The Secular Wizard - Wis in Rhyme - 4 (35 page)

Matt timed it so the nobleman would just be passing as he sang:

"Oh, a private buffoon is a lighthearted loon, And you'll listen to all of his rumor.

From the morn to the night he's so joyous and bright, And he bubbles with wit and good humor.

He's so quaint and so terse,

Both in prose and in verse,

So all people forgive him transgression.

My lord, bend the rule, and take up this fool

To the king, for he loves his profession."

The carriage stopped and the aristocrat peered out through the door, no doubt wondering what there was about this minstrel that was so compelling-he didn't sound all that funny.

Matt went on:

"I've jibe and joke, and quip and prank,

For lowly folk, and men of rank!

I cry my craft, and know no fear,

But aim my shaft at prince or peer.

"I've wisdom from the East and from the West That is subject to no academic rule.

You may find it in the jeering of a jest, Or distill it from the folly of a fool!

if it's offered to the king in any guise, The sponsor, he will favor with a will.

Oh! He who'd rise in courtier's circles high Should take the king a jester, and his shill!"

The nobleman laughed, and his lady joined in. He wiped his eyes and said, "Well-spoken, minstrel! In fact, hilariously spoken! Climb up behind, for you must come with me to the king!"

Some show of reluctance was in order. "But your Lordship-"

"Get up behind, I said!" The nobleman frowned. "Are you under the illusion that you have a choice?"

"No, my lord! Right away, my lord!" Matt slung his lute across his back and leaped up to the perch on the back of the coach, calling,

"Come on, Pascal!" Then, to the footman who had already moved over to make room for him, "He's part of the act."

"Part or not, there is no more room!" the man protested.

"There is scarcely enough for three, let alone four!"

"Number four," Matt said, standing up and grabbing a footman's handle, "you'll have to sit between my feet and hold onto my ankles."

"Stand fast," Pascal begged as he hiked himself up onto the moving seat and off they went, with the disappointed commoners protesting loudly, and Pascal trying to count his hat with one hand, the other el-bow hooked around Matt's shin.

Off they went, with Matt reflecting that either the mangled version of Gilbert's verse had been funnier than he knew or his magic was getting stronger. Maybe it was just a matter of getting adjusted to the Latrurian environment.

Matt just hoped he wasn't adjusting too far.

The sentries didn't even bat an eye as their party drove over the draw-bridge and into the courtyard. The coach drew to a halt and the foot-men hopped down to open the doors. Matt and Pascal hopped down, too, and started to follow the nobleman and his wife, but a footman caught Matt by the elbow. "Through the kitchens, you! You're no better than the rest of us!" And he led Matt off firmly, while his mate took Pascal in tow.

Definitely, he had not worked this spell just to meet the royal cook. "But your master wants us to sing for the king! I1

"He will send for you when it is time." The footman clearly didn't think much of this way of hiring new staff. "You'll stay in the servants' hall, or whatever sleeping chamber they afford you, until then. " The "sleeping chamber" turned out to be a ten-by-six-foot space with a four-foot-high ceiling that sloped rapidly down to six inches-they were under the eaves. Matt warily eyed a dark spot in the over-head boards and decided not to rest his lute underneath.

The loft was hot and stifling. He could hardly wait for dusk.

"Everything considered, Pascal, let's hang out in the servants'

hall."

"'Hang out'?" Pascal gave him a blank look.

"Loiter. Idle. While away time when we don't have anything to do.

Pester the servants and find out about the king." Pascal's eyes lit.

"Come on." Matt headed for the curtained hole that served as ù door.

He tried out the strength of his new spell by singing it to the off-duty servants, then following it up with some popular songs from his own world and time that he had found singularly disagreeable. The servants gathered around with wide eyes and tapping toes, hanging on his every phrase. Grins broke out and people began dancing. Matt decided that the spell worked like a charm. Come to think of it, in this universe, it was a charm.

Either that or rock music had a more universal appeal than he was willing to admit, even when it was played on a lute by a third-rate amateur ...

"Ho, minstrel!" It was the lord's footman at the door again, the one with his face in a permanent sneer. "Your master summons you!"

