Secular Wizard

Chapter 24

“You are free, then,” Sir Guy said as they rode out of the Vatican and into Reme proper, “and so is the pope. But what progress have you made?”

“Well,” Matt said, “we have Arouetto.”

The scholar smiled sadly. “The Lord Wizard took me from my prison, because he seems to think I can reform the young king.”

“Makes sense,” Matt said. “Why else would the chancellor have locked you up in his special dungeon?”

“Why,” said Sir Guy, “because he is the last legitimate heir to the throne of Latruria.”

Matt, Saul, and Stegoman swung about to stare at the scholar, but all he did was glare ferociously at Sir Guy. The Black Knight only kicked his heels wide sides and said, “Deny it if you can.”

“Would that I could,” the scholar growled, “for it has been a dozen generations since my family ruled!”

“Hold on!” Matt held up a hand. “Maledicto wasn’t that old!”

“No, but he was the usurper of a usurper of a usurper,” Sir Guy explained, “or rather, of three families of usurpers. I would call them dynasties if they had lasted more than a few generations each-but they did not.”

“Three centuries is a long time to say a bloodline’s preserved,” Matt said dubiously. “Six centuries, rather,” Sir Guy said, “for Scholar Arouetto’s right comes from an ancestor who was the last emperor of the Latrurian empire.”

Saul nodded slowly, gaze still on Arouetto. “No wonder you’re interested in the Classics!”

“How could you know all this?‘ Arouetto demanded. Sir Guy shrugged. ”It is one of the things I know by right of birth.“

“His family has been tracking the genealogies of the kings of Europe for several centuries.” Matt didn’t feel the need to explain that Sir Guy was the last lineal descendant of Emperor Hardishane. “You have your field of expertise, he has his. His career is trying to restore legitimate lines to the thrones of this continent-and just incidentally return their countries to devotion to Right and God.”

“I can see that might entail such knowledge,” Arouetto allowed. “But it is useless in my case, friend. I have no wish to rule, nor had my father nor my grandfather. We only wished to be left in peace, to pursue our studies.”

Sir Guy made no reply, but his eyes glittered as he watched Arouetto. The scholar sighed. “You may as well say it-the blood of the Caesars has grown thin. Well, perhaps it has, my friend-or perhaps my idea of worthy pursuits differs from that of my ancestors. Try to open your mind enough to imagine that my work might be as important as Julius Caesar’s, in its way.”

Sir Guy turned his face away quickly-probably to hide a look of infinite sadness, for to him, no work was so important as that of government-but Matt said, “There is something to what he says, Sir Guy. He has developed new standards for deciding what’s right and wrong-but most of his conclusions are right in line with the Bible’s. He just has a high opinion of a few things the Book doesn’t mention, that’s all-and there’s a chance King Boncorro might embrace his ideas, though he scorns religion.”

Sir Guy turned back to him slowly. “Do you mean that he might yet save the country that is his weal?”

“He might,” Matt said, “by saving the king who governs it.”

Sir Guy turned to Arouetto, looking him up and down as if he were seeing the scholar in a whole new light. “Surely you do not mean that you have but to walk into the king’s castle with this scholar,” Stegoman rumbled, “and all will be mended!”

“Hey, even I’m not that stupid. Sure, we have to get him to the king, but even after that, it will take a while.” Matt turned back to contemplate Arouetto. “But how are we going to get you in there without getting you killed?”

They were all silent for a while, thinking up ways and means. Finally Saul said, “Camouflage?”

Matt turned to him, puzzled. “What did you have in mind?”

“Safety in numbers,” Saul explained. “If you could find a dozen more scholars and poets, maybe you could smuggle Arouetto in with the rest of them-provided the king would let them in, of course.”

“I think he just might,” Matt said slowly, “and that reminds me of a young friend of mine. I magicked him and his girlfriend out of Boncorro’s castle, but I haven’t had a chance to check and make sure they landed okay.”

“How did this discussion of a college of scholars bring them to mind?” Stegoman rumbled. “Because the kid’s a poet, but he doesn’t realize it,” Matt said. “He thinks the only career worth having is knighthood.”

“Well, the lad has a point,” Sir Guy allowed, “though it is pleasant to be able to craft a verse when you are done hacking up the enemy.”

‘Must men always be thus?“ Arouetto sighed.

