away. “It was sculpted, it was…obscene… evil.”

“Like the dagger that slew my father!”

“Very like it,” Rebozo said unwillingly. “A twin.”

“Then the same man did it, or two assassins who served the same lord! Find me the murderer of my grandfather, Rebozo, and I doubt not you shall find me also the murderer of my father!” The chancellor stared. “Then-you still wish me to serve you, your Majesty?”

“Of course. You saved my life when my father died, you served my grandfather from fear rather than desire, and you have always been gentle and kind to me. I can think of no man more capable, nor one I would more readily trust and wish to have by me. Now make ready for us to go to the capital.”

“Surely, Majesty,” the chancellor said, and turned away, a gleam of satisfaction in his eyes. A local bandit was tortured until he confessed to the murder of the king and his knights.

Unfortunately, Baron Garchi and his sons were overly zealous, killing the outlaw and his whole band on the spot. None of them owned a dagger with an obscene and horrifying hilt.

None of them rode a flame-skinned monster, or carried a battle-axe of any size; they were all archers and swordsmen. But Rebozo was satisfied and reported his results to the king. The king was not convinced. At least Boncorro didn’t start making changes the instant he arrived at the royal castle. He waited until after his coronation-three weeks. That also gave him time to recruit his own bodyguards, and to lay protective spells against them. He also laid protective spells against everyone else, throughout the castle and all around it. They sent Rebozo into constant nervous agitation-wherever he went, the blasted things sent his blood tingling! It was unnerving to know that the king didn’t really trust him-though the chancellor had to admit that Boncorro seemed to trust him more than anyone else. It was even more unnerving to Rebozo to know that the king had learned so much magic-so much that he didn’t really need the protection of his chancellor’s sorcery. That made Rebozo more nervous than anything else-not being needed. He felt as if he stood on sand, and the sands were constantly shifting beneath him. They shifted even more because the young king spent an hour a day in the library, locking the door securely to make sure he would not be disturbed.

There were a few old Greek and Roman manuscripts in there, but most of the shelves were filled with books of sorcery. The spells he actually used, though, were scarcely sorcerous at all, such as the ward that held the library doors constantly locked against even Rebozo’s magic when the king was not there. Where had he learned such power? Some of his spells were actually based on Goodness, and gave Rebozo a real shock when he encountered them, a shock that had after-effects of nausea and palpitations that went on for hours. At least the Prologue

chancellor consoled himself, none of them invoked the power of the Saints or their Master.

But that was cold comfort indeed. Where had the son of a sorcerer learned such magic? Surely not in Baron Garchi’s castle-though the country lord was far from the most sinister in the kingdom, too easygoing to be truly evil in any way, he was nonetheless fond of his pleasures, and most of them rather wicked; some were definitely corrupt. He had done his best to raise the boy in debauchery, even as he had raised his own sons-and now look what had happened!

Had there been some secret priest among the baron’s servants? Some copy of some holy book that the prince had found? Rebozo resolved to give Garchi and his castle a thorough housecleaning-as soon as King Boncorro allowed him time enough. If ever. The demands were almost constant, first redecorating the castle to Boocorro’s taste, then supervising the strengthening of the defenses of the town and the castle, as well as preparing for the coronation. It was while he was wrapped up in all of this that the king had laid his network of spells in and around the castle, giving Rebozo such a rude shock when he discovered them.

He thought he would have some respite after the coronation was over, then Boncorro called him in the very next morning, not long after dawn-and the chancellor was dismayed to see that the young king had obviously been awake for at least an hour already! He sat at a table in his solar, surrounded by books and papers. He looked up as the chancellor entered, and his face lit with a smile. “Ah! Rebozo, old friend!” He stood and came around the desk to clasp the chancellor by the shoulders. “And how are you this morning?”

“Quite well, thank you, your Majesty.” Rebozo reflected sourly that he had felt better before having to confront the young king’s energy and enthusiasm. “Good, good! Then to work, eh?” Boncorro swung around behind the table and sat again. “We must begin new ways today, Rebozo!”

“New ways?” Rebozo felt a chill of apprehension. “What innovations have you planned, your Majesty?”

Boncorro looked down at his papers. “There is a law that any priests who are discovered are to be executed on the spot.”

“Surely your Majesty will not repeal that law!”

“No-but I wish to see that it is no longer enforced.” Boncorro looked up at him. “It is too easy for someone with a grudge against his rival to slay him out of hand, then claim he was a secret priest. Issue commands that no priests are to be slain, or even arrested.”

“But your Majesty! That will mean that people will start flocking to Ma-their M-M-M-”

“To Mass,” Boncorro finished for him. “It would seem I am not so far gone in sorcery as you yourself, Rebozo, for I can still say the word. Yes, people will go to the priests-but only those who wish to. If Grandfather did nothing else, he did at least free the common folk from fear of Prologue

religion and the tyranny of the clergy-only those who truly believe, or wish to, will go.”

“Satan will scourge the Earth of you!”

“No, he will not,” Boncorro contradicted, “for I am scarcely a saint, Rebozo, and I am not abolishing the law that prohibits the priests, or their services. There is still room for the Devil to think I can be swayed to his service-and more grounds for that than I like to admit.”

“More grounds indeed,” Rebozo said heavily. “You are a young man Majesty, with a young man’s appetites, and a young king’s lust for power.”

“As I am even now showing,” Boncorro agreed “But I am not turning this country toward the powers of Heaven, Lord Chancellor-only toward my own.” And Rebozo realized that this was true. Somewhat reassured that his young king was not really trying to do good, but only to tighten his hold over his kingdom in a way his grandfather never had, the chancellor went out to give the necessary orders. The king said,

“Send word to ail the noblemen that the taxes are being reduced to half of their income.” Rebozo stared. “To half?”“Half.” The king turned a sheet of foolscap around so that Rebozo could read it. “I have cast up accounts and found that we can easily maintain this great castle, all our army, and all our servants on half. Indeed, there will remain a substantial sum to squirrel away in the treasury.” He sat back with a sigh, shaking his head. “It is quite empty. I was horrified to discover how Grandfather had spent it all.” Rebozo was horrified to discover that Boncorro did not approve of the old king’s extravagances and pleasures. “Majesty, it is those luxuries and affairs of state that held the barons’ loyalty!”

“Stuff and nonsense,” said the young king. “It was fear of the royal army and the king’s magic that held them in line, naught else-a royal army that will do quite well without a florin’s worth of ale for each man, for each day. They will fight all the better for being sober.”

“But these are merchants’ tricks!” Rebozo cried. “Where did you learn such lowly notions?”

“From the traders in the fairs, while my foster brothers were learning how to be fleeced by tricksters,” Boncorro replied. “I will not disdain any knowledge, if it is sound and will help me to hold my kingdom.”

“But magic, your Majesty! Sorcery! Virgins cost dearly, and animals for slaughter, and dead bodies! There must he money for my sorcery!”

 

Prologue

My magic is far less expensive,“ King Boncorro assured him, but nevertheless effective for all that. Indeed, I look forward to the first baron who seeks to rebel.” His eyes glinted with anticipation. “Once I have settled with him, no others will dare.” Rebozo stared into the guileless blue eyes and felt his blood run cold. “Tell the barons their taxes are lowered,” Boncorro said softly. “That much of my message they will be glad to hear.” Rebozo recovered. “Majesty-is it not enough to tell only the dukes? Cannot they send word to their barons, as they always have?”

“They would not; they would continue to draw every groat of the old tax from their vassals, aye, even if it took thumbscrews to draw it I wish to make sure that every lord knows of this news, every knight, every squire-for I also wish you to see to it that their own tax on their serfs is cut by at least a third!”

Rebozo stared, aghast. “Now they will rebel,” he whispered. Boncorro grinned like a wolf. “I await it with eagerness.”

“But Majesty-why?”

“So that I can teach them that I am no less formidable than my grandfather, Rebozo, and my magic no weaker, though nowhere so twisted.”

That, Rebozo doubted-and he had no wish to see the prince he had formed and nurtured drowned under a wave of greedy barons. “Majesty, in this world, you cannot balance yourself between the Deity and the Devil. You must choose one or the other, for every single action is either Good or Evil.”

“Then I shall choose neither, but another source of power altogether.”

“Your Majesty,” Rebozo cried, exasperated, “you cannot! In another world, perhaps, but not in this one! And this is all the world you will ever know! Every single action in this world sends you either one step closer to Hell, or one step closer to Heaven! Every thought you cherish, every breath you draw!”

“Then I shall play one off against the other,” King Boncorro told him, “as good statesmen have ever done with powers that they cannot conquer. Go send my word to the dukes, Chancellor-and to the earls, and the barons.”

Rebozo knew a royal command when he heard one, especially since the young king had addressed him by his title, not his name. He bowed, resigning himself to the worst. “As your Majesty wills. Am I dismissed, or is there more you would tell me?” Prologue

“Oh, I think that is quite enough for one morning,” Boncorro said, smiling. “Go do your work, Chancellor, while I think up more troubles for you.” Rebozo wished he could be sure the young man was joking.

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!” Prologue

“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 Prologue

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 LordWizard 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!”

 

Prologue

“That’s nonsense!” Matt grabbed a turnip, muttering, “Here’s old Penny, coming to town, With a whole load of veggies, Not one of them sound! But the rot shall be gone As each tuber I touch, And the healing shall run Through each leaf and each bunch! Hard times in the country, As we for pennies farm!”

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 Prologue

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.” Prologue

“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.”

“Whynot?”Mattreflectedthatdiscontentwasvery 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?” Prologue

“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?” Prologue

“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 Prologue

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 inordinateamount 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 Prologue

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.”

 

Prologue

“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.

Chapter 2

The lords and ladies of King Boncorro’s court laughed, clinked glasses, drank, and laughed some more. Here and there a man slipped a hand beneath the long table to stroke a lady’s thigh there and here the lady returned the gesture. Some were bolder and more open, kissing and caressing above the board, where all could see; in fact, there was as much fondling as conversation. The only rule seemed to be that the interplay had to be with someone else’s spouse, but even this was not always followed to the letter. The married couples who kissed, though, did shock their neighbors. A Puritan would have said that the surroundings encouraged such behavior, for King Boncorro’s great hall was hung with tapestries depicting Prologue

scenes from the newly rediscovered classics ferreted out of moldering libraries by lapsed clerics. Here Venus cuddled within the circle of Adonis’ arm; there she reached out to Mars while Vulcan stood by, fuming. Danae stood in her shower of gold; Europa rode off on the back of the white bull; Cupid gazed down at Psyche, asleep in the posture of a wanton. All of them, true to the spirit of the Classical statues that had been unearthed, were completely nude. King Boncorro, though, seemed to be quite pleased with the overall effect. He leaned back in his chair at the high table, gazing at his court over the rim of his goblet with a feeling of satisfaction as he watched the high spirits below him. “It is good to watch my courtiers enjoy themselves, Rebozo.”

“Yes, your Majesty-especially since their dallying here means they are not plotting rebellion on their estates in the provinces.” The chancellor looked up at his king with a cracked smile

“Your tapestries are very well-chosen toward the encouragement of such. ”I know,“ Boncorro sighed. ”I had meant them to be an inducement to education and culture. It seems I still overestimate human nature.“

“Perhaps, though, they would be a bit more effective if your Roman gods and goddesses were being a bit more forthright in their play,” the chancellor suggested, “or if your tapestries showed them in all the various stages of the game.”

“No, I wish them to inspire my courtiers with the urge to cultivate their aesthetic senses,” the king replied. “I will have the tapestries show nothing obscene-my lords and ladies do well enough at that as it is.”

“Wherefore?” Rebozo spread his hands. “I had thought your Majesty’s aim was to have them occupy their time with pleasure, to keep them from objecting to your plans for government.” King Boncorro looked up at the chancellor with pleased surprise. “You delight me with your insight-or am I so transparent as that?”

“Only to me, and I am used to the ways of intrigue,” Rebozo assured him. “But why seek to stimulate their appreciation of the arts, Majesty? Why not merely encourage them to wallow in the pleasures of the flesh, as your grandfather did?”

“Because those pleasures pall, Rebozo,” the king told him. “The proof of it is the increasing decadence of my grandfather’s amusements, as he strove harder and harder to pique his interest in the flesh. His courtiers, too, found that sexual pleasure required greater and greater excesses to stimulate them, when it was pleasure of the flesh alone.” The words sent a thrill of alarm through Rebozo-new ways, always new ways!-so he tried to make light of it. “Greater excesses, and greater expenditures to buy living bodies for them to degrade and torture.”

 

Prologue

“ ‘Living bodies,’

yes-not ‘people,’ “ Boncorro said with irony. ”Well, there is some truth to your claim, Rebozo-my courtiers are far less expensive than grandfather’s depraved coterie. My lords and ladies provide one another’s amusement and pleasure. Still, the cost of these nightly revels is substantial.“

“What cost? The tapestries, which you bought once, and once only, whereas your grandfather had need to procure new toys every week, sometimes every night? The acrobats and jesters, the musicians who fill this room with lush strains and a sensuous rhythm? They are serfs, and glad indeed to have such light work, with better lodging and food than ever they might have had in their villages! The nightly banquets and the barrels of wine, all provided by your own farms and vineyards? The occasional troupe of strolling players, who are glad of a few ducats for a week’s work? These cost only a fraction of your grandfather’s expenditures on performers of decadent amusements and providers of perverse pleasures.” The king smiled. “Come, Rebozo! The cost is still considerable.”

“Aye, but it yields a handsome profit, though it will never show on the ledgers you so assiduously scrutinize‘”

King Boncorro laughed aloud, and the nearer aristocrats looked up alert for a joke they should share. He only smiled indulgently and waved his cup at them. They raised their own in salute, then went back to their badinage. “That must be half the reason I keep you by me, good Chancellor,” Boncorro said, “to have one about who can appreciate my scheming.”

“Your genius, you mean.” Rebozo’s smile fairly glowed with pride. “I rejoice that my risk in preserving your Majesty’s life was so richly merited. But tell me-” A shadow of concern crossed his face.-why do you not join in your courtiers’ games? Why do you hold yourself aloof, and not disport yourself among them? You, too, must have your lighter moments, Majesty!“

“I must, and you know that as you suggested, I maintain a dozen beautiful serving maids who have no work but to wait upon me in my private chambers,” Boncorro answered. “As to the behavior of my aristocrats, I do not think it politic to impose my own morality on them-or my lack of morality; I have no objection to fornication, though I do not share their delight in adultery ”

“Do you not?” The old chancellor cackled “I think you long for it as much as any man, your Majesty! I have seen the way you look at Lord Amerhe’s daughter!” Prologue

“Yes, and so has the rest of the court.” Boncorro glanced at the lady in question and felt the fire of lust blaze as he let his glance linger on her flawless cheek, her full ruby lips, her swelling bosom more displayed than covered by the cut of her neckline. For a few minutes he devoured her with his eyes, enjoying the surge of desire she wakened in him-then he forced his eyes to took elsewhere. “The new Contessa of Corvo, you mean? Ah Rebozo! You know I must not gratify my senses with such as her, no matter how I long to!” Even as he spoke, Sir Pestilline, seated next to the countess reached past her for a tidbit from a platter on her other side; as he was bringing it back, it “happened” to drop into her cleavage.

The lady squealed, clapping a hand to her décolletage, while the gentleman laughed, leaning forward, reaching-and the lady shrank away, giggling, her hand slipping lower… A hand clamped down on the man’s shoulder and wrenched him about. He stared up in surprise-at the Conte of Corvo. With a single motion, the count loosed his hold and slapped the offender’s cheek. Sir Pestilline’s head rocked; then he was on his feet catching his dagger from the table. Corvo sneered and stepped back, drawing his sword. The ladies screamed, the men shouted, benches turned over as all sprang up and away. In seconds a circle had opened around the two men, even as the count lunged at Sir Pestilhne. The knight jumped aside, dagger flicking out to parry the count’s lunge as he drew his own sword-but too slowly, for Corvo riposted, then shouted in anger as he lunged again. And again Pestilline dodged, but too slowly; Corvo’s blade slit his doublet and came away with its edge reddened. Pestilline howled in anger and leaped in, thrusting and parrying in earnest now. Corvo gave back as good as he got, and there wasn’t even the slightest sign of mercy in either of their faces.

