"Many, lady," Fadecourt said, his face grim, "the young and innocent most especially, for bad things can be made to seem good. But, Wizard, our Lord hath said, `By their fruits ye shall know them.'"
Matt nodded. "If it has evil results, then it's probably evil, yes. But how can you tell before it has done its damage?"
"There are signs," Fadecourt said, frowning.
"Yes, if you can learn them." Matt smiled bleakly and turned back to the road. "Well, on we go. Hopefully, we won't run into anything we don't already know about."
He was sunk into contemplation before his friends began to follow him. Fadecourt's definition certainly did make the issue simple. Now all Matt had to do was figure out what the signs of devotion to God were—well, he'd grown up with the usual list—and how to tell the real thing from the fake.
He sighed, settling into the march again. It shouldn't be too hard—after all, a con man was a con man, no matter what the culture.
"Not so many soldiers as all that," the peasant told her. "They have clerks stationed by the path from the pass, Majesty, and there are but a handful of soldiers to guard them."
"How large is that `handful'?" Sauvignon demanded.
The peasant shrugged. "Ten awake and at arms, milord. Another ten refurbishing their weapons or asleep."
"Why, this will serve but to whet our appetites," Sauvignon said with disgust.
"Bide in patience, my lord," Alisande soothed. "There shall be more anon; for when King Gordogrosso knows our Lord Wizard is within his borders, he shall strike against Merovence with all his strength."
"So that is why we are here! How could the Lord Wizard desert us in so cavalier a fashion?"
Actually, Alisande had been wondering about that, too, though on a more personal level—and that, in spite of her very vivid memory of their parting. But all she said was, "He serves God, milord, as do we all, and must go where the Lord directs." She turned back to the peasant. "How shall we come through the mountains? Will not the montagnards resent our intrusion?"
"How can this man know?" Sauvignon protested. "He is not one of them!"
"Mayhap not." The peasant gave him a gap-toothed smile. "Yet my wife's cousin's aunt is wed to a montagnard, and 'tis his cousin's sons who have spied out the clerks and soldiers for ten miles along the foothills of Ibile."
Alisande hid a smile at Sauvignon's surprise. "The common folk have respect for the border, milord, but never overmuch."
"Borders are for nations," the peasant agreed, "but pathways are for kin."
CHAPTER 15
Pack of the Quarry
"Well, at least you can't say the scenery is boring."
"Wouldn't dream of it." Matt eyed the hills to left and right—and ahead. Behind them, mountains towered, blocking the sun; it was midmorning, but they were still moving through false dawn. "Was I complaining? At least we're walking on level ground, more or less."
"We have come out of the foothills," Fadecourt assured them. "It will not be long ere we see little but plowed fields, and must needs go through many towns."
"I'd prefer to go around them, if you don't mind." Matt eyed the nearby slopes with suspicion. "Even out here in the open, I'm constantly watching for Gordogrosso's lackeys."
"His lackeys are noblemen," Yverne pointed out. "Dost'a not mean `the lackeys of his barons'?"
"Well, no, actually, I was kind of meaning what I said. Besides, how many of his barons were born aristocrats?"
Yverne flushed. "Most, though there were always a dozen or so whom he haled down, to make room for his low-born lackeys."
"Let that go on long enough, and there'll only be a handful whose ancestors go back before the sorcerers."
" 'Tis even so." Surprisingly, her eyes filled with tears. "Only a marcher baron is given his due here. And the parvenus are ever eager to seize what is not theirs."
Matt was horrified to realize she'd been talking personally. "Hey, now, I'm sorry! No offense intended. Don't worry, milady—we'll put the old houses back where they belong."
"Do not promise what you cannot assure," Fadecourt rumbled. "Only cadet branches of the old noble houses remain, and even they are so embittered that most have turned to evil ways, seeking to recoup their fortunes."
Matt looked up, appalled. "You mean even if I do manage to kick out Gordo—uh, the sorcerer-king, I won't be able to find enough good people to administer the countryside for me?"
"Even so," Fadecourt answered.
But Yverne countered, "You must take them where you find them, Lord Wizard. There be good folk among the commoners, and some may prove able."
That rocked Matt. "Uh, you'll pardon my saying it, milady, but—I'm a little surprised to hear a lady of the aristocracy lauding the abilities of commoners."
"Any who have kept their faith in God and kept being good," Yverne answered, "are noble in heart. Mayhap goodness is the only true nobility left in Ibile, since 'tis done in the face of such adversity."
Somehow, Matt had thought of Ibile as masses of good, poor people, laboring under the yoke of oppression and cruelty imposed by evil magic. He hadn't realized that the licentiousness of the aristocrats would make the common people think that there was no reason in their maintaining honest conduct toward one another, or living by any law other than the aristocrats' selfishness. He hadn't stopped to think how thoroughly the violation of morals could trickle down to permeate every level of society. He should have, of course—Gresham's law applied to any medium, not just to money, and people's media of exchange were only analogies for their real interactions.
They rounded a hill, and Matt found himself confronting the physical image of the rejected virtues he'd just been thinking about.
Where two slopes met, there was a little cave, a grotto, and in it was a statue. But its paint was peeling, and vines had grown over it, almost hiding all but the face and the left hand. Matt looked closely, but didn't recognize the features. "Who's that?"
Fadecourt looked up, surprised. " 'Tis he to whom you have prayed, Lord Wizard—Saint Iago. Dost'a say you have prayed to him, but never knew his likeness?"
Matt reddened. "I'm afraid not. Worse, I don't know anything about him."
Nearby were the remains of a small building, roof fallen in, stone walls breached, with soot stains over every place where there had been woodwork.
"Alas! That so sacred a shrine should come to this!" Yverne cried, tears in her eyes.
Matt looked at Fadecourt.
"This was once the most holy place of all, Lord Wizard," the cyclops said heavily, "for it stands in the place where Saint Iago did appear to Brother Chard, a simple mendicant monk. His brothers built this little chapter house, that they might live by the place, basking in its sanctity and tending its grounds. They held it safe 'gainst the sorcerer-kings for a hundred and fifty years. Then, alas, there came one traitor, one Vile by name, who became a novice, then a monk. He was somehow turned toward Evil, mayhap in hope of preferment by the king, and he made the monks a plan whereby, said he, they could defeat Gordogrosso. They were to go forth from this small cloister of theirs and come one by one into Orlequedrille, Gordogrosso's capital. There they were to surround the palace and pray with all their hearts to God, for the downfall of the king."
"And while they were out, the king's men fell on the shrine and desecrated it?"
"Aye; the chapter house they tore apart and burned within, as you have seen; and they smashed the beautiful mosaics in the grotto." Tears flowed freely down Yverne's cheeks.
"Yet the statue they could not destroy." Even through his anger, the awe in Fadecourt's voice was clear. "The soldiers could not enter the grotto; 'twas as though an unseen wall withheld them."
"A wall they could neither breach nor scale," Yverne whispered, " 'Twas even then a miracle."