Her Majesty's Wizard #1 (3 page)

   The captain shrugged impatiently. "Wizard, sorcerer-it adds to the same sum; 'tis greater than any authority I claim."

   The sergeant raised an eyebrow, and the captain nodded. "Take him to the castle."

CHAPTER 2

   They loaded him down with chains, at least one of which Matt was certain was silver, and heaved him into an oxcart for the trip uptown, literally; it was uphill all the way. They wound through curving alley streets, constantly on the upgrade, through a melange of domestic architecture ranging from about 600 to 1300 A.D. This wasn't out of the ordinary in a European town; what bothered Matt was that some of the seventh-century shops looked almost as new as the fourteenth century ones. He gave up trying to make sense out of the historical periods; apparently every universe had its own sort of sequence.

   Which reminded him that he was about as far from home as a man could get. What had that parchment fragment said? "Cross the void of time and space ... ?" He had a sudden, vivid image of the chaos that would result as an infinite number of time tracks crossed and put the thought behind him with a shudder.

   Enough. He was in a universe other than his own; let it stand at that. It was one where the Ice Age had stayed late, or humanity had come early, for starters-and how many snarls would that make, in history's long yarn? Starting with England still being connected to France, it could make quite a few. Sure, the Britons probably wouldn't have built a wall across that narrow neck of land that connected Calais to Dover, but the Romans would have done so; the Brito-Romans had probably built such a wall to keep the Goths out, as Rome started to decline. If there had been a Rome here.

   Assume there had been; the language had some root words that resembled Latin cognates. And the captain had mentioned ancient Greece. The histories seemed to run a rough parallel; so there probably had been a Mediterranean empire corresponding to Rome.

   Okay. As Rome declined, the Brito-Romans probably would have built the wall, and it probably would have been every bit as effective as Hadrian's Wall-which is to say, in the long run, that the analog-Goths simply ignored it. And the Danes had probably come sailing in as merrily as in Matt's world.

   So England would have had its familiar potpourri of peoples and cultures, but with the pace possibly accelerated. Would that also apply to the English doing the conquering?

   It was possible. Henry II had made a fair bid for conquering as much of France as he hadn't inherited or married. And Canute was king of Norway, Denmark, and England all at the same time, but he ruled from England. If an ambitious Englishman had started moving in this universe, he might have taken the whole ball, of wax, since he didn't have to worry about naval supply lines.

   That could explain the English-language influence in southern France. Maybe Canute had done it. He was the one who'd commanded the sea not to roll in ... For a giddy moment, Matt found himself wondering if that might not be a better explanation of the lower waterline than glaciation; after all, magic seemed to work, in this universe ...

   He jerked himself out of the morass of mysticism; that way lay dragons. Magic was just superstition and an interesting academic study; it didn't really work anywhere. There was a perfectly logical explanation for the sudden appearance of so many beggars! If he could just find it...

   He gave his head a shake, forcing the flood of speculation. into the back of his mind, and found himself looking upward, along a twisting hill road, at a square, forbidding granite castle. In spite of the medievalisms he'd been seeing all morning, a cold-air movement coiled itself around his backbone. That castle looked so damned military, so real...

   The iron teeth of the portcullis seemed to bite down at him as the guards rolled him over the drawbridge. With a sudden ache, Matt wished with every ounce of his being that he were no place else than his own sloppy kitchen back in his off-campus, hole-in-the-wall apartment. Home ...

   They took him through a series of drafty corridors that seemed to grudge giving up an ounce of the winter's cold. Some had narrow, arrow slit windows; some had an occasional torch; some had nothing. The stairways they marched him up were broad enough for an army, which was probably what they were designed for, but just as dark, and possibly colder.

   The guards turned left suddenly and trundled him though a huge oaken door into a fifteen-by-twenty study with two large windows to let sunlight in through actual glass. How come no arrow slits? Matt took a peek and saw a courtyard-with soldiers drilling.