“Enough!” Boncorro cried, but the two hotheads could not hear him over the clash and clang of their swords. The king’s mouth tightened in disgust, and he waved to his guards, who plowed through the throng, halberds at the ready. But they were taking too long; one man might be dead before they came. Boncorro rolled his hands about one another, then pantomimed throwing as he rapped out an arresting verse in an archaic language. A loud report shook the great hall, and smoke billowed up between the two fighters. Ladies screamed and clung to their men; the two fighters leaped back, covering their mouths and noses, already coughing. Then the guardsmen were there; the king flung his hands up and out, and the smoke disappeared, leaving not a trace or a teary eye behind. Corvo and Sir Pestilline looked up, startled, to find crossed halberds separating them. “Not within my great hall, lord and knight!” King Boncorro called. “My lords of L’Augustine and Benicci! Act for these two while they cool their heels outside my door! Conte Corvo! Sir Pestilline! Leave this hall at once! Do not return until you have settled your differences and can sit at the same table without seeking to murder one another!”

The two men turned to face him, drawing themselves up and sheathing their weapons. They bowed, then turned and marched out. The guardsmen opened the door before them and shut it after. L’Augustine and Benicci stepped forward to confer with one another as the courtiers turned to take their seats again with a buzz of avid conversation, everyone comparing notes on the incident. Even the young countess, the cause of the fracas, sat down and joined in the talk with a merry glint in her eye.1 “They shall duel at sunrise tomorrow, I doubt not,” the Prologue

chancellor said, just as hungrily as any of the others. “I do not doubt it,” the king said, “and the outcome is forgone, unless Pestilline has some noteworthy surprise in store, for Corvo is the best swordsman among the young bloods, and has slain two in duels already.”

“And wounded four more. But he has not contended against your Majesty, and I believe you are more skilled with the blade than any of them.”

“That may be true,” Boncorro said frankly, “but I shall have no chance to put it to the test-for kings do not duel with swords.”

“Noblemen do not challenge kings,” Rebozo returned. “Is this not reason enough for you to do as you please?”1 “No, Rebozo, for though noblemen may not challenge kings, they may rise up against them,” Boncorro said.| “Surely no lord would dare!”

“No one lord, perhaps,” the king agreed, “but they might very well band together in twos or threes or tens, if all felt they had grievances against me that could not be answered in open court-grievances such as the seduction of a wife or daughter, or even of a sister or true love.

Then would I have a civil war on my hands and watch my plans come to naught as battles ravaged the countryside and destroyed the prosperity that I labor so hard to achieve. That is why I must not seek the favors of this luscious young countess, or of any other woman of station.”

“Surely a knight’s leman would be fair game for you, Majesty, for no knight could stand against the might of a king!”

“No, but his lord might… What?”

A servant had come up behind his chair and murmured in his ear. The king nodded, satisfied, and the man bowed and went away. “When and where?” asked the chancellor. “Tomorrow at dawn,” said Boncorro, “in the Summer Park, by the Royal Pavilion.”

“More entertainment for your court,” Rebozo mused. “How considerate of these two young men!”

“Yes, and if I have learned of their duel, it will not be long before word has spread to every man in this room, and not much longer before it has been heard by every woman. There are trees and hedges in plenty about the pavilion, and I doubt not each one will be hiding its dozen of secret witnesses tomorrow morning.”

“Every man of your court,” the chancellor agreed. “Well, two out of three, at least-the third will be still dead I drunk, or too lazy to rise. There will be quite a few of the ladies, too, I doubt not-the Contessa of Corvo first among them, though she will pretend she is incognito in Prologue

her cloak and mask. Entertainment indeed, Rebozo-and those who do not watch in person will listen avidly to the reports. It will keep my court busy for another tedious day, and preserve them from mischief for three more as they review the details of the duel and the merits of the argument.”

“Sound policy, your Majesty,” Rebozo agreed. “It is,” the king mused, “so long as I do not become embroiled in such disputes myself. No, Rebozo-I must forbear the tour, and content myself with the view.”

“Yes, I see.” Rebozo shook his head sadly. “If a dalliance with a highborn lady did not lead to a battle with her father, it would be sure to bring a confrontation with her husband-or even with an alliance of noblemen who considered their honor impugned. Yes, Majesty, you are wise, though it must cost you dearly.”

Boncorro nodded. “No matter the number of aristocratic beauties who parade their charms before me, wearing their décolletages aslowasconventionandnaturalphilosophy permit-I must not touch them.”

“Poor lad,” Rebozo sighed. “Still, though you may not touch, you may look.” Boncorro did, his eye gleaming as his gaze caressed the beauties of his court. “There is no harm in that, and no cause for offense, if I do not let my enjoyment show too keenly.”

“But the desire it raises, Majesty,” Rebozo murmured, “surely that must be released.”

“That is the task of my luscious serving girls, Rebozo. If my foster brothers taught me nothing else, they taught me that.” They had taught him quite a bit more, Rebozo knew-but as far as he was concerned, not enough, or not deeply enough. He felt a moment’s burning anger at the country lord and his boys. Because of them, Boncorro would waste his youth on good governance! Boncorro did not notice, but went on explaining. “Later, my doxies will satisfy the lust my ladies raise now. For the moment, though, the illusion that one of the young ladies might inflame me to the point of granting favors to her husband, if she has one, or even of proposing marriage, if she has not-such hope will keep my courtiers dancing attendance upon me, vying for my favor and thereby falling even further under my sway.” It is one of the reasons why he was resolved never to marry, though he would not let even Rebozo know that. The chancellor shook his head sadly. “A misspent youth, your Majesty! A lad your age should be riding to the hounds and rolling in the hay, not sealing himself away with parchment and ink until the blood in his veins has run dry!”

“Oh, I find exercise enough, I assure you,” Boncorro said, eyeing a young countess fresh from the country and thinking of the newest of his personal maids. “Beyond that, I find delight Prologue

enough in witnessing the pleasures of my courtiers.” He nodded to himself as he glanced about the great hall. It was no mere extravagance to maintain a lavish court, but a political necessity. “Yet I must find some other game to occupy their attention when their delight in the pleasures of the body slackens, so that they may vie with one another for some goal other than the bed of the most beautiful, or the attentions of the most dashing, so that they will not turn to intrigue out of sheer boredom.”

“Your grandfather’s courtiers were scarcely bored, Majesty,” Rebozo grunted, but without much conviction, for he knew it was a lie-and worse, knew that the young king knew it, too.

Boncorro held his cup out, and a servant refilled it. He traced the sign of skull and bones over it as he murmured a verse, then lifted the cup to his lips…The dark wine turned bright red-the red of blood. King Boncorro dashed the wine to the floor with a curse. The courtiers fell silent, staring at him, wide-eyed. “Majesty!” Trusty old Rebozo was by his side, hovering over him, anxious, solicitous. “Majesty, what was that foul brew?”

“Poisoned wine, of course!” Boncorro snapped, seething more with contempt than with anger.

“Have you not found the assassin who set that gargoyle to fall on me, Rebozo?”

“Yes, Majesty, and he confessed. He died in agony!”

“He confessed under torture, you dolt!… No, I wrong you.” The king throttled back his exasperation at the attentive old man, and his desire to throttle him, too. “But I have told you a hundred times that a confession under torture proves nothing! Now it is clear that the man was guiltless or, at the worst, only one of many-for the true assassin has struck again!”

“My apologies, Majesty!” Rebozo had turned ashen. “My most . abject apologies! I would never have thought-”

“You should have,” Boncorro snapped, “since this is the twelfth attempt in five years!” He reined in his temper again and forced his voice to be more gentle. “Though perhaps I wrong you-this one was far more clumsy than its predecessors. Poison in the wine, indeed! The work of a rank amateur, if ever I saw it! Any churl could slip poison in the wine-and I want the bottler and his servers all questioned, to discover who did it! Questioned, mind you, with no more torture than suffices for each to give you a name, not a confession!”

“Majesty,” Rebozo protested, “that entails scarcely more than a beating-and how can you be sure of an answer gained with so little pain?”

“By comparing it to the other answers, of course! Those given by the other servants! I tell you again, Rebozo, that an answer given to stop pain proves only that the subject will say anything he thinks you wish him to! And as often as not, that will be a lie! Though I do not Prologue

think this would-be murderer will prove to be the same one who has striven to slay me these five years past.”

Rebozo stared. “How… how does your Majesty see that?”

“Because the other attempts required evil magic of a very difficult kind. To make a block of stone fall, when none were near it, and that at the exact moment I was passing beneath it?

‘Twas only my own warding spell that made me hesitate in midstep, to see that block of granite smash the paving in front of me! And the gargoyle who came alive, the cat with teeth like scimitars, the sword that leaped from the scabbard even as I buckled it on-these all required a lifetime’s knowledge of magic, or a pact with the Devil such as only a man of great importance could achieve!”

His gaze strayed; his voice sank. “A man such as my grandfather, King Maledicto, reaching out from beyond the grave…”

“Come, Majesty!” the chancellor scoffed. “If the Devil was so displeased with your grandfather as to withdraw protection, why would he now give him power to reach out from Hell?”

“Why, because his disappointment with the grandson has become even greater than the lapses of the grandsire!” Boncorro snapped at him, then looked away again. “But I shall not yield! I shall not become what that wicked old man was-a murderer, a child slayer-”

“What a notion!” Rebozo cried. “You who have no children, to worry about slaying them!

Come, Majesty, bolster your spirits! We shall find and defeat this sorcerer yet!” King Boncorro lifted a brooding gaze to him. “See that you do, Lord Chancellor, see that you do! Begin with the servants, all of them-but not with torture, mind you! Take each into a separate chamber and question him or her closely, then compare their answers and see if there is any agreement! If there is, bring word of it to me before you take any action-simple consensus is no proof of truth! It could just as easily be a sign that one person is disliked by all, and since so many of them are left from my grandfather’s court, dislike of one could mean that only he can be relied upon!”

“Majesty, it shall be done as you say.” The chancellor bowed. “May I congratulate you on your courage in having the determination to persevere in your reforms in the face of such concerted effort by the power of Evil to destroy you.” Boncorro waved the compliment away. “There is little danger in it, Chancellor. The powers of Evil have little cause to be displeased with me, for whatever my purpose, it is certainly not the doing of good for its own sake. I attempt to gain power and riches, that is all.” Prologue

“Aye-by making the whole country more rich.”

“My wealth comes from the people, one way or another, Lord Chancellor. I saw that as I watched serfs plow and reap. If I would have greater riches, I must first inspire the people to produce greater wealth from which I may draw.”

“Yes, you have explained that many times.” Rebozo sighed. “That, however, does not explain your determination to see justice done, and to protect the innocent from punishment or abuse.”

“Does it not? People will work harder when they feel they are safe, Chancellor, and can bend their minds to their tasks without the constant worry that the sword will fall on their necks, or their goods be plundered at a lord’s whim. When they know they will keep a fair share of that which they grow, the farmers will work harder to grow more-and when serfs can be sure which efforts will not bring punishment, they will put more sweat into those that will be rewarded.”

“Yes, you have explained that time and again,” Rebozo said, “and that greater assurance of safety and greater wealth should lead people to use their newfound gains to buy pleasure.”

“Why, so they do.” Boncorro waved at his court. “Even here you can see it-they are better dressed than ever before, and come flocking to my castle to seek pleasure, the young most of all! For each of those you see here, Rebozo, there are a thousand serfs who are drinking more ale and buying the favors of wantons. Vice flourishes, so the Devil should be not only appeased, but even pleased.”

“Then why should the same Devil give a sorcerer power against you?” Boncorro shrugged. “The greater the worry and fear, the happier the Devil. Look for an extremist in sorcery, Rebozo-one who believes that any human happiness is wrong if it is not wrung from the pain and suffering of others. There shall we find my would-be killer.”

“Majesty,” said the chancellor, “I will.”

“Then do.” The king waved him away. “Be about your task, Rebozo-but remember, no torture! Well, not much,” he amended. “Only a little, Majesty,” the chancellor agreed, “never fear-which, unfortunately, is what the servants and bottler and cooks shall say, no doubt. Still, I shall strive.” He bowed and turned away. Boncorro watched the old man leave the great hall, and frowned, still brooding, till he was out of sight. Then, with an effort of will, he threw off the mood, tested a whole pitcher of wine, then filled his own goblet and drank deeply. A duke’s daughter came by below the table, fluttering her eyelashes at him. Boncorro laughed Prologue

and sprang down off the dais, crying, “Fiddlers! A dance tune! We shall caper before we taste the next course!”

The fiddlers struck up a gay, lively tune, and Boncorro began to dance with the beautiful young lady, devouring her charms with his eyes. She blushed demurely, lowering her gaze, but glancing up at him through long lashes. All about them courtiers left their meat and came to dance, quick to ape their king, quick to join in the attempt to cheer him, ever quick to curry favor. Rebozo slammed into his private exchequer, muttering darkly under his breath.

LoClercchi, his secretary, looked up in surprise. “Good evening, Lord Chancellor.”

“Not when some amateurish idiot seeks to poison our king,” Rebozo snapped, “who commands me to find the culprit without delay.”

“Ah.” The secretary nodded in sympathy. “Not a good evening, indeed. I fear I must make it worse.”

“Worse?” Rebozo swung about, glaring. “How is this?”

“A message.” The secretary held up a scrap of parchment. “A carrier pigeon landed in the dovecote, just as the sun set.”

“News from a spy?” Rebozo snatched the message and sat down to puzzle out the tiny letters.

At last he threw it down on the desk. “Oh, a pox upon it! Your eyes are far younger than mine, LoClercchi-what does it say?”

The secretary took the tiny parchment, but did not look at it, so Rebozo knew that he had already read it. “It is from your peasant spy on the estates of the Duke of Riterra, my lord. He writes from a market in Merovence-though not very far into Merovence. ”Far enough!“ Rebozo’s eyes kindled. ”What does he find that is worthy of report?“

“He writes that a wizard is nosing about the market,” the secretary said, “eavesdropping on conversations, and particularly interested in those who tout the virtues of Latruria. Our spy tested the man and thinks he may be the Lord Wizard himself.” Rebozo rubbed his hands, nodding vigorously. “I had thought he must take notice of the remaking our young king is doing!”

“Especially since our folk have been boasting and bragging of it whenever they cross the border,” LoClercchi said with irony. “It is marvelous to have agents who work for free, my lord, and without even realizing they do our work. I do not know how you managed it.”

“Bosh! You know well enough that I sent one man about the border farms,gloating on the Prologue

bragging hewould do in Merovence, on the next fair day! Does our peasant informer say what manner of test he gave the wizard?”

“No, my lord, there was no room on so small a parchment-and, frankly, I do not think he could write quickly enough. His letters are horribly clumsy, and his spelling atrocious.”

“Still, it was worth the cost of a teacher, to gain this report! Well, we shall have to wait till the man comes home, for his reeve to question him more closely. If it is her Majesty’s wizard, though, we shall not have long to wait till he seeks to cross the border and stop the unrest at its source!”

The secretary looked up in alarm. “He could set all of King Boncorro’s plan awry, my lord, and your own as well!”

The chancellor waved a hand to dismiss the notion. “The king’s plans are my plans, LoClercchi, no matter how I may caution him and plead the course of prudence.”

