Christopher Stasheff - Wizard in Rhyme 4 - Secular Wizard

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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

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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

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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

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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

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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…”

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“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!”

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“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

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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

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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

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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?”

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ProloguePrologueThetallroanstallionlookedupandnickered.Theotherhorsescrowded othedoorsoftheirstallstowatchAcceresethegroomashecameintothebarnwiththebagofoatsoverhisshoulder.Asmilebanishedhismorosenessforafewminutes.“Well!A leastsomeone’sgladtoseeme!”Hepouredameasureofgrainintothetroughonthestall...

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Christopher Stasheff - Wizard in Rhyme 4 - Secular Wizard

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