” ’Must,‘ I don’t know,“ Matt said, ”but they always will. It has something to do with testosterone and the survival of the fittest“

Arouetto smiled sadly. “By that measure, I am not the fittest.”

“Apparently not,” Saul said, “since you’ve decided against reproducing. Your father seemed to know what he was doing, though.”

“He was a poet and scholar,” Arouetto said slowly, “but even he was exasperated at my mildness. Perhaps I chose more rightly than I knew, when I chose the celibate life.”

“And perhaps the evolution you’ll contribute to is cultural instead of physical,” Matt said, annoyed. “You never know-you may have more intellectual descendants than I will have biological. For example, I’d love to hear you tell your basic ideas to Pascal, this young friend of mine, and see what they do to him.”

“Pray Heaven they will not turn him from knighthood!” Sir Guy cried. “I don’t know-the kid is only the son of a squire, and he’s that just because his grandfather was a wizard.” Matt turned to Saul. “I really would like to check on him. I don’t suppose your telecommunication amulet works without a mate at the other end?”

Saul shook his head. “Sorry. You’ll have to settle for a crystal ball.”

Matt sighed. “I don’t happen to have one. Scholar Arroueto you wouldn’t happen to have a bottle of ink on you, would you?”

“No,” the scholar said slowly, “but I have managed with powdered charcoal whenI’ve had to.”

Matt stared at him for a moment, then nodded. “Right. Why didn’t I realize? Excuse me, folks-I have to go pick up sticks.”

It only took a few charred sticks, scraped into a puddle of water in a depression on top of a boulder, to darken the fluid enough so that it was almost a mirror, but one that seemed to have some depth. Arouetto looked on with interest-he had rarely had the chance to watch wizards at work-and Sir Guy looked on with distrust. Stegoman took a nap.

“Okay,” Saul said, “we’re all ready. Now, how do you turn it on?”

“Add a verse, of course.”

“Is it by nature adverse, then?” Arouetto asked, concerned.

“Some of the sociologists think so.” Matt stared into the ink pool and intoned,

“I wouldn’t tell anybody, not that,” Saul muttered under his breath, but he was watching the pool, too. The darkness seemed to lighten, did lighten, glowing from the center outward-and Matt saw a group of young men and women sitting around a table with a pitcher of wine in the middle. They were talking earnestly, which was amazing, considering that they were all wearing peasant working smocks, with the dust of field-work on them. Now and then someone threw back his head in silent laughter. One of them was Pascal. Flaminia sat beside him, and the two of them were doing most of the occasional laughing, and a lot of wide-eyed listening. Now and then one of them ventured a remark, and the others took it up earnestly. “Your young friend seems to have landed on his feet,” Saul commented. “He certainly seems to like it well enough,” Matt admitted. “At least I don’t have to worry about yanking him out of trouble.” He looked up at Arouetto. “But I would like to have him talk to you.”

“Can we not go where he is?” the scholar demanded. Matt scowled down at the pool. “I hate to use that much magic at one time. We have to remember that the king is still on the watch for us, with possibly not the nicest of intentions. Let’s not make it too easy for him to zero in on us.”

“Perhaps magic is not necessary.” Arouetto pointed at the ink pool. “Can you not show us more of their surroundings? There might be some famous landmark among them.”

‘Well, I can try,“ Matt said dubiously, but he muttered a few words, something having to do with zooming out, and the figures grew smaller and smaller in the center, until they could see a hill high behind them, with a castle of reddish rock on its top, a castle with tall, spidery towers that surely could not have been held up just by piling one stone block on another-and a central keep surrounded by scaffolding, where some of the upper arrow slots had been widened to real windows, where glass winked in the late aflernoon sun.

”It is the king’s castle!“ Arouetto’s eyes glowed with success. ”The king’s castle, and we regard its western face, but from somewhat south! See how he is remaking its keep into a light-filled gracious palace!“ He looked up at Matt. ”You did not send your young friends very far outside Venarra, did you, Lord Wizard?“

Matt swallowed thickly and said, “No, I guess I didn’t. Arouetto. I’ll admit there wasn’t much time, but I guess I could have been a bit more specific than that.”

“Lucky the king doesn’t seem to think they’re very important.” Saul looked up at Matt. “Okay, now we know where they are-but how do we get there?”

Matt turned to Stegoman. After a minute the dragon opened one eye. “I could swear I can feel the pressure of thy thoughts, Wizard.”

