The Haunted Wizard - Wiz in Rhym-6 (21 page)

"So the bauchan is making up the words we do hear?" Sergeant Brock guessed.

"Maybe." But Matt wasn't so sure. He was a good American boy who had grown up on commercials and politicians' promises, and he was very much aware how well the song fitted King Drustan's purposes. He wondered if it was really the bauchan who was making up those words, after all, though he didn't doubt it was Buckeye's mischief that opened a channel for whoever really was broadcasting them. He had a sudden vivid image of the minstrel as a radio, picking up signals from someplace farther north. The minstrel sang on:

" 'His head is like unto a bull,

His nose is like a boar!'

'No matter for that,' King Drustan said,

'I'll love him the better therefore!' "

Then the king pulled off his friar's robe,

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And appeared all in red.

She shrieked, she cried, she rubbed her hands,

And she said she was betrayed."

Who really was transmitting? King Drustan was suddenly no longer the obvious source—that last verse favored Prince John too much, as the legitimate heir. Somehow, though, Matt just couldn't believe such an obvious loser could have the intelligence to compose a ballad like that, let alone think of broadcasting it magically to any minstrels with nothing on their minds—or coming out of their mouths, as the case might be. Also, John was a prince, not a sorcerer.

The minstrel was still singing. Matt concentrated on his words, hoping for a clue.

"Then the king looked over his left shoulder,

And a grim look looked he,

And his said, 'Earl Marshal, but for my oath,

Then hanged thou wouldst be!' "

He struck a final chord, and it echoed in a room suddenly silent, as everyone stared, appalled, at the thought of one of the most chivalrous knights in the land suddenly transformed into a treacherous villain. It numbed Matt, too. Somebody was trying to destroy the credibility of one of the pillars of goodness and principle in Bretanglia. He suspected sorcery in a big way—but who was a big enough sorcerer?

The Man Who Went Out the Window.

Suddenly, he was back at the top of Matt's suspect list. Matt began to see that, no matter who lost, the sorcerer won.

Then the crowd rose in one roaring monstrous wave, rolling toward the minstrel. The man blanched and shrank into the nearest corner.

The reaction took Matt by surprise. He sat frozen for a second, appalled at the transformation from shouting to charging.

Then the shock wore off, and he leaped out of his seat, running to put himself between the minstrel and the crowd, then spinning to face the customers, drawing his sword. A second later Sergeant Brock was at his left with his quarterstaff up to guard, and Sir Orizhan was at his right with his sword out and ready. The sight of naked steel gave the crowd pause, even a second of silence. Matt took his opportunity.

"Freedom of speech!"

A roomful of blank looks answered him—the phrase was nonsense to medieval peasants.

"Let him sing what he pleases," Matt explained, "and anyone who can argue the queen's side, go ahead
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and argue! The rest of you use your common sense and decide who's right!"

"We know who's wrong!" A man leaped into the front rank, a man with his hood up and a very hairy forefinger pointing past Matt at the minstrel. "Stop him! He's going out the window!"

"That doesn't make him guilty!" Matt shouted, but his voice was lost in the roar as the crowd charged. Cudgels appeared, striking at the knights' swords, then snapping back as Matt and Sir Orizhan slashed. Sergeant Brock was beating a mad tattoo on three other staves and taking a few knocks himself. Matt stepped in front of him and snapped, "Out the window!"

Sergeant Brock was too experienced a soldier to argue with an officer under battle conditions. He went. Matt cut off a couple of cudgels, then snapped at Sir Orizhan, "Out!"

"I shall not leave you— Ouch!" The knight took a blow on his left shoulder.

"That could have been your right! Get OUT!" Matt stormed, and as the knight faded behind him, he whirled his sword in a figure-eight. The commoners pulled back at his sudden ferocity, pulled back but waited—wisely, too, because Matt couldn't have kept it up for long. On the other hand, he didn't need to.