"Why, then, I shall obey with alacrity!" Matt struck a final chord and nodded to Pascal. "Let's go."

The servants grumbled in disappointment as Pascal followed Matt to-ward the door. "Don't worry, we'll be back," Matt assured them, then wished he hadn't. Sometimes he had trouble keeping his promises. They wound a tortuous way through halls that had been accumulating sudden turns for centuries, then came up to a stout oaken door banded with brass and flanked by two guards. The footman announced, "The minstrel Matthew and his assistant Alacrity, responding to the summons of Conte Paleschino."

Matt turned to him, puzzled. "My assistant ... ? Oh, right." The left-hand guard scowled. "We have permission for a minstrel to enter with you, but none other."

The footman frowned, but Matt said quickly, "Don't worry about it. Pascal can hobnob with the off-duty servants while he waits for me.

In fact, I thought you had struck up an acquaintance with a young lady there, hadn't you, Pascal?"

"Aye," the young man said, giving Matt a very direct look in the eye. "There is a young lady there who is quite fascinating. She dwells with the women who wait upon the king, and seems to partake of their beauty."

The footman frowned, incensed, but the guard gave Pascal a sly grin. "Aye, lad, back to the servants' hall with you, to deepen your acquaintance. Can you find your way?"

"Oh, I shall ask if I have need." Pascal turned away. "I shall see you when you have finished, friend Matthew. I trust you shall be well-received and shall play long for them."

"Thanks." Matt could take a hint. Pascal was trusting him to keep the king and his men occupied for a long time. Well, he would do his best to play along-a very long.

He turned back to the guard. "Okay. Do I get to see the king now?" "No. You see his Lordship." The guard nodded to his mate, who swung the little door open. The footmen pushed in front of Matt, snapping, "This way!" Matt let him go first, and followed him in. The huge room they entered was lit only by candles around the walls, and a row of small, narrow windows high above. Matt glanced up, just to check, and sure enough, there were guards stationed next to the windows, on a catwalk that went completely around the huge room. Those weren't windows, they were arrow slits. Each embrasure was filled with tinted glass-tinted not by intention, Matt supposed, but by imperfect glass-making.

Still, the muted background light that it gave the throne room was really very pleasing, especially when it was highlighted by the two ten-branch candelabra at either side of the steps that led up to the throne.

The dais wasn't really very high-only three feet or so-but it was enough to make the king decidedly the center of the room. Matt took a quick glance-all he could manage, as he followed the footman who was weaving through the crowd. But he retained the image of the king and studied it until he could look again.

He didn't have time, though. The footman was standing by the nobleman from the coach, who didn't seem to be anywhere nearly as tall now that he was standing on the floor. In fact, he was shorter than Matt, if you didn't count all the hair piled up on top of his head.

"Milord." The footman bowed. "The minstrel is here."

"Very good, very good." The count shot Matt a keen glance.

"You had best be as amusing for the king as you were for me, fellow." "I shall do my best, my lord." Matt bowed, managing to keep a straight face-if the count knew that Matt technically ranked him, he would have had to push his jaw shut. Of course, if the count knew that this minstrel had been born at a station lower than his own, he would have had apoplexy. Matt entertained a brief vision of the count having apoplexy with an open jaw, then put it resolutely behind him

as his new "master" brought him up to stand before the dais. The count bowed, and Matt followed suit. "Your Majesty!" the count cried.

"May I present the minstrel of whom I spoke!" A ripple of interest passed through the ranks of the crowd of courtiers-anything to break the boredom, Matt decided. If he was amusing, all well and good. If he wasn't, they'd have fun watching him be flogged.