“You may be a psychic saurian,” Matt answered. “Say, Stegoman, how do you feel about night flights?”

“How far is Venarra from Reme?” Matt called against the wind. “Only fifty miles, as the dragon flies!” Sir Guy called back. “Then we are nearly there,” the huge voice rumbled towards them. “Hold tightly to one another, small folk, and Sir Guy, hold tightly to my neck! Where is this grove, scholar?”

“West by southwest of the castle!” Matt called. “Right Seigneur Arouetto?”

“Even so!” the scholar called back. “How close to it?” Stegoman demanded. “Perhaps half a mile-certainly outside the city wall!”

“Just land behind a grove big enough to give you cover,” Matt advised.

“Then I shall!” Stegoman banked to the right, curving around and spiraling down.

Matt risked a quick glance back at Saul; he was grinning with delight, the wind whipping his long hair behind him. Between them, Arouetto was pale and tight-lipped, but game, not complaining. Matt turned back to watch the rest of Stegoman’s approach. He didn’t know how the dragon was managing to find his way without even moonlight, but he wasn’t about to ask. There was a jolt as Stegoman’s feet touched the ground, but Matt had felt worse jolts in a jet. The dragon ran a little way, which was worse than the jouncing of the thermals, but he cupped his wings to help slow himself down, and in a few minutes was sagging to the ground. “Off, I prithee! Thou art a heavy load!”

“I regret that I had to wear armor, good beast, but I could not risk being without it,” Sir Guy said, hopping off. Matt leaped down in time to catch Arouetto, and Saul slid off the dragon’s back grinning like a Cheshire cat. “Anytime you want to go for a spin, Stegoman, just let me know!”

“I will be delighted,” the dragon huffed, “if there is only the one, or at most the two, of you.”

“Sorry you had to carry so many.” Matt came around to the dragon’s front, resting a hand on his friend’s head.

“Needs must,” the dragon replied. “Let me rest, Matthew, while you seek this friend of yours.”

“Well, I don’t really expect them to be up this late.” Matt turned to his companions. “Would you stay and keep Stegoman company, Sir Guy? The rest of us need to scout the territory, so we’ll know where we’re going come daybreak.”

“I need no guardian!” the dragon exclaimed indignantly. “Surely not!” Sir Guy sounded just as indignant as Stegoman. “But we would be poor friends indeed if we accepted your labor on our behalf, then went off to leave you! Nay, friend, I will stay with you.”

“Well, so long as you know it is not necessary,” Stegoman grumped. “What of the horses, Sir Guy?”

“I doubt not they have gone back to the Vatican, and the pope will keep them for us, as Matthew asked in his note…”

Their voices dwindled under the susurrus of the leaves as Matt pushed his way into the grove with Arouetto and Saul. “They should be in this direction.”

“Should be? They are!” Saul halted, pointing ahead. “Listen!”

Matt stopped and heard a high, clear tenor voice with the rippling of a lute beneath it. He couldn’t make out the words, but somehow the tone of it left no doubt that the young man was singing the praises of his lady.

“What have we got here, a bunch of college students?” Saul demanded.

“Not a college, perhaps, for they are not even clergy, let alone cardinals,” Arouetto said, eyes glowing, “but certainly students. I recognize the earnestness of debate without rancor, with singing in the midst of it-though I’ve never seen such outside the walls of a seminary, and never with lasses among them.” He turned to Matt. “You did well to send your young friends here.”

Matt shook his head. “Pure blind chance… Wait a minute! Maybe not! I was trying to cut through the inertia of Latruria, so I sang the first Latin song that came to mind!”

“Gaudeamus Igitur?” Saul looked up, startled. “The very first college drinking song?”

“ ‘Let us therefore rejoice,’ ” Arouetto translated. “I should like to hear the rest of that, Lord Wizard.”

“Don’t worry, I’m sure you will!”

“If that’s the case,” Saul said, “I’m not surprised they’re still up. Midnight’s a little early for a bunch of students to be going to bed.”

“Yes, I remember.” Arouetto’s smile fairly glowed in the dark. “Still, they look to be farmers. Even with the boundless energy of youth, I would have thought they would have lapsed into the sleep of exhaustion ere now.”

“I’ll bet they only farm from sunup until mid-morning,” Matt said, “then sleep till mid-afternoon, and farm until dark.”