“And your plans are his?” the secretary asked, amused. But Rebozo shook his head. “I cannot claim that, for I would not of myself depart so quickly from the old king’s ways. Indeed, I tremble for my young master, and hope that the Devil will not too quickly become so angry as to destroy him.”

“And us with him.” LoClercchi’s voice trembled. “Let us hope our young king keeps his balance on the tightrope he has stretched for himself.”

“Fences have their purposes,” Rebozo agreed, “but serving as pathways was never one of them. Still, we have no choice but to resign or to follow him-and I am too old to seek new work, and too deeply steeped in sin to wish to reform.” He looked up at his secretary. “You, however, are still young, LoClercchi. If you wish to go, you may.” LoClercchi stared at his employer, silently weighing the relative merits of a virtuous life of uncertain income and modest means, with the certainty of wealth and privilege that came from serving the chancellor. His decision was almost instantaneous, for he had fought the long battle against this temptation years before, and periodically since. Like many young men, he decided there would be time enough to work on salvation later-after he had made his fortune. “I am loyal to you, my lord.”

Rebozo nodded, satisfied. “Good, good. Let us deal, then, with the problem of this Lord Wizard.”

“Perhaps he shall not become a problem,” LoClercchi said hopefully. “Perhaps he shall stay on his own side of the border.”

 

Prologue

“Perhaps, LoClercchi, but also perhaps not. Certainly he is nothing to worry about-yet. But I prefer to do my worrying in advance; it makes no sense to take undue chances-and it is my duty to King Boncorro not to wait until the man becomes a threat. Write for me.” The secretary seized parchment and ink. Rebozo began to pace as he dictated, “My dear young Camano-you are, I believe, currently in the castle of your father, the Count d’Arrete, hard by the Alps in Merovence. I suspect that a nobleman or knight may soon call at your gate for hospitality, claiming to be only a knight errant, or a messenger about the queen’s business, or some such. Be not deceived-this man is a wizard, and may well be the Lord Wizard of Merovence.”

He went on to detail exactly how the young lord should test the man, and how he should deal with him-in no uncertain terms. When the secretary had finished writing, Rebozo took the quill and signed the document. Then he took it to a separate table, sprinkled it with a powder that stank abominably, muttered a verse in an arcane language, and touched a candle’s flame to a corner of the document. It went up in a flash that lit the whole chamber and was gone in less than a second. The chancellor nodded, satisfied. “He will find that on his table when he comes to his chamber this night, a hundred miles to the north.” He gathered his robe about him, shivering. “Glad I am that I do not have to suffer the rigors of that climate, so hard by the mountains! Well, we shall see what young Lord Camano may make of this wizard. In any case, we shall discover his purpose.”

He turned back to his secretary. “Now-issue orders that as soon as the cooks and scullery maids are done with their work, they be taken to my audience chamber. As the servers are released from their duties, let each be taken to join them. Then I shall question each one alone, and closely.”

LoClercchi looked up with a frown. “What good is that? Whoever poisoned the wine, he shall already be fled!”

“He shall,” the chancellor sighed, “if he was here at all, and not some sorcerer enchanting the wine from miles away-or a wizard; let us not forget that our young king has enemies in both camps now.”1 “What sorcerer has n-” But Rebozo’s glare froze the words on his secretary’s tongue, and he did not finish the sentence. “Of course, there are his courtiers, too, any one of whom might have dropped poison in the wine when the server was ogling one of our oh-so-casual beauties,” the chancellor went on, as if there had been no interruption, “but our good Boncorro would certainly never approve their questioning on so mere a suspicion. No, we shall go through the forms, LoClercchi, but we shall learn nothing. I would that we could torture a few of them as we did in the old days, so that we might at least gain a satisfying answer!”

 

Prologue

“Even if it were not true,” LoClercchi murmured. ‘True!“ cried the chancellor, exasperated.

”What matters truth? Satisfying our master-that is everything!“ Chapter 3

The Captain of the Guard gave Matt a jaundiced look. “A knight errant, without armor?”

“I lost it at the last tournament,” Matt explained. “I know, I know, I’m a little old to be a knight bachelor-but what can you do? Some of us are just more talented than others.”

“Well, you would not be the first knight to come to this door when he is in misfortune,” the guard admitted. “Still, I can tell by your bearing and your raiment that you are indeed a knight.”

That gave Matt a feeling of satisfaction. He’d worked at choosing upper-class clothing that looked just worn enough to be right for a knight with a string of bad tournaments behind him.

The bearing, of course, came from actually having been knighted. That was the way things worked in this universe. “Thank you, Captain! Now, if you could send someone to guide me to your lord, I should like to pay my respects.”

“Aye, and that is all you will pay,” the soldier grumbled. “Ho! Page!” A passing boy stopped passing and sprinted up to the captain, skidding to a halt that ended in a perfunctory bow. “Escort this stranger to the count,” the officer told him, “and be mindful that he is a guest!” Then he snapped his fingers, and a hostler came forward to take Matt’s horse. “Sir Matthew of Bath, you say?” The Count d’Arrete gazed up at the ceiling, stroking his beard. “Ah! Now I have it! ‘Tis a town in Angland, is it not?’

Matt always marveled that England, Scotland, and Ireland had pretty much the same names in this universe as they did in his own-Angland, Scotia, and Eire. All the other countries had names he scarcely recognized, though he could pick out their sources. On the other hand, the English language that he knew and loved didn’t exist here-everyone in Angland spoke the same language spoken in Merovence, and throughout Europe, for that matter. There was no English Channel in this version of Earth, so Hardishane, this world’s counterpart to Charlemagne, had conquered the Anglo-Saxons, Welsh, and Scots, too. Eire had joined of its own free will, or at least become an ally-Matt wasn’t too clear on the history; the books in Alisande’s library only gave him a vague general outline, and he hadn’t had the time to go to Angland and check on the primary sources. He did gather, though, that the Vikings had been pretty thoroughly repulsed, though he wasn’t sure how. There was a lot of the history of this universe he didn’t know-including what had happened in Latruria. He did know that the capital city of the ancient empire had been named Reme, not Rome, which presumably meant that Remus had won the fistfight, not Romulus-not that it made much difference. Beyond that, Prologue

he had only the most sketchy outline of Classical history, and what he had was suspect-it sounded entirely too wholesome to be Roman, not that such considerations would matter now. “It is, your Lordship. There are medicinal baths there. Personally, I don’t think they heal you so much as just make you feel better-lying around in hot water always has that effect on me, at least.”

“Hot water, you say? An interesting notion! I must journey there sometime and try it!” Matt almost pointed out that the count could heat water over the fire right here in his own castle, but bit his tongue in time-the man was likely to try a dip in boiling water. No, let him stay with the natural way.I “So you are a knight of the Bath!” Count d’Arrete chuckled at his own witticism, and his courtiers dutifully echoed him. Matt managed to force a smile himself.

He actually was a knight of the bath, of course, and the cold tub had been administered in Emperor Hardishane’s secret tomb-but there was no need to mention that.“Ah, you have heard that jest many times, I see,” the count said ruefully. “Well, stay and join us at meat this evening, stranger! We are always glad to have visitors, to bring us news of the world outside our domain-but most especially tonight, when my cousins from Latruria are at last able to join us! Their young king has opened the border these last few years, and has now even given permission for his noblemen to journey to visit kinsmen!” Matt pricked up his ears. Talk about good luck! Unless, of course,virtuallyallthemarcher baronswereentertaining relatives-which was probable, if permission had just now been granted. “It has been many years since kin could visit kin, my lord. ”Generations! Not since my grandfather’s time have we welcomed our southern cousins! Old King Maledicto kept his border closed by sorcery as well as force of arms! Ah, it is good indeed to see our kin!“

“I shall look forward to meeting them myself,” Matt said, with more sincerity than the count knew. This great hall was considerably less great than Boncorro’s. Of course, Matt had never seen the royal castle of Latruria, but he had seen Alisande’s court, and the castle of a mere country count suffered by comparison. Fortunately, Matt wasn’t interested in comparing them. It was a cornerstone of his aesthetic that he take each work on its own merits, and within the context of its own function as well as its designer’s intentions. The architect who built this castle had obviously been trying to achieve the optimum balance between comfort and defense, and had succeeded about as well as he could. The hall was large enough to shelter a small army during a siege-or the peasants of the home farms, as well as the gentry of the county, during a feast day. The peasants weren’t here at the moment, but the gentry were.

Count d’Arrete had meant it when he said he was glad of one more to help him celebrate. The countess had done at least as well as the architect, when it came to decoration. Faded old tapestries alternated with bright new ones; garlands of flowers obscured the grim old battle trophies. An oversized shield brightly painted with the family coat of arms hung over the high dais, while about the hall hung smaller shields that showed the arms of the count’s knights, obscuring the old, dusty, captured flags of foes vanquished. At the far end hung another oversized shield with the arms of the Latrurian branch of the clan. However, those Prologue

Latrurians weren’t about to let the hidden dinginess go. “These old castles were well enough for defense, cousin, and as trophy cases,” Conte Puvecci said with a wave of us hand. “Surely, though, it would be desirable to have a separate, and more pleasant, building, for your daily living.”

Count d’Arrete smiled, but Matt could almost hear him grind his teeth. Since he knew who d’Arrete was, it didn’t take much deduction to figure out that the other mature male at the high table must be his Latrurian cousin-and therefore that curled hail and pointed beards were all the rage in Latruria. Matt took a quick glance around the hall, noting curly locks and pointy goatees, so he’d know where the Latrurians were-it made for more efficient eavesdropping. He turned back to the high table just as Count d’Arrete was saying, “There is a feeling of continuity, cousin, of connection with one’s ancestors, that can only be gained from living where they lived.”

“Quite so, quite so!” Puvecci nodded earnestly. “And when I feel the need for that, I go back to spend a night or two there.”

“Alone?” the Countess d’Arrete gasped. Puvecci gave her a condescending grin. “I know, I know, one is never alone among the ghosts of one’s ancestors-or among one’s soldiers, for I must needs keep guards posted there; it is, after all, my stronghold, and gives command of the valley. But our new white marble palazzo is far more appealing.”

“You must come visit us!” the Contessa Puvecci gushed. “I have found the cleverest painter you can imagine, to adorn our walls with murals and frescoes of the heroes of ancient Reme, and of their goddesses and gods!”

“The marble was expensive,” the conte said expansively, “but when one is building for the ages, one must not stint.”

Count d’Arrete managed to keep his smile, but it was hard. “Your lands must produce most amazingly.”1 “They do, they do! Our young King Boncorro was right, insisting that we leave the peasants a larger share of the crop-for it gave them reason to labor with greater zeal! And, of course, leaving his lords so much more of our land’s produce gives us far more to work with.” Conte Puvecci kept nodding. “He is a good king, a good king! And I think he will grow to be even better.”

Matt didn’t have to be a mind reader to know that d’Arrete was suddenly finding flaws in Alisande’s reign that he had never thought of before. “I could not truly say life was one continual celebration at King Boncorro’s court,” Puvecci’s son Giancarlo was telling Sir John, Captain of the Guard. “He does demand that we rise before noon to practice at swordplay and tilting, and has each of us oversee the work of some reeve in a distant province, watching the clerks verify the reeve’s reports and accounts. He also insists that each of our corps take its Prologue

turn in patrolling the city at night-so there is very little theft or murder or rape, and it is almost true that even the most lowly born woman may cross the town at night without danger.”

“Almost,” the count’s son, Camano, grated. Giancarlo shrugged. “There are always accidents.”

“Are you never tempted to be those accidents, cousin?” Giancarlo answered with a slow grin. “Why should we? Where lid you think those lowborn women were coming from so late at night, cousin?”

“The duchesses hold gatherings every evening,” said Lady Sophia, the Puveccis’ daughter,

“and there is always fizzy wine, and dancing, and song. And the gentlemen, cousin! The gentlemen are so gallant and so handsome as they vie for glory!” Lady Jeanette d’Arrete was almost green with envy. “Do all the young folk stay at his Majesty’s court?”

“All who can persuade their parents,” Sophia said with a condescending laugh, “and that is nearly all. The king has built a whole range of apartments just for us; and I assure you there is much coming and going within that building!”

“How far away are the men’s apartments?”

“Why, they adjoin ours, cousin, and there is even a passageway between the two buildings, for use in cold weather! The lady who cannot find a husband there is slow indeed!” Jeanette was already beginning to turn pale and sigh-while at the far end of the table, Camano glowered and smoldered. Of course, that could have just been the effect of the flickering light of the torches and candles-but Matt rather doubted that. He had been lucky in his seat assignment-he had to strain to hear what was going on at the high table, but hear he could, and he doubted that the expressions he was seeing on the faces of the younger d’Arretes had anything to do with the lighting. However, if the little flames helped to obscure the old trophies that the countess couldn’t remove without violating tradition, they also helped obscure the signs of age among the mature ladies, who laughed and drank beside their husbands, and gave a glow to the cheeks of the younger women, gentry and common alike, and set a sparkle in the eyes of the young men who paid them court. The serving girls seemed almost as vibrant as the ladies, as they laughed and flirted with the young men. The butler and footmen, of course, did not have that privilege, but the candlelight nonetheless picked out the gleams in their eyes. It was a festive occasion indeed, and everyone was making merry.

Which made Matt wonder about the morose young man to his left. He watched the joyous company with no sign of delight and seemed to brace himself every time he glanced across Prologue

the table to the blushing young lady who was smiling and making eyes at him. When he did notice, he forced a smile, exchanged a few brief words with her, then glanced away and gazed moodily out over the throng. Each time, the shock of hurt showed in the girl’s face, but it was quickly hidden as she turned to her neighbor with forced gaiety. Mart’s heart went out to her, and finally, when she turned to her neighbor but found him engaged in conversation on his other side, then turned to her other neighbor but found him likewise engaged, Matt came to her rescue. “Take pity on a stranger, demoiselle, and tell me who these grand folk each may be.”

She looked up at him in surprise that quickly turned to gratitude. “Why, those known to me are the knights and neighbors of Count d’Arrete, sir, save for their daughter Jeanette and that young gallant who sits at the end of the high table and is Camano, their son.”

“You mean the one who’s been giving me nasty looks all evening? What’s the matter-doesn’t he like strangers?”

That brought a smile of amusement “Nay, sir, unless they be female. But I think he is more affronted by Squire Pascal, who sits by you, than by yourself.” The young man looked up with a guilty start. “Do you speak to me, damsel?”

“No, sir, I speak of you.” Finally, a flash of irritation showed in the girl’s face, but was again quickly masked. “I was identifying you for your neighbor there; you do not seem to have introduced yourself to he who sits by you.”

“True enough-but men, neither has he introduced himself to me.” The young man turned to Matt. “I am Pascal de la Tour, sir-not yet a squire, but only a squire’s son-and this young lady is my neighbor, the Demoiselle Charlotte Espere. Our fathers would have us be betrothed, but have not asked our opinions in the matter.”

“Pascal!” Charlotte hissed, blushing furiously as she glanced to either side at her neighbors, who were, fortunately, still earnestly engaged in discussions that kept them turned away from her. “Be honest, Charlotte,” Pascal sighed. “You have no great liking for me, though you do seek to be a dutiful daughter and discover love where it is not.” Tears filled poor Charlotte’s eyes. “It is cruel of you to speak so!”

“Is it not strange?” Pascal gave Matt a hard smile. “I speak truth, as the Bible says we should-and folk censure me for it!”

“The truth can be hurtful,” Matt countered, “and that the Bible does not enjoin-at least, not in the New Testament.”

 

Prologue

Pascal’s eye kindled with interest-or was it delight in a challenge? “Must we choose between two sins, then? Lying, or cruelty?”

“Not unless you’re asked for your opinion,” Matt answered. Pascal abruptly lost interest.