   But the rest of the room was reassuring, though only by comparison. The two side walls were hung with huge tapestries, one showing the seige of a castle and the other showing a stag brought to bay; and most of the floor space was occupied by a brilliant purple-and-red Moorish carpet. So Spain had fallen to North Africa, which meant this universe had had its Mohammed, and probably also its Charles Martel and its Roland. In fact, that last hero might be more probable here than at home.

   The furnishing was surprisingly sparse-a tall writing-desk and stool at the side, and a large, heavy table with an hourglass-shaped chair centered in front of the window.

   The soldiers chained him to a wrought-iron torch sconce and left him there, with a certain fugitive haste that indicated the sergeant's casual attitude towards sorcerers was either rare or faked. Matt was alone for a few moments' thought. He looked around the study and decided he didn't like it. After the gloom of the castle halls, it was definitely too cheery. It was a setup.

   A man slammed through the door. He was six feet tall and more, swaggering and swag-bellied, with small, close-set eyes in a pouchy face, a mouth two sizes too small, and a pig snout of a nose. He wore red, pointed shoes, bright yellow hose, a knee-length purple robe, and a crown.

   Matt looked for some woodwork to fade into.

   A slab of hand cracked across his chops. "Show respect, trickster! Look at your king when you're in his presence!"

   Matt looked, though the view was a trifle blurry. Through the haze, he saw the door behind the king swing open and a half dozen guards file in. Through pain and fear percolated the random thought that their presence might explain some of the king's blustering.

   The king paced back and forth in front of Matt, strutting a little, sure he had Matt's full attention. "So this is the mighty sorcerer from the fabled Western world over the sea? Men must grow small and weak there. What magics could this work? Certainly nothing to fear."

   The slab hand cracked out again, rocking Matt's head back against the stonework. "Answer, sorcerer!"

   Matt blinked, trying to bring the room into focus. "Uhhhh ... I ... wasn't aware I'd been asked."

   "You mock me," the king snarled, balling up a fist.

   "No, no!" Matt cried in panic. "Nothing but respect intended, I assure

   The fist slammed into his belly, and Matt folded, eyes bulging in agony. All he could manage was a gurgle.

   "Why will you not answer?" The open hand slapped under his jaw. Matt rocked back again. "Damned impertinence!" the king grunted, and the slap exploded against Matt's temple. The room went dark, shot with pinpoints of light. Behind them, Matt heard the king's gargling laugh. "Is this the fearful sorcerer who conjured an army into the midst of the town? Where is his power now? Let him only come up against a real man with some meat on him! Then his spirit quails, and the cowardice that first made him seek sorcery comes to the fore once again. Bewitch me, churl! Do you dare, when you must face a strong man?" The king sneered, and the back of his hand smashed into Matt's face.

   Through the darkness and the ringing, Matt felt blood seep from his nose, and fury broke. He called out:

   "Then he swung aloft his war-club, Shouted loud and long his war-cry, Smote this gross and brutal kinglet In the middle of his forehead!"

   The king's head jerked back, yanking his body with it. He sailed backward five feet and slammed into the ranks of the guards. They bent to pick the king up off the floor, slapping his face lightly and calling for brandywine.

   Matt stared. Vaguely, at the back of his mind, somebody was saying, "Oh, my. Did I do that?"

   Somebody shoved a portable wineskin into the king's mouth. He gagged; his body jackknifed, and brandywine sprayed over the room. He spent a minute or so in diligent coughing; then he looked up, and his tiny, red-rimmed eyes fixed on Matt with a look that read like a death warrant.

   Matt shrank back as the slob-king climbed to his feet with a slow, building potential for murder. He'd blown it, Matt realized; he should have pulled a follow-up spell while the king was out.

   What was he thinking? He wasn't a sorcerer!

   But that might be just the stall he needed-the unexpected. He summoned every iota of what little cold contempt he could manage. "Learn the lesson, royal Lord, and address me correctly as wizard! I'm not a sorcerer!"

   "But I am," purred a velvet voice from the doorway.