“That is but half a day!”

“No, it’s probably eight hours. They just sleep during the heat of the day, that’s all.”

“Assuming that they sleep,” Saul said. “Lacking evidence to the contrary…” Matt sighed. Arouetto pushed forward. “Let us go nearer! I would hear their song!”

They started forward again, but something huge and furry stepped out to block their path, and a deep voice rumbled, “Well met, Wizard!”

Saul fell back with a curse, and Arouetto with a gasp-but Matt grinned. “Manny! How did you find me?”

“I did not,” the manticore told him, “and since I could not, I found Pascal instead. But he has no money, and has put off the problem by promising the farmers all about that you will pay for my meat when you come.”

“Talk about faith! But yeah, I broke out of prison, and I’ll give him a few ducats to settle up. Anybody trying to pick on him?”

“No, worse luck,” Manny sighed, “for I would not have felt bound by my promise to you if there had been an assassin to munch. His life seems to be tranquil enough when you are not about, Wizard.”

“He’s not the first one to feel that way,” Matt said. “Well, let us have a chat with him, Manny. Stay low.”

“As you wish, Wizard,” Finally, the huge double grin flashed. “It is good to see you again.”

“Hey, you, too.” Matt raised a hand to pat the tawny wall. “Go hide now, okay?”

“Go well.” Manny disappeared into the darkness and shrubbery. There were a few moments of silence. Then Arouetto asked, in a trembling voice, “Was that a manticore?”

“Sure was,” Matt confirmed. “Knew I couldn’t fool you.”

“Man, you have some of the oddest friends!” Saul expostulated. “You should know, Saul. Well, let’s meet my latest acquaintances and find out what their song is.”

“Their” turned out to be right, because half a dozen voices joined in on the chorus. As they came out of the trees, the words of the last verse became clear. Sure enough, it was promising everlasting love and joy, if only the damsel would come away with the singer-and there he was, seated at a table in the open air, lit by a few candles inside cut-off bottles and gazing into the eyes of his beloved: Pascal; and the woman who was staring back at him adoringly was Flaminia. Matt stopped still in astonishment. “Which is your young friend, Lord Wizard?” Arouetto asked. “The one who was singing,” Matt said. “I didn’t know he could.”

Arouetto turned and looked, then smiled. “Love can lift a man to accomplish miracles, Lord Wizard.”

“Miracles is right! As far as I knew, he was tone-deaf!”

“Guess you didn’t know him as well as you thought,” Saul said. “No, I guess not. And he let me carry the whole burden of the minstrel routine!” Matt strode ahead, caught between relief to see his two young friends so happy and well, and anger at Pascal for holding out on him. Pascal kissed Flaminia, and the other youngsters cheered. The lovers didn’t even notice-they took their time and were just breaking off when one of the other young men noticed Matt. The youth looked up, alert and ready to defend, but open and provisionally affable. “Good evening, friend. Why have you come?”

Pascal looked up, then leaped to his feet. “Friend Matthew!” He jumped up to clasp Matt by the shoulders. “I rejoice to see you well! I will own that I had some concern for you, alone there in the town.”

“And I was a little worried about you” Matt said, clapping him on the shoulder, “but I see you came out okay. How’d you connect with these people?”

“Why, I found myself in the middle of their fields, and they were kind enough to take us in.”

“Small enough kindness, when we needed extra hands,” a towheaded young man said, and the redheaded young woman next to him added, “For one with a voice like that, we can easily find room!”

“I thank you, friends,” Pascal said, “but I hope that I do my share in the fields, too.”

“Oh, without question!” said a burly young man whose blond hair contrasted oddly with his deep suntan, “and you have a bond with the land. Indeed, you seem to know as much about the raising of a crop as I do.”

“Thank you, Escribo.” Pascal smiled. “I am a squire’s son, after all, and have known this work all my life.”

Matt noticed that he didn’t say he had actually done the work. “Your crops seem to be doing well, though.”

“They do.” Escribo nodded. “And with luck, we will reap well for our first harvest.”

“First?” Matt looked around. ‘This is your first year, then?“

“It is,” Escribo said. “The king lowered the taxes, and my father used the money to buy land from those who wished to work in Venarra. For five years he has bought more land and given employment to the landless youth of the district-but this spring they all chose to go into Venarra for work. My father nearly despaired, for he could never have worked so much land by himself-so I left my work at the inn in Venarra and came back to help him. But even together, we could see we would never be able to till so many acres-so I called in my friends, who had spent many hours in the inn but never had more than a few days’ work at a time, and they came out to help us.”