“You have no more concern for truth than anyone else, I see.” He turned away, letting his gaze roam over the room. Matt contained his indignation at the slight and turned to lean across the table, speaking as low as he could and still be heard by the teenager across from him. “I think you should be grateful for his churlishness, demoiselle. At least, this way, you’re not apt to wind up in a loveless marriage-and your father can’t really blame you.”

“He will find a way.” But Charlotte looked surprised, as if she hadn’t really thought of the consequences. “I thought that if two married, love would grow.”

“Not that I’ve ever seen-and I can think of a lot better reasons for marriage than joining two estates that happen to border each other.” Matt glanced up at the high table, looking for a change of subject. “Is that the count’s cousin, then?” Charlotte seemed as glad for the diversion as he. “Yes, that is the Conte Puvecci, with his wife, and his son and daughter.”

Matt smiled without mirth. “I’ll wager there sits another young lady whose parents are going to try to marry her off to strengthen the family.”

“To Camano, you mean?” Charlotte looked startled. “I had not thought… but now that you speak of it, perhaps…”

“I feel sorry for her.”

“You say that, and you do not even know Camano?” The demoiselle turned back to him with a smile. “Of course, I do not, either-but what I have heard of him is enough for me to pity her, too.” Her eyes went wide and round. “But I speak of myself, do I not?‘

Matt gusted breath in relief. “Yes, except that you don’t have to worry about your current trap. Churlish or not, Pascal seems to be getting you out of that.”

“So he does!” Charlotte turned with a smile. “Thank you, Pascal!” Pascal’s head snapped around, staring in surprise. “For what, Charlotte?”

“For being yourself.” Charlotte dropped her napkin and stood. “Come, the fiddlers have struck up a reel, and other folk have gone out to dance! Let us join them!” Prologue

Pascal hesitated, looking wary. “It’s a peace offering.” Matt gave him an elbow in the ribs.

“Get out there and dance with her, you clod!”

Pascal turned on him, fire in his eye. “She’s been your friend all through childhood, hasn’t she?” Matt snapped. That took the heat out of Pascal’s anger. “Aye… if a girl can be a friend to a boy.”

“You know she was, as much as she could be.” Matt didn’t know anything of the kind, but he liked Charlotte already and didn’t see how Pascal could not have liked the girl-until he’d felt threatened. “Get out there and make your peace with her-and don’t be surprised if you find a way to make a definite end to the whole problem.” Pascal turned wary again. “How can I? Our fathers-”

“They aren’t apt to force you if you’re both really dead set against it-and the way you’ve been behaving, a saint would be dead set against you.” Pascal’s head reared back, affronted. “I thought you coveted truth,” Matt jibed. “Go make your peace. In this world, we need all the friends we can get-and in the next one, too.”

“There’s some truth to that.” Pascal put down his napkin and rose. “One dance, then.”

“That should be all it takes.”

Matt watched them go, heaving a sigh. If only the problem of mass discontent could be solved so easily! Nearby, he heard some of the young gentry muttering to one another. “They talk as if their lives are constant festival! Oh, so they serve a few hours’ duty each day-what matter?”

“Not even that, for the ladies,” a young woman said. “And they are among their own kind!” another youth exclaimed. “They are among folk of their own age and class, with no parents to order them about, living all together with no troubling from the king!”

“Wherefor is he so generous?‘ another girl wondered, but her voice was buried in the marveling. ”A constant round of dress-makers and gatherings!“

“A constant round of flirting with ladies and wenching with wantons!”

“A constant round of drink and song!”

Matt reflected gloomily that he had been right-Alisande needed to start a university. He Prologue

wondered how quickly he could get it up and running. “My parents must let me go to the queen’s capital!” one pretty young maid proclaimed. “They will not” Another like her sat sulking. “They will say the expense is too great, and I can do well enough wedding Squire Knocknee our neighbor!”

“Squire Knocknee! Why, he is forty if he is a day, and fat and balding, and half his teeth are gone!”

“Aye, and his breath is putrid,” the girl said bitterly. “Only think! These young ladies of Latruria can circulate among handsome young bucks with sweet breath, and find themselves husbands for love, not their parents’ convenience!”

“So might we, if Queen Alisande would allow it,” her brother grumbled. “Where is she to get the money?” his friend said with sad practicality. “Where does King Boncorro get his?”

“Aye, and why is he willing to spend it on the young?”

“Why, because he is himself young, and does not wish to be surrounded by antiques!”

“The queen is young, too.”

“Aye, but she is married already,” a young girl said bitterly. “Married, and with a kingdom in hand-and therefore does she think like an aged parent, not a young lass seeking love!” Matt bridled-she had sought love and found it, thank you! Maybe not the most romantic suitor in the world, but-He sawed back on his own reins. He wasn’t me world’s most romantic husband, was he? Maybe he needed to work on that… Pascal came back, chatting agreeably enough with Charlotte, but somewhat absentmindedly. She didn’t seem to mind it this time, though. They took their seats again, and Matt asked, “Was I right?”

“Hm?” Pascal looked up. “You can still be friends if you agree you’re not going to get married.”

“Oh! Aye. My father will raise the roof, I doubt not-but Charlotte should be free of blame, since ‘tis I who will not have the marriage.”

“Not completely free,” Charlotte said darkly. “I doubt not Mother and Father will both rail at me for not being able to win your favor, good Pascal-but even as you say, it will be you who bears the brunt of it. I would I could aid you.” Pascal shrugged. “If ‘tis too strenuous, I shall simply leave home.” Prologue

Charlotte’s eyes went wide. “Will your father allow that?” Pascal gave her a bleak smile. “If the quarrel goes as I suspect it shall, he will end by banishing me from his house.”

“I do not wish that!” Charlotte cried. “Nor do I, really,” Pascal said slowly. “I would prefer to leave with his blessing-but leave I must”

Matt didn’t like the sound of this at all. “Why?” Pascal turned back to him, then glanced away uneasily. Charlotte looked up at him, giving his arm a reassuring squeeze, then said to Matt, “He loves another.” Matt sat still for a minute. Then he said, “Oh.” After that, he said, “That explains a few things.”

“Aye.” Charlotte went misty-eyed. “If I had known that, I would never have been…” She hesitated. “Never have been hurt by his frostiness,” Matt finished for her. “But how does that tie in with your wanting to leave home, Pascal?” The young man glanced quickly to either side, then sat down again. “The lady I love is my cousin-but she dwells in Latruria.”

“His fourth cousin.” Charlotte, too, had taken her seat again, leaning forward in conspiratorial secrecy. “Once removed.”

“Perfectly legal and perfectly moral, then. But how did you meet her, if the border has been closed all these years?”

“It has been open for the last few,” Charlotte reminded him, “at least, to common folk and gentry.”

Pascal nodded. “Last summer both families met at long last and were again one family reunited-and I met Panegyra.” He gazed off into space, a foolish smile coming over his face.

“Oh, she is the picture of beauty itself, the loveliest and most gentle creature imaginable!” Charlotte looked down, clasping her hands, and her knuckles went white. Matt interrupted quickly. “Are you of the same station?”

Pascal turned back to him, startled. “Aye-both children of squires, who were themselves Prologue

children of squires.”

Matt frowned. “Nobody wanted to become a knight?” Pascal’s smile thinned into bitterness. “My grandfather Aiello became a squire not by serving a knight, sir, but by virtue of having had a wizard for a father, before the evil king Maledicto usurped the throne.”

“Squire?” Matt frowned. “But wouldn’t he have become a wizard in his own turn, not… Oh!

Of course!”

“Aye.” Pascal nodded. “Under King Maledicto, white wizardry was banned, even those small magics that drew only slightly on the font of Goodness. It was only by the grace of his lord that Grandfather Aiello became a squire, rather than a peasant or serf.”

“His lord’s grace, and the money and land his father had accumulated?” Matt guessed.

Charlotte smiled, amused. “If a man has land, you must either give him rank in proportion, or take it away from him.”

“And his lord was a good man who refused to confiscate.” Matt nodded. “Perhaps,” Pascal allowed, “though family legends speak of a debt owed… Well, no matter. The long and the short of it is that my father is a squire, and so is Panegyra’s, but I can never become a knight, though she may become a lady.” His tone was liquid-pure vermouth. “By marrying a knight, you mean.”

Pascal closed his eyes, shuddering. “Please! My nightmares are enough!”

“I see your point,” Matt agreed. “So you want to leave home to woo your cousin, and-” A blow rocked him. Matt looked up, glaring; that punch had hurt! But he was a knight, and chivalry restrained him until he knew whether it had been an accident or not. It was Camano, the Count d’Arrete’s son, grinning down at him. “Your pardon, Sir Knight! I had not seen you there.”

“Seen him! Why, you stared directly at him from ten feet away!” Charlotte said indignantly.

“As he might have, if he had any vestige of courtesy.” Camano’s grin hardened. “He might have given his hosts a glance, now and again.”

Matt knew very well that he had-and that Camano had been looking at him at least two of those times. But he was aware of the three young bloods at Camano’s back with their hands on the hilts of their rapiers, and he chose his words carefully. “Your pardon, Sir Camano. I became so engrossed in your guests and the beauties of your great hall that I-” Prologue

“Engrossed!” Camano cried, and two of the young bloods hooted. “Gross you must be indeed, to be so laggard in courtesy! And as to admiring the beauties, aye, I have seen your gaze roam to every beauteous young damsel in this place. Are you not ashamed, an old goat like yourself?”

Matt was still in his early thirties. “There is no shame where there is no cause,” he said slowly,

“but he who has given cause should indeed be shamed.”

“An insult!” Camano crowed in delight. “You have heard it, my friends-have I not been given insult?”

“Oh, aye!”

“Verily!”

“A most grievous insult indeed!” said his backup group. “Not a bit!” Pascal cried indignantly.

“He has given no cause for offense, but-”

Camano’s glove caught him across the cheek. “Be still, peasant!” Matt rose slowly, his hand on his own sword. “Now, that was definitely unchivalrous, Sir Camano!”

“Then prove it upon my body, Sir Matthew of Bath!” Camano cried, suddenly angry. His sword whipped out. “If you are truly a knight, or truly Matthew of Bath!”

“I am Sir Matthew indeed.” Matt drew his sword, and with a massive shriek, the ladies leapt from their places and crowded back. The men shouted with delight and rose, too, to clear the tables back, and a space fifty feet across suddenly opened around the two men. “Your people are used to this, I see.” Matt glanced at the count and his lady, but they were sitting back complacently, as were conte and Contessa. The young folk were leaning forward eagerly. “I gather we’re the prime entertainment for the evening.”

“Say, rather, that you are!” And with no word of warning, Camano lunged.

Chapter 4

Matt leaped back and aside, parrying, then riposted in time to catch another hasty and ill-timed lunge on his blade. He caught it in a bind, stepping right up to Camano corps a corps to say, “No wonder your father was so glad to give me hospitality. Do you d’Arretes always Prologue

attack your guests?‘

“Mind your manners, commoner!” Camano snarled, and shoved Matt away, leaping back.

Matt was tempted to hold rock-steady and make the boy look ridiculous, but decided to be a little charitable and fell back a step. Camano slashed and lunged again; Matt parried both times, then dodged the thrust that followed and stepped in corps a corps once more, catching the youth’s sword hand in a vise grip long enough to say, “Didn’t your fencing master teach you how to riposte?”

Camano’s answer was drowned in an outraged shout from his buddies, and Matt sprang away-he had just delivered a humiliation, by catching Camano’s sword hand. Red-faced and enraged, Camano circled his sword overhead in a figure eight, and Matt felt a twinge of real alarm-if the kid’s grip slipped, someone could get hurt! He was tempted to lunge in under the whirling blade, but resisted-Camano might be faster than he looked. He wasn’t. When Camano slashed out with the blade, Matt saw it coming a mile away and had plenty of time to leap back and swing his own blade to parry. Metal exploded against metal, and Matt felt the impact all the way up to his shoulder. He leaped back in alarm, realizing for the first time that the kid was actually trying to kill him!The bystanders shouted and applauded, apparently figuring that Camano had done something skillful. So did Camano-flushed with pleasure, he went into the figure eight again. Matt was suddenly done with courtesy. With full seriousness he lunged under the whirling blade, slashing Camano’s doublet just the tiniest bit with his sword tip, then leaping out just as the youth cut down with a cry of anger. His blade clashed on the floor, and Matt leaped in to hold down the point, then pivoted to swing his dagger straight at Camano’s throat. He slowed his stab, though, and Camano just barely managed to parry with his own dagger. The bystanders shouted in anger and alarm. For a moment Camano was caught with his arms crossed and his balance precarious. One sidewise kick and Matt could have stretched him on the floor-but it would have embarrassed the young man too much, and his folks were already on their feet, shouting in anger. Matt, ever the good guest, leaped back and let Camano recover. The boy’s sword swung straight up toward Matt’s gizzard. It didn’t have much force, coming straight up off the floor and without much room for the swing. Matt sidestepped, brought his own sword up under it, and swung the boy’s blade high as he stepped in to mutter, “I told you to riposte!” before he leaped clear and waited. Face flaming, Camano did indeed riposte and moved around Matt warily, sword tip circling-but his friends were shouting objections, and Count d’Arrete signaled to a guard.

Two knights stepped in, swords upraised, crying, “Hold!” Matt was all too glad to step back and lower his blade. Camano leaped forward, stabbing. The knights shouted, caught at him, and conveniently missed. Matt caught the kid’s lunge on his blade and circled tight, ending with a sharp downward thrust. Camano’s blade struck sparks from the floor again, and Matt set his dagger to the boy’s throat. “They said hold!” Camano froze, glaring hatred at Matt, his chest heaving. “Unhand that boy, sir!” the Count d’Arrete cried. “Gladly, milord.” Matt sprang away-but he brought Camano’s sword with Prologue

him. The boy cried out as the hilt wrenched out of his hand, then he stood there cradling his fingers. Matt quelled a surge of contempt and presented the weapon to one of the intervening knights, then quickly sheathed his own blade before anyone could make an issue of it. That didn’t stop them, of course. Everyone at the high table was roaring in anger, and Count d’Arrete called out, “How poorly you repay our hospitality, sir! Did you not know the lad meant only sport?”

Sport? Yeah, sure, it had only been all in good fun-as long as their boy was winning! But Matt couldn’t say that aloud; instead, he bowed and said, “I assure you, my lord, I only answered in sport myself-in sport, and to give a younger knight some edification in his use of the blade.” The court stared at the subtle insult, and the count reddened. “I’m sorry to see I have offended.” Matt bowed again. “Since I have transgressed against your hospitality, I shall take my leave of you. Thanks for this good dinner, sir.” The count blanched; courteous though the words might have been, everyone present knew it for the set-down it was, especially since they all knew that Matt had really been the injured party, and that if there had been any offense against the hospitality of chivalry, it had been Count d’Arrete’s, not Matt’s. “Nay, sir, stay!” the count cried. Matt paused, then slowly turned. “Right or wrong, I cannot turn a guest out in the middle of the night! Surely there has only been a mistake of intention here, Sir Matthew, not a true wish to offend!”

“Of course, my lord.” Matt bowed yet again. “I trust you do not think that I truly intended insult!” Humiliation, maybe, but outright insult? Well, not quite-on his side, at least “As for young Sir Camano, young men and wine have always made a volatile combination.” Count d’Arrete stared in surprise. Then he laughed, clapping his hands. The whole court took the cue and laughed with him, and the tension was broken. “Yes, quite apt, Sir Matthew!” Count d’Arrete nodded and chuckled. “I was as hot-blooded as he, in my youth.”

“I do not doubt it for a second,” Matt murmured. “Come, sit down!” The count waved at the seat on the bench Matt had been occupying before. “You must still be my guest at board, and yet stay the night in my castle! You shall find our other sports more congenial than this, I trust!”