But when he looked up at King Boncorro, he had difficulty believing this handsome young man would flog a minstrel just for poor singing. The bilious, scrawny old man standing behind himwell, he looked ready to flog Matt right now-but the king himself was in his mid-twenties, about ten years younger than Matt himself. His face was open and seemed guileless, his blue eyes frank and honest, his nose straight and his chin firm without being too large. He looked like a real nice guy, all-American and addicted to Mom's apple pie. Of course, Matt reminded himself, these people didn't know about America-for all he knew, it might not be there; he hadn't gotten around to looking yet-and probably didn't know about apple pie, el-ther. If Boncorro was really skilled at deception, one of the first things he would have learned was to look honest and guileless. Matt decided to withold judgment, but couldn't help liking the kid anyway-which, no doubt, was just what Boncorro intended.

"A minstrel, are you?" the young king asked. "Can you sing?"

"No, Majesty," Matt said honestly, "but my lute can, and my mouth says the words."

The crowd emitted a noise that sounded as if they weren't sure whether or not to laugh. Boncorro decided the issue for them by giving a chuckle. "Not only a minstrel, but a jester, too!

What songs can you sing, then?"

"I can sing you of my trade, Majesty."

"To sing of singing?" Boncorro's smile firmed with amusement.

"Well, then, let us hear it!"

Matt sang "I've jibe and joke" again. The crowd went silent at the first line and stayed that way so thoroughly that Matt knew they were charmed-literally. Boncorro listened closely, too, with an agreeable smile, but with a guarded look that told Matt that the king knew well and truly that he was being subjected to a spell, but that it didn't bother him. He was that sure of his own power to dispel the charm, if he thought it necessary. Matt's blood ran cold at the thought of that kind of power in one so young. Of course, Boncorro could have been wrong-he might not have been as powerful as he thought

...

Then again, he might.

When he finished, the crowd applauded, and Boncorro nodded approval. "Not bad, not bad at all-and your voice is far better than you led me to believe."

"Well, yes," Matt conceded. "I'm just not too good at hitting the right pitch, your Majesty, that's all."

The king smiled. "Well, your words were so fascinating that we did not concern ourselves with it. What is this 'wisdom of the East'

of which you speak?"

Matt was curious. "Is your Majesty not more concerned with what thoughts a minstrel would consider to be the wisdom of the West?"

"No," the king said, with absolute conviction. "I know what we of the Western world consider to be wisdom-it is religion, and I'll have none of it, or the magic of Evil, and I'll have none of that, either." The old man standing behind the throne looked very upset at that. Somehow, Matt didn't think he was the religious type.

"Why, just as your Majesty says." Matt was taken aback by the young man's intensity-but then, he had known other people who had rejected religion with an almost religious fervor. "Maybe you would prefer the wisdom of the East."

//what is it, then?"

The old geezer behind the throne was watching Matt very narrowly. Matt mustered his wits, trying to oversimplify drastically-not too hard, considering how little he knew.

"Broadly speaking, there are three kinds-but the one of them is so like that of the West that I think you would find it of little interest; it has to deal with who should take orders from whom, and how to keep things orderly in a kingdom." "You are right," the king said impatiently, "I know enough of that already. And the other two?"

"The one teaches that all life is more suffering than joy, and that the main goal in living is to be able to escape life." Boncorro frowned. "Why, a naked blade can accomplish that soon enough!"

"Only if death lets you stop existing," Matt pointed out, "without going to Hell."

Boncorro became totally still. "I think I do wish to learn this wisdom. How can one cease to exist when one is dead?"

"Only with great difficulty," Matt said, "for this wisdom teaches that unless you have lived the life of a saint, you will be reborn in an-other life, and have to live it over again, and the next, and the next, until you do manage to live a life of perfect purity."

Boncorro relaxed, disappointed. "There is no profit for me in that. I am a king, and cannot live a life of purity, for we who rule must ever make the hard choice between the lesser of two evils. Besides, I wish to make my life one of pleasure and joy, not one of suffering." "And your people's lives, too?" Matt watched him keenly. Boncorro shrugged. "If their happiness will make my life more pleasurable, yes-and I think it will. The more they prosper, the more tax they can pay, and the more wealthy I will become. The more con-tent they are, the less likely they are to rebel, and the less difficulty I will have keeping this crown on my head." So. A materialist, and one devoted to the good of his people, even if his reasons were less than noble. On the other hand, Matt wasn't all that sure he believed the king was really so self-centered.