   It was highly instructive to watch the king backpedaling hastily. He looked up at the new arrival, startled, wary, and fearful. The arrogant bully suddenly turned into an intimidated pussycat who was trying to remember he was a warrior.

   The self-proclaimed sorcerer glided into the room with a soft whispering of velvet, a tall, lean customer in a floor-length black robe and black conical hat, both embroidered with blood-red arcane symbols, pentagrams, runes, and others Matt didn't recognize. He was swarthy and handsome, with black eyebrows, moustache, jawline beard, and wavy black hair. With his mouth, he was Smiling-polite, urbane, and as treacherous as California bedrock.

   He looked the king up and down sadly, clucking his tongue. "A shame, Astaulf -- it bit back! Will you never learn to leave things magical to those who can govern them?" He glanced at Matt. "'You seem harmless enough-but 'tis well to be sure." His forefinger darted out, stabbing at Matt while he intoned a short, rhyming chant in an arcane tongue.

   Matt doubled up shrieking as hot irons stabbed into his belly. He would have kept yelling, but his diaphragm tied a knot in itself, and he ran out of breath.

   King Astaulf was pulling himself up by the nearest guard. "I can govern small sorcerers well enough, Malingo -- they fear a strong man, even if he has not their Power. How was I to know that this stranger was not such a weakling?"

   "You should always fear a sorcerer," Malingo chided, "till his powers are known. You ought to have left him to me, Astaulf."

   Astaulf flushed, and Matt had a notion that he was missing something in the conversation; but he was missing his breath more. His belly was locked solid, refusing to inhale, and his vision was getting a trifle murky. Panic flowed, and he fought it back-this would be an asinine way to die, stranded in an alternate universe.

   There had to be a simple, logical explanation for his sudden belly cramps. And there was: The sorcerer had hexed him.

   "And what of the actions you should have taken?" the king blurted. "If a powerful new sorcerer has come amongst us, should you not have known of it?"

   Malingo's face darkened.

   Astaulf grinned and pressed his advantage. "You sent no warning, doubtless because the man was too weak for concern. Yet it appears he is not. How is this, Malingo? Has your magic failed you?"

   An interesting point, Matt was sure-but just now, he was far more interested in getting the thumbscrews off his belly. Logic, man,, he told himself. You've been hexed; unhex yourself.

   He managed a bare whisper, reversing the first magic spell he could think of:

   Thrice from mine and thrice from thine, And thrice again to unmake nine. Peace! The charm's no more malign!

   His breath hissed in as his belly muscles fell loose. Then his stomach bounced back, and the room seemed to swing about him as nausea percolated through him.

   Malingo tossed his head impatiently. "Am I to notice every least and littlest happening in your kingdom? Why have you guards and spies?"

   "Why have I a sorcerer?" Astaulf showed his teeth, enjoying himself. "I think you let too many things escape your notice."

   Nausea was one thing, but when the floor seemed to want to join the ocean and started taking wave lessons, Matt had to do something fast.

   "Explain yourself." Malingo was definitely a little white around the lips. "What things escape my notice?"

   Astaulf's face darkened with wrath. "Rebellious nobles in the West, for one thing, plotting to topple me from my new-won throne! And that idiot girl in the dungeons, who has still the gall to refuse my attentions!"

   The floor was doing a really good wave action now, and Matt found himself beginning to wish it could rise and drown him. Anything to end this misery! He called on the old masters:

   Though related to a peer, I can hand, reef, and steer, And splice a selvagee. I'm never known to quail At the fury of the gale, And I'm never, never sick at sea!

   It was a lie, but it worked; the floor flattened out with remarkable alacrity, and the nausea vanished.

   "That is what escapes your notice!" Astaulf cried. "Not to mention a foreign sorcerer of unknown powers!"

   "I agree; do not mention him," Malingo said between his teeth. "As for the wench, it may simply be that the crown does not dazzle her eyes when it rests on the head of one who's not a rightful king." .