Matt sat, but he didn’t trust anything, not for a second. A footman showed him to his room with a flambeau and lit a candle on the table before he left. Matt suppressed the urge to tip, and locked the door securely behind the man, then looked out the arrow slit to make sure there was no convenient way for anyone to climb in before he sat down to think over the day’s events. There wasn’t a question in his mind that Camano d’Arrete had meant to kill him, making it look like an accident-not hard, considering what a klutz the boy was when it came to using a sword. He had taken Matt by surprise, and Matt hadn’t really been all that far Prologue

from using magic. Everything considered, it made for a very full report to his queen. Matt took parchment, quill, and ink out of his saddlebags and sat down to write. “My dearest darling,” the letter began, and what came after that is absolutely none of our business, at least for the first paragraph or two. Suffice it to say that the letter reassured Alisande on a number of points, then went on to report on the mission she had given him: There doesn’t seem to be anything resembling a definite plan to make the people discontent. It’s just that the families down here have relatives on the other side of the border, and they visit back and forth-and, of course, they talk about the really important things in life, such as taxes and houses and how well the children are eating. For a long time, the Merovencian branches of the families have been able to brag about how well-off they are-but now, the Latrurian relatives are catching up, and even getting ahead in some ways. This is happening with serfs, yeomen, gentry, and nobility alike-the Smiths suddenly feel as if they’re falling behind the other Smiths, and the Joneses in Merovence feel that they’re not keeping up with the Joneses in Latruria. It’s happening in the marketplaces, too. Peasants come in from Latruria to sell produce for themselves and for their lords, and while they’re standing around waiting for customers, of course they get to gossiping with the peasant in the next booth, who’s from Merovence. A few potential customers happen by-Merovencian, of course-and overhear the conversation, then ask a few more questions. First thing you know, rumor is spreading through the market that the peasants in Latruria are living in outright luxury. With the gentry and the lords, the greed is different. After all, they don’t have much choice about their houses-they inherited the castles, and there’s always the chance of war, so they can’t just move out and build mansions.

Nonetheless, some of the Latrurians are bragging about building palaces and just keeping the castles as forts. They all have the luxuries, too, so there’s no point in wanting more. But the young folk can crave excitement-and they do. The rumors of King Boncorro’s court are that it is a positive paradise for sybaritic devotees of vice. Of course, rumor doesn’t say “vice,” it says “fun,” but the upshot is the same-there’s always something to do, always something exciting going on, always the chance of a duel or an affair, and just time enough to recover from one ball before you start getting ready for the next. The tales of old King Maledicto’s court are still hanging around, but where they talked about cruelty and depravity and vicious old men ruining the young folk, the stories about Boncorro’s court are of the good-natured, generous king letting his people play and have fun while he watches, getting his kicks out of seeing people be happy. The bind is that there might be some truth in that. If there is, it’s going to be awfully hard to fight, because rumors that have facts to back them up have a certain gloss of sincerity to them. I suppose we could close the border and keep the Latrurians out, but somehow it just doesn’t seem right to keep relatives from visiting each other, especially since, to these people in the marches, borders are a nuisance during peacetime. It would be wrong to set up and enforce a rigid border watch unless it was really necessary.

Besides, it probably wouldn’t work. My world has seen some pretty strong evidence that no border guards can keep out ideas and news. I’ve picked up some strong hints that the peasants on both sides of the border are accomplished smugglers, and there’s no way they’re not going to swap stories as they barter goods. So the only thing to do is to boost the standard of living in Merovence and make your court the kind of shining, ideal place that Emperor Hardishane’s court was-at least, in the legends. That’s if the stories are true. If they’re false, all Prologue

it takes is a few eyewitnesses to start spreading the truth. I know that truth has a hard time competing against sensational lies, but believe me, I can wrap such a fascinating story around the truth that people really will listen. First, though, I have to find out what the truth is-and there’s only one way to do that. So I’ll start out for Latruria in the morning, to see for myself. I should cross the border about mid-afternoon, and have some idea of what’s really going on by noon the next day. Of course, if the rumors turn out to be true, I’ll have to go on and visit King Boncorro’s court, but that shouldn’t take long-I expect to be home in a week, maybe two.

Till then, take care of yourself-and try to look forward to our reunion as much as I’m going to.

Thereafter followed a few more paragraphs that were, to say the least, very private, and certainly no business of anybody but Matt and Alisande. They would have reduced Alisande to an emotional puddle, if she had read that far. Unfortunately, she never got past the bit about King Boncorro’s court. By the time her ladies-in-waiting had revived her, they had begun to suspect that something was wrong. Actually, the ladies-in-waiting had been suspecting for a couple of weeks that something was very, very right-but the queen fainting when she read a letter from her husband made the very right turn very wrong, especially when revival brought a flood of tears. Such emotional behavior was very much unlike Alisande-but very like the woman who had been contending with early-morning bouts of nausea for the past fortnight. They had been looking forward to widespread rejoicing as soon as the news became official-the kingdom was due for an heiring-but their high hopes might be brought low if the poor queen had so bad a shock as to make her miscarry. Almost as bad was the possibility that the child might be born with his father fled or defected to the side of Evil, and a shriek such as Alisande had uttered just before she fainted was cause enough to make them worry almost as much about that. So two of them fluttered about trying to revive her while a third ran for the doctor, and the fourth picked up the letter to scan it quickly. She blushed at the first two paragraphs, turned pale at the next few, and dropped it before reading the last. “No wonder her Majesty fainted! The Lord Wizard sends to tell her he will go into Latruria!”

“Into that land of iniquity?” Lady Julia gasped. “Surely he would not be so foolish!”

“Would he not?” Lady Constance said grimly. “He went into Ibile for no stronger reason than that he had misused the name of God. In truth, his championing of her Majesty’s cause when she was in prison scarcely speaks much for his prudence!”

“Ah me, the woes of wedding a gallant but reckless man!” Lady Julia sighed. “Still,” said Lady Beatrice, “he should be reckless only on her behalf, not in spite of… See! Her eyelids begin to flutter!”

“Oh, where is that doctor?” Lady Constance cried. “No… doctor!” Alisande protested, forcing herself to sit up. “No, Majesty!” Lady Constance cried in alarm. “Do not rise so suddenly!”

“Do not speak as if I am ill!” Alisande snapped. “It was a moment’s shock, nothing more!” Prologue

But she stumbled as she pushed herself to her feet. Lady Constance was there to catch her arm. “What could there have been in that letter to so affright your Majesty?” She glared Lady Beatrice to silence. Alisande hesitated, torn between her very human need for a confidante and her monarch’s duty to take the full weight on her own shoulders. Then she remembered that word of Mart’s expedition was bound to become public knowledge, very public and very quickly, and allowed herself to speak. “My dunce of a husband has gone into Latruria!” The women gasped in shock. It wasn’t difficult-they had never heard the queen refer to the Lord Wizard so rudely before. “But Majesty!” Lady Constance regained her poise first.

“Latruria is a kingdom of sorcery and dark Evil!”

“Perhaps no longer,” Lady Julia said quickly. “The young King Boncorro may not be so bad as his grandfather!”

“Or may be worse,” Lady Constance said darkly. “I have heard tales to chill the blood about the doings of old King Maledicto!”

“Aye-the maidens ravished and tortured, the rebels flayed and quartered.” Lady Julia shuddered. But Lady Beatrice turned deadly pale. “More unnerving are the stories of the folk he had tortured so that he and the folk of his court might laugh at their screams!”

“Laugh, and worse,” Alisande said darkly. In spite of herself, she shivered, and her hand went automatically to her abdomen-but she forced it away. “It is whispered that he commanded his sons be slain,” Lady Beatrice gasped, “even that he slew the eldest with his own hand!”

“Aye,” Lady Julia said severely, “and that only the youngest was saved from his murderous sire, by his devotion to God-surely a miracle, in the midst of a court dedicated to the Devil!”

“Surely,” Lady Constance agreed, “and it is said that it was lust overcame him, and that one sin cracked his holiness enough to make him subject to the evil will of King Maledicto!”

“And that the king would then have slain his grandson,” Lady Beatrice finished, “had not some virtuous soul spirited him away into hiding-a hiding so complete that even King Maledicto’s sorcery could not spy him out.”

Lady Elise burst through the door with a dark-robed graybeard right behind her, puffing as he lugged a heavy satchel. Elise cried, “Here is the… Oh! Your Majesty is well!”

“No doctor, I said!” Alisande waved the graybeard away angrily, then instantly relented.

“Your pardon, Doctor. It was only a faint, a moment’s giddiness, nothing more.” Prologue

The doctor didn’t exactly look reassured. “Still, your Majesty should permit-”

“Nothing! I need nothing! There is too much to do, too suddenly, to permit of time for medicine!”

The doctor started to interrupt, but Alisande overrode him. “Away, kindly doctor! I must turn to planning strategy!” And she very deliberately turned away from him. The doctor glared in outrage-he was one of the few members of the court privileged to do so-but when he saw she was not looking, gave it over and went out the door, shaking his head and grumbling. “I regret your bootless errand, Lady Elise,” Alisande said, “but it was truly for naught.” All four ladies exchanged a very significant glance as Lady Elise said slowly, “A hundred bootless errands I will run gladly, your Majesty, so long as the one that is truly needed be among them. But what gave you cause for such distress?” Alisande opened her mouth to deny, but before she could lie, Lady Julia said, “Her husband goes into Latruria.”

“Oh!” Lady Elise gasped, covering her mouth. “Into that cesspool of evil, where the king is a triple-dyed villain?”

“The new king may not be,” Alisande said with asperity. “I have had reports of the conduct of this young King Boncorro, and many of his works are good. In truth, I hear no evil spoken of himself, barring what any monarch must sustain…”

“Even yourself?” Lady Elise’s eyes went round. “Even I have had to order the occasional beheading, and the more frequent hanging,” Alisande said grimly. “In truth, I have ordered soldiers to their deaths in two wars now, and I do not pretend there was no evil in it.”

“But it was for a good cause! Indeed, it was to fight Evil itself!”

“Even so, men slew other men at my orders,” Alisande said inexorably, “and I cannot pretend I was innocent of all guilt. No, any monarch must strain her conscience in defense of her people-for the welfare of the commonwealth must be guarded, and where a common man can plead self-defense, a monarch cannot.”

“No-she can plead the defense of others!”

“I can and do,” Alisande agreed, “and so, I doubt not, does King Boncorro.”

“Does he?” Lady Constance said darkly. “Or does he only secure his own power and fortune as well as he may, with least risk to his soul?” Prologue

“There is that,” Alisande admitted. “Still, if reports are true, I need not fear for my husband’s safety.”

“Then why do you fear?” Lady Constance retorted. “Because reports may not be true.” Alisande shivered again. “Send for the Lord Marshal, Lady Elise, and summon Master Ortho the Frank, my husband’s assistant. I must call up my armies.” Still pale-faced, Lady Elise bobbed a curtsy and fled out the door. Queen Alisande turned to Lady Beatrice. “Do you send a fearless groom to Stegoman the dragon, milady-and send a courier to seek for Sir Guy de Toutarien.”

Lady Beatrice departed, wide-eyed. It must be truly an emergency for the queen to seek the aid of the elusive Black Knight! But Alisande and the party she assembled had to go out into the courtyard to meet Stegoman. The dragon could fit through the hallways of her castle in a pinch, but a pinch it was, and quite unpleasant for him, especially since his wings had been mended. Stegoman lowered his head and raised it in salute-he was one of the Free Folk, not a subject of her Majesty; never mind that he lived in her castle compound now and scarcely ever saw another dragon, except on vacations. “Majesty! Thou dost wish me to fly and bring back my errant companion, the Lord Wizard, dost thou not?”

“You are as perceptive as ever, Stegoman,” Alisande answered. “Yes, I do ask that of you-for he has sent to tell me that he will cross the border into Latruria!”

“I knew he would fall into trouble if he did not travel in company with me,” the dragon huffed. “But would he listen? Nay, never!”

“He was supposed to move in secret,” Alisande hinted. “And is a dragon so rare a sight as all that? Oh, aye, I know-we are, most especially in company with a mortal! Yet I could have laired nearby where’er he sought danger! Then, at least, I would have known where to find him!”

“That much, I can tell,” Alisande answered, “or where he was three nights ago, when he wrote his most recent letter: at the castle of the Count d’Arrete.”

“That is something, at least,” the dragon rumbled, “though as thy Majesty hath said, it was three nights agone!”

“Two days ago he was at the border station near the Savoyard Pass,” Alisande offered helpfully. “That is something more,” Stegoman mused. “There should be a road running south from the pass. At least I know where I shall begin to search.” Prologue

Anxiety stabbed Alisande, and she put out a hand to the warm, dry scales. “Go as cautiously as you may, Great One. I would be loath to lose a friend.” The dragon’s mouth lolled open in a sort of laugh. “It is even as you have said, Majesty-the Free Folk cannot travel in secret. Still, I shall fly warily. Fare you well!” Alisande barely had time to leap back before the dragon sprang into the air, pounding his way aloft with wing beats that boomed and blasted them all with grit and sand. She shielded her eyes, then looked up to watch him circle the keep and fly off toward the south. “God be with you, great friend,” she murmured, “and bring you back safely, with my Matthew on your back.” Then she turned to the Lord Marshal. “Have you sent to seek out Sir Guy de Toutarien?”

“Aye, Majesty.” The grizzled old knight smiled. “His path is like the wind, I know-but he cannot be so footloose as once he was, now that he is wed.” Alisande wasn’t altogether sure she liked the tone in which the old knight said that. “If he wed the Lady Yverne,” she reminded him. “The Princess Yverne, rather, though none knew that of her till she was about to leave. We know only that she rode off into the mountains in his company, and that they meant to find a priest along the way.”

“I never knew the Black Knight not to do as he had said he would,” the marshal told her.

“Still, as you have said, he shall be difficult to find. I have sent not one man, but ten, to quarter the mountains and seek him out. Nonetheless, it is a trail two years old, and discovering it will take time.”

“Unless he wishes to be found,” Alisande amended. “Send also to Matthew’s friend Saul.”

“The Witch Doctor?” The marshal stared in surprise. “I doubt he will come, Majesty. He seems to have little liking for people generally, now that he has found one to dote on.”

“His wife Angelique does seem to be world enough for him,” Alisande admitted, “at least to judge by report, for we have not seen the man since the two of them went off into the wilderness together. Still, danger to his friend Matthew may bring him out, just as it brought him to our world-and at least we know where to seek him.”

“Aye, in the Forest Champagne,” the marshal grunted, “and surely there was never a place so well-suited to a man! A forest named for open land! A wizard who declares he cannot work magic and will not believe in Good and Evil as sources of magical power! Oh, the contradictions are apt, Majesty, most apt indeed!”

“He swears by paradox, I know,” Alisande agreed, “and to hear him swear at all makes me Prologue

shiver with apprehension. Still, we shall need his help if Matthew is truly endangered. Send for him, milord.”

“By all Baal’s brass!” Rebozo swore. “Could that sniveling young lordling truly be so inept as this?”

LoClercchi shrank away from the chancellor’s anger. “Surely, milord, you did not truly expect the lad to slay the Lord Wizard himself!”

“No. but I had fondly thought he would at least be a strong enough opponent to force the man into using his magic! Yet what do I find? He was so poor a swordsman that this so-called

‘Sir Matthew’ scarcely had to work up a sweat, much less resort to wizardry! What do we know now that we did not before? That he poses as a knight and calls himself ‘Sir Matthew’-

which is a name not uncommon in these lands, even among knights! And that he fares southward, through the pass-which he was almost certain to do, if he came south at all!” He crumpled the tiny note and threw it at the wall. “Nay, this boy Camano has achieved nothing, nothing! Send him a stomachache! Send him a flux! I should give him worse, but pain is fitting for a pain!”