“We are city-bred, though,” said another of the girls, “and know nothing of the land.”

“You are apt pupils,” said Escribo, and everyone laughed. Matt realized it was some sort of inside joke, but even as he was deciding not to ask, Arouetto said, “Whose words had you studied before, then?”

“Why, those of the courtiers who took rooms at our inn,” said Escribo, “for it is the finest in Venarra, and noblemen lodged there with their families, until King Boncorro could make room for them in the castle. That is why there was so frequently a week’s extra work for a dozen other younglings.”

“And why they were always hanging around, waiting for more.” Matt nodded. “So you overheard the noblemen talking of poetry?”

“More often their tutors, lecturing their sons over wine,” Escribo answered. “We began to find their talk fascinating, and tried our hands at it. But there were also the painters and sculptors that the king had brought to beautify his castle, and the builders of the new palace he is raising, and merchants coming to sell goods to the court, with tales of the wonders of the Moslem cities.”

“And the merchants had picked up some of the knowledge of the Moslem scholars?”

“Even some of the books,” a dark-haired young man said. “They allowed us to read a chapter or two while they dined.”

“But none of us have the gift of verse that our new friend has.” Escribo turned to Pascal. “And he says he has had no training in it!”

“I have not.” Pascal blushed. “And you are kind, but I have little skill.”

“Perhaps you are too modest,” Arouetto said. “Let us hear your verses.”

“Why, you did,” Escribo said, “even as you came up.”

“You sing your own words, then? Excellent! But we did not hear the beginning of it.”

“He sings of other things besides love,” a black-haired young man said. ‘Tell him of the work in the fields, Pascal.“

“Oh, no, good Lelio!” Pascal cried, alarmed. “To a few good friends, aye, but to a stranger…”

“You are too modest.” Flaminia slid up against him, resting her bead against his chest. “Let the words flow, Pascal, that I may be swept away on their tide.”

Pascal looked down at her in surprise, then smiled and said, “Well, for you, then, dear Flaminia, but not for him.”

“Let him eavesdrop,” she said. Pascal sighed and began to sing. Matt stood in a daze, listening to the syllables cascade from Pascal’s lips. They tinkled and swirled about him, dazzling and bearing him along in their flow, but somehow never lodging long enough for him to extract any meaning from them. Then it was over, and Matt caught his breath. The boy was fantastically talented! But the sense of the words had eluded him; the only coherent thought that stayed behind was that this song wouldn’t work much in the way of magic, for it had only been describing the land and the work and Pascal’s state of mind, and would make no change except to bring back the good feeling he bad gained from the land. Good feelings? Exultation! “You have a gift like that,” he said, “and you wanted to waste your time chasing a knighthood?”

Pascal’s face darkened; he lowered his gaze as his friends broke out in a chorus of protest. When they had quieted, he raised his gaze to Matt and said, “These are only idle amusements, Matthew-a wonderful pleasure in themselves, but surely only for filling the idle hour, never for a life’s work.”

The chorus of protest struck again, but this time Arouetto’s voice joined it, and went on when the others had quieted. “The souls of all men need rest and nourishment, young man, aye, and uplifting, too! If you are gifted in that, you may do more good than a whole company of knights!”

Pascal stared, astonished, but so did Escribo. He turned to Arouetto and demanded, “How can he, when it is all loveliness and no meaning?”

“Aye,” Lelio seconded. “Our friend Pascal makes the most lovely strains of sound in the world, but how can he enlighten men when the meaning slips from our grasp even as we listen?”

He smiled at Arouetto as he said it, but it was a challenge, with resentment against the intruder behind it. The scholar only smiled down at him, though, and said, “Have you never heard that a poem should not mean, but be?‘

Lelio stared-and so, for that matter, did the other young folks.Pascal finally broke the spell to protest, “But it does have meaning! It speaks of the way I felt as I labored, of the insight I gained suddenly, of the union between myself and the earth and Flaminia and us all!”

“It does, most surely,” Arouetto agreed, “and if we sit down and read through those words, we can extract that meaning and state it clearly and concisely-but it is far better to experience the poem as a sensory delight, and absorb the meaning in the process.”