"Away, away! For I will fly to thee, Not through the window where you've clambered hard, But on the viewless wings of poesy, To land beside Sir Or'zhan in the yard!" He fell a foot and a half as the candlelight disappeared, but he was ready for it and only stumbled. He looked up, saw Sergeant Brock and Sir Orizhan staring at him, and beyond them, the minstrel. "Don't just stand there," Matt told them. "Run!"

"What from?" Sir Orizhan demanded.

"From the mob!" Matt cried, exasperated. "Who do you think I'm running from—Keats?

They ran.

They had a good enough head start so that they were already lost in the shadows of the village huts before the vanguard of the crowd came charging out of the tavern, howling for blood. They ran about thirty feet, then slowed, stopped, and milled about, baffled and enraged. The wind blew Matt and his companions shreds of conversation.

"Where did they go?"

"Through the huts toward the south road, most likely!"

"Road? That was a sorcerer's spell!"

"Aye! How else could they all disappear like that?"

"What sorcerer ever had need of a road?"

"Disappear?" Sir Orizhan stared back at the mob.

"We climbed out the window!" the minstrel protested.

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"They saw me disappear, and found an empty corner," Matt explained. "They jumped to conclusions—no surprise, since that's what they've been doing all evening. Let's make tracks while we can, gentlemen. It's going to be another cold night."

An hour later Matt halted and pronounced them far enough away to be able to risk camping. He and his companions set about their usual tasks without even discussing them. He was surprised and pleased to see the minstrel pitch in and help— gathering wood, clearing a fire ring and rolling stones for it, and cutting boughs for sleeping. The wood he chose was very dry, so their minimal campfire gave off very little smoke. The minstrel pulled out a small kettle and went to fill it with water from a nearby stream. By the time he came back, Sergeant Brock had rigged a greenstick pothook to hang the kettle over the fire.

"I think we could all use a warm draft." Matt took out some dried herbs and crumbled them in. His companions shied a little, so he told them, "Don't worry, it's just chamomile. Congratulations on your performance, minstrel."

"I've seldom sung with so great an effect," the singer said with a wry smile. "I hope I can remember the words."

"You made them up on the spur of the moment, then?" Sergeant Brock hunched forward, intent on the answer.

"Made them up? I didn't even sing them!" the minstrel shuddered. "The words I did sing were only the tale of the queen's regrets for her son's death and her ward's kidnapping."

"Kidnapping?" Sir Orizhan pressed close.

The minstrel looked at his face and shrugged uneasily. "How else explain her disappearance from a moated grange?"

"Escape." Sir Orizhan leaned back. "My lady is far more resourceful than most would think, to look upon her—so pale of complexion and hair, and so quiet in her manner." The minstrel looked keenly at him. "Your lady?"

"He's from southern Merovence—the princess' home district, in fact," Matt said quickly. "But about your song, minstrel—could vow hear the words you were singing?"

"Not those I sang myself, no. I knew what words I meant, knew which sounds my mouth shaped—but I, too, heard only this treacherous slander of the queen's confessing an adultery she never committed." The minstrel shuddered again. "I cannot wonder that my listeners should be so angered!" Sir Orizhan frowned. "Why should they suddenly attack, though? These same people had already listened to the earl being blamed for deflowering the queen, though all know King Drustan was her second husband and wedded to her before she ever met Earl Marshal. Worse, they had heard him named as Prince Brion's real father, both with nothing more than shouts of outrage. Why should they turn violent so suddenly?"

Within Matt's head, Memory recited, Peace. The charm's wound up. Aloud, he said, "I think it was another effect of the spell."

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"Spell?" The minstrel stared, eyes almost bulging. "What foul magic was this?"

"Well," Matt said, feeling sheepish, "I'm afraid part of it came from a spirit who has picked me out as the target for his mischief."

"Spirit?" The minstrel began to inch away from him.

"A bauchan," Matt explained. "I picked him up by accident when we camped in a deserted cottage. Now he won't leave us alone."

"Aye. Such is the way of bauchans." The minstrel kept inching.

"He could have created the illusion of different words coming out of your mouth," Matt said, "but I don't think he could have made up those verses."