“He has done no harm, at least.”

“Would he had! Well, at least we know this ‘Sir Matthew’ will try to cross the border.”

“Shall I send soldiers to set a trap for him, Lord Chancellor?”

“Nay! Instead send a monster to slay him, if he should set one foot across the borderline! A manticore to gobble him up or a chimera to befuddle him! For whether he does or does not intend treachery, it is most definitely not in the king’s interest for the Lord Wizard of Merovence to come into Latruria!”

“But what harm can he do?” the secretary asked, confounded. “What harm?” Rebozo roared.

“You ask what harm? The man who stole back Queen Alisande’s crown from the sorcerer Malingo? The man who raised the giant Colmain? You know what upheaval followed his entrance into Ibile, his foray into Allustria-and you ask me what harm he might do, in a kingdom ruled by a king who will not kneel, nor go into a church? True, Boncorro is not as evil as the kings of those countries were-but I, his chancellor, have no wish to see him dethroned. Do you wish all the old ways to fall in this land, and yourself with them?”

“No, my lord, never!” the secretary said, very frightened. “I shall send to stop him straightaway!”

But the chancellor wasn’t listening. He paced the room, muttering, “Good or evil, my King Prologue

Boncorro is technically not the legitimate monarch, since his grandfather usurped the throne and slew the ineffectual former king, himself the son of a usurper of a usurper of a man who was an excellent poet, but a very weak king-and that is how low the line of the Caesars had fallen!”

“Was that poet-king truly descended from the Emperors of Reme, then?” LoClercchi asked, wide-eyed. “He was, and they spread their seed far and wide, I assure you! Who knows but what this Lord Wizard might unearth one of their descendants to claim the throne from King Boncorro? Nay, best to take no chances-keep him out of Latruria, LoClercchi! Find a way, find ten ways-but keep him out!”

Chapter 5

Once again Matt wondered how he got himself into these things, and the reflection that it was his loving spouse and liege who had done it this time didn’t help much-especially since it had been his own idea to cross the border, and right now that seemed very dumb. He was still in Merovence, technically, but not by much-only a couple of yards at most, maybe less; it was hard to tell, when there was no fence marking the boundary, or even a dotted line along the ground. But the manticore facing him seemed to have no doubt about the demarcation. “Stay back,” it said, grinning-it couldn’t do much else, with a mouth like that. “If you cross into Latruria, you are my meat.”

Matt eyed the grin and decided he didn’t want to take the chance. At least he was talking to a man’s head-but it had double teeth, two rows above and two below, and they were all sharp and pointed. Worse, that almost-human head sat on top of a lion’s body-if you could count it as a lion’s body when it was covered with porcupine quills and had a scorpion’s tail arcing up over its back, aiming right at Matt. He eyed the monster warily, wondering why it was that all the supernatural beasties in this alternate universe could speak fluent Human, when the genuine animals didn’t seem to be able to manage a word. Probably because the monsters were magical, and magic seemed to permeate the very air here-they were communicating in their natural medium, so to speak. “Okay,” he said, and turned away. “What!” The monster stared at him, affronted. “No challenge, no insults, no combat?”

“No sweat,” Matt assured him. “I’ll just find another way in. This particular pass may seem like the whole world to you, but I’m sure there are other doors.”

“What manner of knight are you?” the manticore howled. “A knight who happens to be a wandering minstrel.” Matt pointed to the lute slung across his back. “Do I look like a knight?”

“You wear a sword!”

“It’s a dagger,” Matt corrected. “A big one, sure, but still a dagger.” Prologue

Actually, it was a very good reproduction of a Roman gladius-with a few modifications.

Queen Alisande’s smith had forged it very carefully, according to Matt’s design, and the two of them together had done their best to sing a lot of magic into it. But Matt was a little uneasy about using it-he knew the quality of his own singing. “I’ll follow you!” the monster averred.

“Wheresoever you seek to cross the border, I shall be waiting!” It began to stalk toward him, grinning from ear to ear. “Nay, on second thought, why should I wait? I’ll pounce on you now, in Latruria or not.”

Matt spun about, alarmed, and swung up his staff, on guard. “Hey, now, wait a minute! Isn’t that against the rules?”

“Whose rules?” the manticore demanded, and sprang. It slammed into an invisible wall, so hard that it seemed to crumple before it fell. It bit the ground heavily-with that much mass, it would have to-and answered itself. “King Boncorro’s rules, of course! I should have known!”

“What rules?” Matt frowned. “Why should you have known?”

“Because the king has laid a Wall of Octroi along the border, and enchanted it to keep all monsters out! I never thought he would have been so careless as to craft it in such a way that it would also keep all monsters in!”

Matt eyed the beast judiciously and decided King Boncorro hadn’t been careless at all. “Makes sense to me. You look as if you could be very useful to a Satanist king. Why should he let his rival monarchs get their hands on you?”

“He is no Satanist, but a vile equivocator!” the manticore spat. “And if I cannot go out, I cannot terrorize the peasants in the borderland at his will!” Matt was liking Boncorro more and more. “Maybe he’s saving you for choice assignments.”

“Aye.” The multiple grin widened. “Such as devouring a knight named Sir Matthew, who comes in the guise of a minstrel!”

Matt’s blood ran cold. Boncorro had an excellent spy system. “The king himself sicced you on me?”

“What king ever did anything himself, that could be a source of blame?” the manticore said impatiently. “Nay, ‘tis a subordinate to a subordinate who has laid this geas on me-but think not to overthrow it simply because it comes not from the king himself! I shall be your Nemesis, man!”

 

Prologue

For a moment Matt was tempted-it would be interesting to test the strength of his magic against that of Boncorro’s minion, and since the Latrurians already knew where he was, he wouldn’t change anything if he attracted their attention by using magic. But he remembered that they probably weren’t sure he was a wizard, and certainly not the Lord Wizard himself.

Better to keep them guessing. “What could I do? I’m a mere minstrel!”

“Aye, a minstrel in a world in which magic works by verse and is strengthened by music! Did you think the bards of old Gaul were accounted men of power only for the pleasure their voices gave their tribesmen?”

This was certainly one well-educated monster. “Where did you learn so much history?”

“Learn it? I witnessed it, mortal! Do you think me a mere kitten of a hundred years’

growth?“

Matt felt a chill; he had always tended to react to age with too much respect. “What keeps you going?”

“Only that no sorcerer has commanded my death!”

“Staying alive because you believe you can, huh?”

“Nay-because all of your kind believe I can, and no magician has made it otherwise!”

“Then how come you’re antagonizing me, if you think I’m a magician?” The grin loosened into silent laughing. “Why, do you think I would fear a sapling’s magic, when the power of century-old oaks sustains me?”

“No, I guess you wouldn’t,” Matt sighed, “and that means it’s useless for me to try to get around you. Guess I’d better give up.” He turned away. “Do not think to cozen me, mortal!” the manticore called after him. “I know you plan to lie low, then cross the border when you think I have forgotten! Be sure you cannot find a crossing point that I cannot! Be sure I shall not forget!”

Matt took a deep breath, counted to ten, then turned back slowly. “Look, Manny-I might have some magical power just by virtue of being a minstrel, but do you really think I’d be dumb enough to take on a manticore?”

“Frankly,” the monster told him, “yes.”

 

Prologue

Not only educated, Matt decided, but also perceptive. “Okay, then-just tell yourself I’m going back to get some stronger spells.” And he paced away, toying with the idea of conjuring up a battery-powered amplifier and an electric lute. He didn’t, of course-he already had enough high-powered verses. However, he did put a ridge between himself and the border and hiked a few miles farther east, until he came to a river. It wasn’t much, as rivers went-maybe twenty feet wide, not much more than a stream-but it was going in the right direction: south. So Matt settled down to wait for night, rehearsing a few verses and polishing his magic wand. When dusk had fallen, Matt started out for the border again, following the little river. It cut through the ridge in shadow, and provided the cover of occasional wind-stunted pine trees. Matt followed it down to the border itself-or at least, what he thought was the border: a row of the wind-stunted pines growing across his path, too close to a straight line to be accidental. He thought some long-ago border guard must have planted them, to make his job easier. There were no border guards in sight now, of course. Not in sight… Matt wondered how fast manticores could move. He started muttering as he came up to the row of evergreens, so that he was actually reciting his spell as he went through them. “I leave the trodden paths with mighty heart Too near the manticore, within his ken…” He felt a sudden tingling all over his skin-nothing major, certainly nothing painful, but enough to let him know he had passed through some sort of magical barrier. He knew he had just crossed the border, and King Boncorro’s Wall of Octroi. Alarm-he felt alarm, and knew he had triggered one; not a bit of doubt that Boncorro knew he was a wizard now, and exactly where he was! But the king must have known that already, as the manticore had demonstrated. Matt kept on reciting-but he felt unseen forces wrap about him as he did. He always had, but this time they were worse, clamping down on him, fighting him: he found himself struggling to set one foot in front of the other as he called out, “Safe as when I rode in armor, for my art Does enclose me as a shield, as it did then!” A roar seemed to buffet him from all sides, and glowing eyes with multiple glowing teeth beneath came zooming at him out of the gloom. Matt held his ground and started reciting the verse again, waiting for the manticore to collide with his own unseen magical shield… It didn’t It slowed down a little, very suddenly-but it kept coming. Matt stared foolishly, the verse hanging on his lips, seeing the scimitar claws inch forward, the gaping band-saw teeth glitter as they began to speed up again… That did it He turned and ran. The tingling alerted him to his re-crossing of the border, but he didn’t stop to look-he kept running until a splat and a fortissimo yowl told him the manticore had collided with the Wall of Octroi again. Then Matt turned, chest heaving, and risked a look. The manticore was just picking itself up off the ground, glaring at him. “Brave knight indeed, to flee rather than fight!”

“I told you, I’m a minstrel,” Matt panted. “Oh, aye! A wizard who chants magical verses!”

“So how many knights do you know who do that?” Matt retorted. “None.” The manticore narrowed its eyes, watching him. “What meat do your thoughts chew, mortal?” Prologue

‘Tough and stringy,“ Matt answered. ”If you’re right, and a minstrel reciting verse is going to make magic happen-and it does, I know that from past experience-how come-“

“Your spell only slowed me, but did not stop me?” The manticore’s teeth flashed in the moonlight. “Why, Latruria has been steeped in magic for nearly a century, mortal-but you forget what sort of magic that is!”

“So you’re figuring I use Heaven-based magic, and it doesn’t work so well in a Hell-focused environment?”

“Why else?” the manticore retorted. “Good question,” Matt admitted-but it was better than the manticore knew. His magic had worked well enough in Ibile, and that desolated country had wallowed in the mire of evil magic far longer than Latruria had-at least, going by what little Matt had heard. No, there had to be some other reason. “Cease to gnaw at it,” the manticore advised. “Your magic will brew no foam here, and that is enough to know.”

“For all intents and purposes,” Matt admitted-but he knew it wasn’t enough. The scholar in him may have been stunted, but it was still there, and wanted to discover the answer just for its own sake-but there was a practical side, too. If he could find out why, he might be able to reverse the effect. Suddenly, he was itching to cross the border and try another spell, just to see what happened. But not with the manticore there. “You’re a very repressive presence, you know?”

“Aye.” The steely teeth flashed. “And I shall press you into keeping for supper as well as dinner if you cross again.”

“Oh, yeah?” Matt felt a stroke of inspiration. After all, he hadn’t really used the wand. He stepped forward again, going carefully, and fired a broadside-meaning he pointed his wand to concentrate the magic, and tried singing the spell.

“Go away from my border, go away from my door,

Get away from my bankside, and bother me no more!“ It seemed to be working! The manticore’s eyes narrowed; it yowled in protest; but it backed away step by step as Matt advanced. He set a foot near the border, set the other foot across it… With a yowl of triumph the manticore sprang. Matt gave a yowl of his own and leaped back-but steel teeth clanged, and pain seared his finger. In a panic, he looked down-but all five were there, though his index finger was coated with blood. He waggled it, still feeling the sink of horror-but the nail didn’t fall off. “Aagg! Ptooief” Prologue

Matt looked up and saw the manticore spitting and coughing, then sticking a paw between its jaws and wiping. “Faugh! What manner of man are you?” The monster glowered up at him and accused, “You sought to poison me!”

“Oh, no.” Matt felt a surge of renewed confidence. “Believe me, I wasn’t really planning on having you take a strip of skin off my finger.”

“Rejoice that I took no more than skin!”

“I do, I really do.” Matt whipped out a handkerchief and wiped off his finger. “But if that’s what just a piece of my skin does to your system, imagine what the rest of me would do!”

“‘Twas not your flesh, dunce, but your wand!”

“My wand?” Matt stared down at the stick he had dropped. Sure enough, there was only a stub of it left-and the end was as clean as if it had been polished. “No wonder you got a tummyache!”

“Vile poisoner,” the monster snarled. “Hey, you didn’t have to go biting where you weren’t asked.” But Matt stared at the stub, severely shaken. That could have been his arm-or his neck! Worse, he had lost one of his most potent magical aids-and virtually his only chance of piercing the magical inertia of Latruria! Wait a minute-what chance? Obviously, the wand hadn’t worked too well, either. “Do not come,” the manticore snarled. “Be advised, be warned! Come not into Latruria!”

Matt summoned shreds of resolve. “If I were a peasant or even an ordinary nobleman, you wouldn’t talk that way to me!”

“Aye.” All those teeth curved in a grin again. “But you are neither peasant nor ordinary, are you? And the flavor of your wand notwithstanding, I believe I would find you to be a man of excellent taste!”

“That’s a very old line,” Matt objected. However, he had to admit it was effective. Queen Alisande stepped out onto the battlements to gaze at the rising sun, feeling the loneliness and the sense of abandonment that came with the aftereffects of a bout of morning sickness in her husband’s absence. She was going through all this for him, and he was not here to support her through it! Her lady-in-waiting hurried after her with a fur robe, tucking it about her and clucking. “Your Majesty, no! Not in naught but your shift! And the air so brisk! You shall catch a chill!”

“Oh, I shall thrive, Lady.” But the robe was welcome, Alisande had to admit. She clasped the edges and said impatiently, “Thank you, good Elise, but I would be alone to compose my Prologue

thoughts in the sunrise.”

“Majesty, you are not well! You were but now seized with a spasm of vomiting!”

“It has passed,” Alisande said in a tone of steel, “and I must needs clear my head with the freshness of the air. Nay, stay near me if you must, but do not speak, for I would have silence.”

“As your Majesty wishes,” Elise murmured, and fell back a pace, wringing her hands.

Alisande gathered the robe more tightly about her and stared off toward the sunrise, then automatically turned to her right, gazing southward, as her thoughts turned angrily to Matthew, who should have been here to hold her royal head, to hold and soothe, to… Then she saw the spread of vast wings, black against the burgeoning rose of the morning sky, and the long sinuous neck that thrust out ahead of them. She stood a moment, frozen, then turned to hurry back inside. “Quickly, dress me! The dragon Stegoman returns!”

“So quickly?” Lady Elise cried. “In only an afternoon and a night? How could he have found the Lord Wizard so soon?”

“He could not,” Alisande snapped. “Pray Heaven he has no worse news than that!” But he did. Stegoman was still blowing and fuming when Alisande hurried down to the courtyard, and the grooms were hovering anxiously about him. “Fetch him the side of a steer!” Alisande snapped. “He must be a-hungered after so lengthy a flight!”

“I thank thee, Majesty,” the dragon rumbled. “Aye, I am a-hungered-but even more, I thirst!”

“A barrel of ale, quickly!” Alisande snapped to another groom, who paused only to duck his head in a hurried bow before he ran off. “What news?” Alisande snapped. “None bad.” Stegoman seemed disgusted. “None of any sort! I did not find the Lord Wizard-but I most certainly did find the border!”