“But might we not then be persuaded of a principle we would never approve, in clear and sober judgment?” a plump girl asked. “Well asked, Berylla!” Lelio seconded. “You might indeed,” Arouetto told her. “That is why you should analyze the poem before you have heard it too many times-but do not deprive yourself of the pleasure of hearing it without weighing it at least once, and better, several times.”

“Who are you?” Lelio asked. “Lelio!” Berylla cried, shocked. “No, it must be asked!” Lelio insisted. He leaned forward, frowning up at Arouetto. “For the same reason you have just told us to analyze a poem, we must know whose words we hear, that we may judge the lightness of any one idea of yours within the context of your whole philosophy. Who are you?”

“I am no philosopher, but only a poor scholar. My name is Arouetto.”

The circle of young folk froze, staring. Then Berylla stammered. “Not-Not the Arouetto who has translated Ovid and Virgil for us?”

“Not the Arouetto whose Story of Reme is the talk of all the tutors?”

“Not the Arouetto whose Geography is the boon companion of every merchant?”

“I must admit my culpability.” But there was a gleam of amusement and triumph in Arouetto’s eye.

“A chair for the scholar!” Lelio leaped up, offering his own, while Escribo ran to fetch another.

“Wine for the scholar!” Berylla filled a goblet and set it in front of him.

“Anything the scholar wants,” said another girl, with a deep soulful look.

“Why, I want what any scholar wants,” Arouetto sighed, “the company of keen minds and their questions, filled with the enthusiasm of youth.”

“Oh, that you shall have in plenty!” another young man assured him. “Is it true that you read Greek, but have not yet translated Homer?”

“I have not yet had that audacity,” Arouetto confirmed. “But you must! For if you do not, how shall we ever read those epics, which are fabled to be so excellent?”

“I cannot yet truly appreciate the spirit of the Athenians,” Arouetto protested. “But at least you can appreciate it-and we cannot, who have never read any book written by the Greeks!”

“What of Pythagoras?” Escribo pushed the extra chair over to Lelio and sat down in his own. “Can you explain why he was both mathematician and musician?”

“Ah! That, young man… What is your name?”

“Escribo, sir!”

“Escribo, Pythagoras was, above and beyond all else, a mystic, who sought nothing less than to understand the whole of the universe and the nature of human existence! Music and mathematics alike were means to understanding this whole, that is all.”

“Music, a means to understanding the universe?” Flaminia leaned forward, staring. “How can that be?”

Arouetto began to tell them. Saul sidled up to Matt and asked, “How’s it feel to be the Forgotten Man?”

“A little deflating,” Matt confessed, “but under the circumstances, I don’t mind at all.”

“Oh? Why not?”

“Because I think I’ve found just the thing to wangle a way into King Boncorro’s favor.”

Saul glanced at the seminar in surprise, then back at Matt. “Just don’t suck them into anything that’s going to go sour, okay?”

“No,” Matt said slowly, “I don’t think there’s too much chance of that.”

They watched and listened with delight and fond memories, until finally Pascal sat bolt-upright and cried, “My Heavens, the hour! And we must hoe tomorrow!”

“Let the weeds grow,” Escribo told him. “One day will not hurt the crops so very much-but we may never again have such a chance to hear a true scholar speak!”

“We must not keep him if he grows weary,” Berylla cautioned.

“Weary, when so many good-hearted young folk are pouring energy into me? Never!” Arouetto smiled. “I shall talk as long as you, my young friends!”

“The professor’s ego trip,” Saul sighed. “Hooks ‘em every time.”

“Even so, there are a lot worse ways of boosting your ego,” Matt reminded him. “Besides, it only works on real teachers.”

“And just what do you think you’re going to do with them?”

“Crash the seminar, of course.” Matt glanced at the stars and made a quick guess at the time. “Even so, I think I had better turn in-I’m going to need my energy tomorrow.” He waited for a lull in the conversation, then called out, “Escribo! Mind if I lie down in your barn?”

“Barn?” The young man started up, looking guilty. “No, my friend! You must have a proper bed!”

“Tomorrow night,” Matt told him. “Right now, I wouldn’t dream of busting up the conference-and hay will make a fine bed, better than most I’ve had lately.” He turned to the scholar. “Good night, Arouetto. Next time, charge tuition.”