"Indeed!" exclaimed an indignant voice behind him. "Do you think I'm lacking in cleverness, then?" The minstrel froze, staring, as Buckeye stepped out of the shadows to hunker down by the fire, dressed only in his own hair, which admittedly was total cover. He fixed Matt with a malevolent glare. "You should know by now there's no end to my deviousness."

"Being devious doesn't mean you can craft verses." Matt thought of Auden and wondered about that. He glanced at the minstrel. The man had stopped trying to get away and was following the conversation with fascination. Matt could almost hear him thinking, What a great song this will make! He tried to ignore unwanted publicity and went on. "But clever or not, be honest for once. Did you make up those words, or did you just say the first thing that came into your mind?"

Buckeye glared at him, but admitted, "The latter. I thought the verses quite inspired, myself."

"Quite," Matt said dryly. "The question is, who inspired them in you?"

"Why, myself!"

"Was it?" Matt challenged. "Or did somebody put them in your head for their own purposes?" The bauchan reared back, affronted. "Who could invade my mind so?"

"Well, for the first part of the song," Matt said, "I thought it was some sorcerer who was working for King Drustan, since the words made Queen Petronille look so bad—but by the end, the lyrics added up to making John look like the only legitimate heir. Maybe he has a sorcerer who worked on you." Even as he said it, he felt a thrill of discovery—John having a pet sorcerer would explain an awful lot.

"No sorcerer or wizard could scramble my thoughts so!" the bauchan spluttered. "I am a creature of the land! Bretanglia itself protects me!"

Inspiration struck Matt again. "Unless the sorcerer was himself a creature of the land." The bauchan glared at Matt.

"It's true, isn't it?" Matt pressed. "If the sorcerer was using magic that had grown up in Bretanglia, or if he was the descendant of generations of Bretanglian village magicians, he might be able to meddle with
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Bretanglian spirits, mightn't he?"

Buckeye glared at him silently, but the minstrel found his voice. "Aye. He could."

"If I did not craft the verses myself!" Buckeye snapped. "Credit me with some intelligence, wizard!"

"Wizard?" The minstrel glanced at Matt, wide-eyed, then at Sir Orizhan, who gave a one-inch nod. The minstrel's gaze snapped back to the bauchan.

"If you think you're such a great poet," Matt told him, "prove it."

"I will!" the bauchan cried, and began to recite, "Whan that Aprille, with her flowers soote—"

"Foul!" Matt cried. "How do I know you're not reciting that from memory?" In fact, he suspected the bauchan was doing just that—or Chaucer had a lot of explaining to do. Buckeye shut up and glowered at him. "How would you have me prove my cleverness, then?"

"I'll give you a list of words," Matt suggested. "You have to make a verse that uses them."

"What words did you have in mind?" the bauchan asked warily.

"Oh… let's say…" Matt thought fast." 'Self, pelf, send, bend, spice, sand, ice, and land.' "

"Ha! Nothing easier!" the bauchan crowed. "You've made them rhyme yourself! Let me think… I have it! I'll craft the stave!

"My powers I'll bend

To favor my self

And fairly send

Bone, blood, and pelf

By spicy sand

To icy lands!"

"There!" Buckeye slapped his knee, staring at Matt in triumph. "I can craft a verse as well as—YAWK!" He disappeared so quickly that air whooshed in to fill the space his body had occupied. Somehow the companions were left with the fading impression of eyes wide and appalled in a rubbery face. Sergeant Brock stared. "What happened to him?"

"He made a verse," Matt said, "and it worked—worked magic, that is. It transported him somewhere very far to the north—or maybe very far south, where there's ice and snow all year 'round. Don't worry, he's built for it. All that body hair…" Matt wondered if bauchans were related to yetis.
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The minstrel grinned. "He forgot that verses work magic, didn't he?"

"Right," Matt confirmed. "He was so intent on trying to make a good verse that he didn't pay much attention to what it meant—like a lot of poets I've read."

The minstrel gave him a sharp look. "I think it's just as well I didn't tell you my name. You were most restrained with him, wizard."

Matt shrugged. "No need to do anything more."