Alisande stared. “Has King Boncorro marked it plainly, then? Are not rivers and rows of trees enough for him?”

“It would seem not,” the dragon said with disgust “He has cast some confounded sort of invisible wall all along the border. Not knowing, I flew into it full-force, and ‘tis only by good fortune that I did not break my neck! Nay, it sent me spiraling earthward, and I was hard put to pull out of the dive and find an updraft to send me aloft! I tried again, but more cautiously, and slammed into that barrier once more. Then I flew some miles farther west and tried again, but with the same result. I flew back and wended my way east, some miles past my first encounter, and soared once more southward-but the wall struck me on the snout again, and nearly crumpled me anew!”

 

Prologue

“Oh, poor beast!” Alisande cried, and stepped up close, her hand rising to the great dark patch at the end of Stegoman’s snout. Lady Elise cried out with alarm, but Alisande paid her no heed. “Aye, I can see where the scales are broke away!”

“They shall grow anew.” Stegoman pulled his head back a little. “I am grateful for your sympathy, Majesty Alisande, but I beg you to withhold your touch-‘tis quite sore.”

“Aye, it must be indeed!” Alisande drew her hand back. “But how is this, Great One? My husband told me he had seen folk rowing across the border on the rivers and trudging across it with packs on their backs!”

“Even so; I saw them, too, and not in one place, but a dozen, for I flew along that borderland for twenty miles or more.” Stegoman’s eyes glowed with anger. “Mortal folk have no difficulty, show no sign even of knowing the exact moment when they cross the border-but I could not cross it!”

A sudden realization of strategy seized Alisande, making her stand straighten “Dragons are forbidden, then.”

“ ‘Tis rank discrimination! Why should we be barred?”

“Why,” Alisande said slowly, “because you are the Free Folk, and pride yourself on not serving any but yourselves-most notably, not serving Evil.”

“King Boncorro cannot trust us, then, can he?” Stegoman said slowly. “He cannot. Folk who are evil may, at least, be trusted to do whatever will most advance their own cause-but good folk can be trusted only to do what their consciences dictate, which is not always in the interests of a king! Mere mortal folk can do little damage, but an angry dragon is a fearsome sight indeed!”

“It is.” Stegoman preened a bit; whatever influences he might have been immune to, flattery wasn’t among them. “Nay, on reflection, I cannot blame the king for wishing to exclude us. I wonder, though, if Matthew shall gain entry through that wretched wall, or if it will keep out any whose will is not in accord with King Boncorro’s.” Alisande felt a stab of anxiety. “I hope not, or those of my subjects who have journeyed south to visit would already harbor treason in their hearts. Mayhap if you were to walk across the border, rather than fly… ?” She frowned. “I own that it worries me greatly, Stegoman, to learn there is so much commerce across that border, that you did see more than a dozen folk crossing in only a score of miles!”

 

Prologue

The dragon nodded. “And half of those miles must be impassable, being mountain peaks.”

“Indeed! ”Tis bad enough that folk do cross that border in both directions and so readily-but

‘tis even more alarming to learn that you cannot join Matthew!“ Stegoman frowned. “Surely, given such a state of affairs, he would follow the course of prudence and…” His voice trailed off; then he said, “No. He would not, would he?”

“Nay,” Alisande agreed. “We speak of Matthew, after all.” She turned away to hide a sudden stab of anxiety-a stab that she felt in her abdomen, and her hand automatically moved toward it. Again she forced it away. “Your Majesty!” Lady Constance came running up, short of breath. “Your Majesty, a messenger has come from Sir Guy de Toutarien!” Hope sprang again in Alisande’s heart. “Bring him, bring him at once!”

“He comes,” the lady said. The messenger strode quickly up and knelt, bowing his head.

“Enough, man!” Alisande cried impatiently. “There is no time for ceremony now! Tell me your message!”

“Why, your Majesty,” said the messenger, standing up again, “ ‘tis simply that Sir Guy does send to say that he hearkens to your message and hastens to find Lord Matthew and join him.”

“Thank Heaven!” Alisande breathed, but amazement followed hard on relief. “How did you find him so quickly?”

The messenger shrugged. “I rode toward the western mountains, and when I came in sight of them, a rider came up beside me. ‘Good day, herald,’ said he. ‘Good day,’

said I, turning to look full upon him, and added ‘sir,’ for though he wore no armor, he was girt around with a knight’s belt. ‘The mountains are a lonely place to ride,’ he said. ‘Who could you seek there?’ ‘Sir Guy de Toutarien, sir,’ I replied. ‘I have a message from the queen.’

‘Why, I am he,’ said the knight. ‘What is her message?’ “ Lady Constance gasped. “He knew you did seek him! But how?”

“How?” Alisande shrugged impatiently. “Who can say? The earth told the grass, and the grass told the trees; then they told Sir Guy. He is so much a part of this land that the very air breathes its secrets to him. ‘How’ matters naught; it only signifies that he has heard, and goes!”

“He advises that you send me next to seek out the wizard Saul,” the herald added, “for surely, says he, two wizards shall be of greater effect than one alone.” Prologue

“You have named it! Rest, then go!”

“The Black Knight does ask a boon, though, Your Majesty,” the herald said. “He has but to name it!”

“He asks that you shelter his wife and child until he comes again.”

“Aye, certes!” Alisande looked up to the nearest knight. “A company of knights, to serve as escort to the Lady Yverne!”

“He said she would come of her own,” the herald said quickly. Alisande stared, horrified. “A gentle lady, traveling with none to guard her? And with a babe! I hope someday to boast that any woman may journey thus in safety in my land-but I would not think it yet!” A sentry cried out from the western tower. Alisande turned and followed his pointing arm.

There, with the morning sun gilding his wings, came a very strange monster-one with the head of a dragon, the hindquarters of a lion, and the wings of an eagle-if eagles had ever had wingspans of fifty feet. “ ‘Tis the dracogriff Narlh!” Alisande cried. “But what does he carry?’

The answer became clear as the monster came closer. A woman rode between his wings, carrying something in her arms. “ ‘Tis the Lady Yverne!” Lady Constance cried. Then they all had to turn away, shielding their faces from blowing dust and grit as the dracogriff settled to the ground-all except Stegoman, who only slitted his eyes and called out, “Well met, cat tail!

How came you here?”

“As if you didn’t know,” Narlh snorted. “I hate flying!”

“The more gallant you were, then, to bring me,” Lady Yverne said. “Well, for you, sure,” Narlh grumbled, turning his head back to look at his passenger-and she leaned forward to kiss his nose. He yanked his head back, but his scales seemed to redden. Two knights were already there to help her down. “Descend, Lady! Yet will you not give us your burden first?”

“Only to a woman,” Yverne said firmly, and Queen Alisande herself beat Lady Elise and Lady Constance to the draco’s side. She reached up, and the lady handed down her precious bundle. Alisande cradled it in her elbow, turning the blanket back to reveal a smooth little face, blinking itself awake. “Oh, how sweet! But come quickly, milady, for he wakes!”

“She.” Yveme slid down, the knights catching her at waist and shoulder to ease her fall. She took the baby from Alisande with a smile. “I am blessed that my firstborn is a girl-but I hope also to give Sir Guy a boy.”

 

Prologue

“I hope so, too,” Alisande said fervently. Sir Guy was the secret heir to Emperor Hardishane, and very eager not to resume the throne-but it was vital to the safety of Europe, and to the triumph of God and Good, that the male line of Hardishane’s descent be unbroken. “Come, you must be wearied!” Alisande led her guest away toward the castle, then turned back to call, “Many thanks, Narlh! Grooms! Fetch this noble dracogriff an ox to eat!”

“Thanks, your Majesty,” Narlh called back, then turned to Stegoman. “Your family sent their greetings, just in case I should bump into you, fish face.”

“I hope they have honored you as you deserve, feather tip.” And the two monsters went away toward the stables, companionably trading insults. But Alisande didn’t notice-she was too busy ogling the new arrival. “Oh, you are so fortunate to have a child so soon!”

“I have not the cares of state to distract my body from its purpose,” Yverne said, smiling.

“You must load more of your burden onto your husband, Majesty.” Then she looked at Alisande more sharply, and stared. “Yes, you must, and right quickly, too!” Alisande turned away, blushing. “Is it so obvious as that?‘

‘To any who has borne a child, aye-but do not ask me how. Oh, I rejoice for you, your Majesty! For you, and for all the land!“ Then Yverne stared in horror. ”But what a time for Lord Matthew to be gone playing the knight errant!“

“Aye,” Alisande said grimly, “and the more fool I, for having sent him from me. But he was restless, and I could not see any harm in the mission-nor that it might take any great time, either.” She closed the solar door firmly behind them, in the face of an amazed guard. “Come, sit in the chair by the window and nurse, for the babe begins to fret!”

“Aye, the poor thing. I thank your Majesty.” Yverne sat down, loosened her bodice, and cuddled the baby against her breast. She sighed with pleasure and satisfaction, gazing down at the little face. Alisande felt a pang at her own heart, seeing the other woman radiant with happiness. “I regret that I cannot stay to be a proper hostess and give you full company.”

“Not stay!” Yverne looked up, appalled. “Your Majesty! You do not mean to go after your husband! Not at such a time!”

“But I must,” Alisande said simply, “for what would I do if he did not come back to me?” Chapter 6

Matt didn’t know which had shaken him more, the close shave or the manticore itself. Either Prologue

way, it took until nightfall for him to work up the courage to try again-especially since the logical question was, why bother? After all, it wasn’t as if Latruria was about to attack Merovence! Or was it? What was going on in Latruria that King Boncorro didn’t want one of Alisande’s wizards to see? So the manticore itself was answer enough. If the king or one of his officials-say, his Lord Chancellor-had sicced the monster on Matt to keep him out, there must be a really good reason why he should go in! So he pumped up his courage, hunted around in the moonlight, and finally found a fold in the earth that he might have overlooked even in daylight. You couldn’t really call it a gully-it was only seven feet or so deep, and scarcely wide enough for Matt to walk through without turning sideways. It looked like the kind of thing a glacier might have gouged as an afterthought on its way back up the peak for the long summer. And if he might have overlooked it, maybe the manticore had, too-assuming that whatever sort of magical homing sense it had couldn’t pinpoint him too exactly. Which was quite a big assumption. Too big. Matt came tiptoeing up out of the cleft on its far end muttering a verse that ought to stop any attackers, just in case-and a yowl of triumph filled the air as an extra couple of crescents flashed in the sky. “Creep in a petty pace from now till day!” Matt shouted as he leaped back into the gully. “In halting syllables of unrecorded time!” He sprinted back toward the Merovencian border, not daring to look back until he shot out the other end of the drawlet. Then he whirled to look back, just as the yowl ended in a curse as the monster hit the ground. It bounded up again instantly, heading straight for him-but it moved so slowly that before its hind legs had fully cleared the earth, it had time to shout, “I shall be revenged! My master shall banish this spell in an instant!”

“Just glad I had it ready to shout,” Matt said with a shudder. He turned his back and walked away, leaving the manticore suspended in midair. Twenty feet more and he heard a sudden thud and a yowl of victory, followed by a SPLAT! and a howl of rage. Matt could almost see the manticore suddenly speeding up to normal, landing, and charging straight at him, but slamming into the Wall of Octroi again. He kept going. If King Boncorro was so determined not to have fellow magicians come visiting, maybe Matt ought to let him have his own way and be lonely-at least, intellectually. But he didn’t quite have it in him to quit. It was that same dogged persistence that had brought him to Merovence in the first place-he wouldn’t stop trying to translate an untranslatable fragment of manuscript, had just kept repeating its syllables over and over again until they had made sense-and had found himself in an alien city, understanding a language that had never been spoken in his own universe of universities and political offices for out-of-work actors. Now, for the same reason, he kept prowling about the border, feeling weariness drag at him more and more heavily-but every time he looked south around another rock, there stood the manticore, glaring balefully at him with glowing eyes and glinting teeth. The sky lightened with false dawn as Matt’s eyelids weighted with fatigue-so he wasn’t looking where he was going, or stepping as lightly as he might have, which was no doubt why he tripped over something that jerked bolt upright with a shout of fear and alarm. “Sorry, sorry!” Matt backed away, holding up both palms in a placating gesture. “I didn’t mean to wake you, didn’t mean to trip over… Pascal!”

“Why, it is the Knight of Bath!” Pascal threw his blanket back, rubbing his eyes. “How came Prologue

you here?”

“Trying to cross into Latruria for a, uhm, visit, but I’ve got a stumbling block…”

“Aye-my leg!”

“I said I was sorry. Now it’s your turn.”

“What-to say I am sorry?” Pascal stared, trying to decide whether or not to be offended.

“No-to tell me what you’re doing here!”

“Ah!”Pascal nodded. “I,too, am seeking to cross into Latruria-for a visit.” Matt smiled, amused. “Well, we seem to be going in the same direction. But why did you camp out on this side of the border?” He wondered if the young man had met the manticore, too. “There was no reason to hurry ahead, and there was a stream nearby,” Pascal explained.

“But why have you not yet crossed? You set out a day ahead of me!”

“I’ve encountered a problem. What made you start right from the count’s castle, instead of going home first?”

“Ah.” Pascal’s face clouded. “As to that, there was some disagreement with my father.”

“Oh.” Matt instantly pictured a howling fight, ending with a box on the ear followed by a slamming exit. “About… Charlotte?”

“Aye. He was not happy to learn that I had told her I did not wish to marry. Her father, too, was angry, and had spoken ill of me to my own father.”

“He couldn’t understand that not being in love is a reason for not marrying?”

“Not when it was not he who would be doing the marrying,” Pascal said bitterly. “He told me that folk do not fall in love, they grow to love one another, as he and Mother had. I asked him if that was why there had been so little joy in their marriage. ‘Twas then that he struck me and I stalked out.”

“Afraid you might hit him, huh?‘

“Even so.” Pascal looked up, surprised. “You have had an argument much like that?” Prologue

“Several. My father didn’t see any sense in studying literature. Your father did have one point, though-Charlotte’s a pretty girl, and she certainly seems sweet.”

“Yes, she is!” Pascal said quickly. “A surer friend I could never hope for-but she is not the one I love.”

“Oh.” Matt lifted his head slowly, pursing his lips. “Yes, that would make Charlotte less fascinating, wouldn’t it? So your lady love lives in Latruria, and you’re traveling south to see her. What did you say her name was?”

“She is a lady of rarest beauty and grace.” Pascal gazed off into the distance with a fatuous smile. “Her hair is golden, her eyes the blue of the sea, her face a marvel of daintiness and sweetness.”

“Sounds like love, all right.” Personally, Matt thought Pascal was doomed to disappointment, if the girl really was that beautiful. The squire’s son was downright homely, with a long face, thin lips, and gaunt cheeks. His only claim to attractiveness was his eyes, which were large, dark, and expressive. Frankly, Matt thought he’d been fantastically lucky to attract Charlotte as much as he had. Of course, her father’s orders had helped… “How did you say you met this gem?”

“At a gathering last summer. Our Latrurian cousins guested us-and I met Panegyra! One look, and I was transported!”

Not far enough, Matt guessed. “Love at first sight, eh?”

“Aye, and ‘twas hard to find a moment to speak to her alone, so hemmed in was she with duennas and sisters and aunts! But I contrived-I bided my time and caught her in a quiet moment, with others far enough distant for me to tell her my name and praise her beauty. She laughed, calling it flattery-but I saw an answering spark in her eyes! She feels as strongly toward me as I toward her! I know it!”

“Lovers know many things that are not true,” Matt said slowly. “I seem to remember something about being cousins…”

“Aye, somewhere low on our family trees-third cousins at least, more probably fifth or sixth.

Surely it could not matter!”

“Nothing does, to a lover-at least, not until after the wedding. So she hasn’t told you she loves you, and you haven’t proposed?”

“Nay, but I am sure she does, and I shall!”

 

Prologue

“Seems pretty thin grounds for walking out on your family and heading south to see her.”

“But I must!” Pascal raised feverish eyes. “For yesterday, one of my southern cousins told me that sweet Panegyra has been betrothed! Nay, worse-she is to be wed within the month! I must stop her! I must tell her of my burning love, that she may turn away from this gouty old vulture her father would force upon her! I must save her from such a fate!”

“Oh. He’s older than she is, then?”

“Aye-twenty years at least! A dotard with rotting teeth, a swag belly, and a breath like a charnel house, I doubt not! How could they entomb so sweet a breath of spring as Panegyra in so foul a marriage, and she but eighteen?”

“Do you really think she’ll just cut all her family ties and elope with you?” Matt asked gently.

Pascal’s shoulders sagged. “Nay, I fear not. What have I to offer, after all, save a gift for crafting verse, and a heart that would ever be true to her?”

“And love,” Matt said softly. “Love that should set the world afire! Love that should bind her to me forever! Love that should bear her aloft in bliss for all her life!” Matt felt the vein of poetry in the words, and that was no metaphor-he could feel magical forces around him twitch in response to even so mild a flight of structure in wording. It gave him a chill-he had met a poet who couldn’t control himself, kept spouting verses at odd moments, and accidentally made some very strange things happen. “Say-you do know how to write, don’t you?”

“Aye.” Pascal turned to him in surprise. “Why do you ask?”

“Just make sure that if you get hit with a sudden attack of verse, you write it down instead of speaking it aloud, okay? You do seem to realize that poetry isn’t much of a basis for marriage, though.”

“Aye.” Pascal’s gaze lowered. “I am a poor choice, I know, for I have no money, no handsomeness of face or figure-and, now that I have rebelled against his tyranny, will no longer inherit my father’s house and lands! Still, I hope to make my way in the world, to win fame and fortune-and if I can only persuade Panegyra to wait for me a year or two, I may prove worthy of her love!”

Five years or ten, more likely-assuming the kid worked hard and had good luck. “But you have to reach her before the wedding.”

 

Prologue

“Aye!” Pascal sprang up and rolled up his blanket “There is not a moment to spare! I thank you for waking me, Sir Matthew-I must be off!”

Well, Matt hadn’t wanted to say it. “Hold on a minute, friend.” He held up a cautioning hand.

“You won’t get very far, running on empty. How about a bit of breakfast first? Besides, you may find it’s not all that easy to get into Latruria.”

“It shall be, for me! There is a clandestine route, one known only to a few families. I would not call it truly secret, but if the king’s soldiers know of it, they certainly pay it no heed.”

“Oh, really?” Matt pricked up his ears. “Say, I’ve got some journey rations here. How about we pool breakfasts and I tag along when you go?”

“Why, since you offer,” Pascal said, surprised. “I own I came away in such haste that I brought only a loaf. Nay, let us become road companions, then!”

“Great!” But Matt’s conscience bothered him. “I do have a little problem, though. There’s this monster that seems to have fixated on me, decided he’s going to have me for lunch, no matter where I cross the border-and he has an uncanny knack of knowing exactly where I am.”

“A monster?” Pascal looked up, suddenly alert. “Is it a manticore?” Matt stared. “How’d you know?”

“Because it has been long known to my family. Never fear, friend-I have an old family charm that will tame the beast.”

“A family charm!” Then Matt remembered. “That’s right-you said your grandfather was a wizard. You mean you inherited his talent?”

“What, a knack for crafting verses and the sensing of unseen forces?” Pascal said it almost contemptuously. “Aye, I do. All of my family have it, in one degree or another.”

“Magic as a dominant trait,” Matt muttered, watching the young man as he knelt to feed the coals and blow them into flame. “How much do you have?” Pascal shrugged “Enough to recite the old family spells and make them work-to summon brownies to the bowl of milk, that they may aid us; to kindle fire, banish warts, and suchlike.”

“Such-like getting rid of manticores?”

 

Prologue

“Only the one.” Pascal held up his index finger. “It is almost kin, my family has known it so long-and if there were more than one manticore in that county, ‘twould be surprising indeed.”

“Yes, I can see that.” Matt frowned. “If there were two, one of them would gobble the other up. Uh, may I ask why you didn’t include wizardry in your catalog of desirable traits for a suitor?”

“Wizardry has been no advantage, in Latruria,” Pascal said with a cynical smile, “not for many decades. Only sorcery is prized there-and I will be amazed if that state of affairs has changed greatly under King Boncorro’s reign.”

Matt frowned. “So you’re not interested in learning how to be a professional.”

“Nay.” Pascal shrugged impatiently. “What use is magic? Who respects the wizard? My grandfather was such a one-and all it brought him was advancement to the rank of squire!”

“You want to be something more, then.” Of course the kid did-he’d been born a squire, hadn’t he? No progress if he never became anything more. Pascal confirmed Matt’s guess with a nod.

“There is little respect in being a squire, Sir Matthew. As you yourself know, one must be a knight, at least, to have any true standing in this world.”

“Well, there’s some truth in that,” Matt admitted. In fact, there was a lot of truth-being dubbed a knight magically gave a man better judgment and the power to prevail against his competitors. People listened to knights, but not to wizards. Matt had found that out the hard way, when he first came to Merovence. “I take it your father couldn’t become one, being the wrong kind of squire.”

“Oh, nay! A squire is a squire, after all, and he might have won his spurs-if he had wished to.

But he was quite content to sit on his home acre, tending his peasants and watching them raise his crops.”

“You mean he never even tried?”

“Never,” Pascal confirmed. “But so little is not enough, for me! I shall have more, or die trying to attain it! Besides,” he confided, “the fair Panegyra might look more favorably upon me if I were Sir Pascal!”

Not much chance, Matt thought privately, unless some land and money went with the title-but he didn’t say so. They broke Pascal’s loaf between them, shared out some of Matt’s beef jerky, and Matt introduced the young man to tea, which was brand new in Bordestang, Queen Alisande’s capital. Matt guessed that some enterprising sea captains had found their way to China, and he wondered if those men came from Latruria, as they had in his own universe-Prologue

where the peninsula was called “Italy.”

He expected he would find out very soon. They doused the fire and set off, Pascal actually whistling, now that he was on his way to the fair Panegyra, and Matt with a growing knot in his belly, now that he was on his way back to the manticore. Alisande’s army stood gathered in the courtyard of her castle in the chill light of false dawn, shivering and grumbling to one another. “We have been waiting most of an hour already!” one soldier complained to his sergeant. “Did not the queen waken when we did?‘

“ ‘Tis no affair of yours when she rises or when she sleeps!” the sergeant barked. “It is your affair only to be on your feet and ready when she calls!” Privately, though, he wondered. The queen had never kept her troops standing about for more than a few minutes before. Had she really slept while they mustered? “The queen grows lazy,” one trooper griped to another.

“She would have us up and marching while she sits abed nibbling sweet biscuits.” Food, however, was the farthest thing from Alisande’s mind as her ladies supported her away from the basin toward an hourglass chair. “You must sit, your Majesty,” Lady Constance crooned. “And whatever you do, you should not be riding when you are in so delicate a condition.”

“Condition?” Alisande forced herself to stand straight and tall, though the chair appealed to her mightily. “What condition? A moldy bit of cheese for supper last night, that is all!”

“And the night before, and the night before?” said Lady Julia with a skeptical glance. ‘Tell that to the men, Majesty, but do not seek to cozen we who have borne children ourselves.“ Alisande deflated. Her ladies took the chance to ease her into a chair. “I have not deceived you for a moment, have I?” the queen muttered thickly. “Well, for a week or two,” the elder lady allowed. “But a woman gains a certain glow when she knows there is new life within her, Majesty. The men notice it, but fools that they are, they think it is due to their own presence!”

“Well, it is, in a way,” Alisande muttered. “To more man their mere presence, I should think!

But you know your husband will be overjoyed when he learns this glad news, Majesty-and sorely saddened if you should lose the babe while riding after him!”

“I must,” Alisande declared, though every fiber of her being cried out to stay home within the thick, safe walls of her castle and let all the silly affairs of die world go by, except for the single truly important business of cherishing the grain of life within her. But the babe must not be born fatherless! “I must ride.” She lifted her head, rising above the residue of nausea by sheer willpower. “I let him go from me once-I shall not make that error again!” Prologue

The ladies fell back before the sheer power of her personality, but the eldest objected, “The welfare of the kingdom requires an heir!”

‘The welfare of the realm requires the Lord Wizard!“ Alisande retorted ”Do not ask me how I know this-it is the magic of this land, that monarchs know what is best for their countries and their people!“

“Good monarchs, at least,” one of the younger ladies murmured-to herself, she thought, but Alisande turned to her, nodding. “We all remember the days of the usurper who slew my father and had no feeling for the welfare of the land or the people! We must not see such days come again!”

“Therefore you must not risk yourself,” Lady Constance scolded, “or the heir!”

“I must.” Alisande pushed herself to her feet. “If I do not, if I let myself be shorn of my wizard, the realm shall be imperiled. I must ride!” But how, Alisande wondered, would she ever fight a battle, if she was to start each morning with her head over a basin! The “clandestine route”-presumably known only to every smuggler in the territory-was really pretty good; it consisted of a series of caves, joined by sizeable tunnels. They had to be sizeable, after all, since the goal of developing the route had been to smuggle not people, but goods. Matt could see, by the light of his torch, the marks of pickaxes where some of the passages had needed a bit of widening-maybe more than a bit.

But from a functional point of view, it was marvelous-Pascal led him behind a small waterfall on the Merovencian side of the border and into a cave that widened as they went farther in.

They had to stop to light torches, of course, but there was a whole stack of them, with jars of oil to soak their tow-wrapped ends, sitting about ten feet in from the mouth of the cave-far enough to stay dry, close enough to still be in the light There was even flint and steel. All they had to do was open one of the jars, dunk the torch ends in, and strike a spark with the flint and steel-re-covering the jar first, of course. Then Pascal set off into the lower depths with Matt following, wondering how many of the royal customs agents on both sides of the border knew about this route. After all, a secret known to two people is compromised, and a secret known to three is no secret at all, so with this route being common knowledge to the border families, it was scarcely possible that the excise men wouldn’t know about it-which led to the interesting question of why they ignored its use. At a guess, Matt hazarded, a trickle of trade was to the mutual advantage of both countries-after all, the Latrurian lords no doubt wanted Merovencian wines, and the aristocracy of Merovence probably prized the spices and silks brought in by Latrurian merchants. On the other hand, open and widespread commerce would have robbed the royal exchequers of tariff income. Matt saw the light at the end of the tunnel and reached out to touch Pascal’s elbow. “Remember the manticore.”

“Never fear,” Pascal assured him-but he went ahead a little more cautiously, reciting: “When Prologue

the Merovencian smuggler meets the manticore in pride, He will shout to scare the monster, who will quail and turn aside. Then the monster will remember where his true allegiance lies, And will hearken to the orders of the man who bids him rise!” As a verse, it was good, but it didn’t sound like much of a spell, and Matt was amazed that the young man still went on without trembling. He began to mutter his slow-down spell under his breath again, getting it ready just in case… Then Pascal stepped out of the cave, and a yowl split the world. At the last second Matt found he didn’t have it in him to let the kid die alone. He jumped out of the cave, yanking his sword out, seeing the speed-blurred brindled mass hurtling toward them, all teeth. Then Pascal shouted, “Down, monster! Down, to a son of the wizard who tamed you!”

Matt had never before seen a beast put on the brakes in mid-leap. It was really quite a sight-the manticore twisted in midair as if it were trying to change directions. It did, actually, swerving aside from Pascal and plunging right toward Matt, teeth first. Matt yanked a sugarplum out of his pocket and threw it, bull’s-eye, right between the serrated teeth. Then he jumped, as far as he could to the side-right, in fact, on the other side of Pascal. The manticore’s jaws clashed shut automatically, and its throat throbbed with a single swallow even as it twisted in midair again, to land on all four feet. The monster looked very surprised, actually closing its lips for the first time since Matt had met it. Then it began to look very, very pleased. “Delicious! What part of your anatomy was that, O Wizard?”

“Not part of me at all,” Matt said, “just some leftover dessert from the banquet two nights ago. I was saving it for a treat.”

“I must give you thanks! Perhaps not enough to spare your life, but thanks nonetheless! Quite the most delicious tidbit I have ever munched.” Then the manticore began to stalk toward Matt again. “Hold!” Pascal held up a palm, and Matt had to give him maximum points for bravery, but absolutely none for intelligence. Then he deducted from his own score, because the monster stopped on the instant, then crouched down and rubbed its head against Pascal’s leg, making an appalling grating noise that Matt vaguely recognized as a gigantic purr. The youth trembled, but stood his ground resolutely. However, he didn’t take his eyes from the monster for a second as he asked Matt, “When did you pick up that sugarplum?”

“Right after dinner, while you and Charlotte were settling your futures,” Matt answered.

“How did you get that cat to obey?”

Pascal glanced down and shrugged. “I know not; ‘twas truly my grandfather’s verse. He it was who first tamed this manticore and forbade him to eat human flesh or steal food of any sort, in return for which Grandfather gave him a bullock a day, or two sheep when the cattle were all eaten.”

 

Prologue

“Delicious!” The manticore looked up eagerly. “I had never eaten so regularly before! I mourned when the old man died, but grew hungry within a day. Still, in honor to his memory, I would not eat cattle, sheep, or people within his parish-so I fared south to Latruria, and have been here ever since! But it has been a dog’s existence, young man-nay, not even fit for a dog! Taking what meat I may, then fleeing with it before the knights or sorcerers come…

Fighting with armies of peasants for my meals, which is painful, though tasty… Enslaved to one sorcerer after another, to feed on grain and their enemies only! Have you come to free me, then?”

Pascal hesitated, and Matt leaned close to mutter, “If you don’t, he has to serve whatever sorcerer sicced him on me-by eating me! Not your problem, I know, but…”

“But if I free him completely, he may turn on me!” Pascal muttered back. Not softly enough; the manticore said, “Never! I would never munch the flesh and bone of my Master Fleuryse!

Nor drink his blood, no matter through whose veins it flows!”

“You really must have liked the old geezer,” Matt observed. “Vastly! He could have slain me, aye, slain me as easily as tamed me! Yet he chose to spare my life, and moreover to feed me!” Matt could have pointed out that the spell probably would have stopped working if the old wizard had stopped feeding the manticore-hunger has a way of breaking down inhibitions-but it didn’t seem like the most politic comment at the moment. “Then I free you from any other spells or geas that have been laid upon you,” Pascal said, but he cast a worried glance at Matt. “Still, I had only planned to walk safely past you, not to have you accompany me.”

“Where you go, I shall bound!” The monster leaped to its feet. “Your paths shall be my paths, your enemies my dinners!”

“But you have to provide alternative menus when there aren’t any enemies handy,” Matt reminded. “How shall I do that?” Pascal wailed. “I have no money to buy cattle, no magic to conjure them up!”

“Oh, you’ll think of something.” Matt clapped him on the shoulder. “And if you don’t, I will.

Don’t look so worried, Pascal-I have a few ducats in my purse. Besides, you never know when a voracious monster might come in handy. Think anybody’s gonna try and charge us tolls?” He turned the young man away, sheathed his sword-and together they set off for the south, the manticore following a few yards behind. “You do not understand!” Pascal hissed to Matt.

“For this beast, fondness for people is tied to fondness for food! If we do not feed it, it will feed on whatever comes first to fang! I shall be safe, for I am of the blood of the Wizard Fleuryse, but you shall not!”

 

Prologue

Matt noticed that the day had suddenly grown chilly. “So I’d better really deliver on that promise to find him food, huh?”