by Lyndon Hardy
Only a few charred timbers still stood. The rest smoldered under the collapsed roof and piles of charcoal debris. The onshore breeze had not yet blown away all the smoke and haze. A few of the masters directed their tyros to douse the remaining spots of fire. Others wandered aimlessly around the perimeter, eyes clouded in a daze, A shadow blocked out the sun, now low in the western sky. Jemidon looked up to see Farnel kneel down and touch his arm.
"I can get more," the sorcerer said. "Canthor puts great store in the salve, but if a second application is required, it does not matter."
Jemidon struggled to his feet and shook his head. "It heals burns as well." He waved his arm at the others still sprawled on the entry way.
"I have provided for them all," Farnel said. "Even if there are no tokens to go with the honor, I will not be regarded the same as tight-fisted Gerilac after he has won an accolade."
"Then the spell worked!" Jemidon exclaimed.
"Better than the others." Another master approached and solemnly gripped Farnel's arm. "Better than the others. With what we saw, there was no other choice. Gerilac failed totally. Not one image came to my mind when he was done. And the trader's technique was amusing, but nothing compared with the shock that you produced, Farnel. The effect caught me totally by surprise. I expected mountaintops and clouds; with the words I heard, there could be no other. And then to view the sea-a masterstroke. The image was not strong; it remained entirely on the stage, rather than surrounding my senses as any good illusion should.
"But such difficulty you must have had to make the charm sound so like the other! A little weakness in execution can easily be overlooked. Something only a master could appreciate, it is true. But within our craft, it is a spell that will become a classic. A pity that we were interrupted before you proceeded further."
The sorcerer looked over his shoulder at the ruins and then shook his head. "No, not a new technique from which to build next year's productions to the high prince. But with the work of a dozen generations burned away in a morning, it is unclear that that is very important."
"We must proceed." Farnel straightened to ramrod stiffness. "For the next year, we must make the start of a new hall and a new direction in our craft as well-charms that challenge the mind, rather than cater to its weakest desires."
"Yes, to plunge onward is best." The sorcerer managed a weak smile. "That is why we went ahead with the vote, to salvage as much as we could of our tradition. By eleven to ten, Farnel, you are the winner of the supreme accolade. And perhaps there is even something of value in what you have wrought. You must teach me the technique when I feel I am able."
"Instructing you might prove to be a disappointment." Farnel coughed. "It is perhaps best to wait until the excitement of this day is mostly forgotten. And besides, I have my part of a bargain to honor first. A just payment for favors rendered." He looked at Jemidon and smiled. "No small part of my success today is due to my tyro here. He has helped me to the prize, and in return I must give him the knowledge it takes to become a master."
Jemidon smiled back, His plan had worked exactly as he had hoped. There had been no sorcery involved at all. Delia had failed, just as she had the night before. But her words were so perfectly uttered that the masters could not bring themselves to believe that a charm was not cast. And so, guided by the stage props Jemidon had designed, they saw a sea scene, somehow formed with the words that should dictate mountains and clouds. Of course it had been weak. But, they would have reasoned, what more could one expect with a charm so inappropriate for what was produced?
And from here on, there could be no more stumbles. Despite how it was accomplished, Farnel had achieved what he wanted. Now the others would listen to the sorcerer with more respect. And this time, Jemidon thought, he would study diligently and master each charm along the way before he proceeded to the next. This time he would learn the Power of Suggestion so that it would never be forgotten. This time-His thoughts suddenly faltered and then stopped. He knew the Power of Suggestion. Effortlessly, he could recall the simple glamour and many more. That was not the problem. He ticked off his own failures, Delia's, Farnel's, and now even Gerilac's. He remembered his deduction in Farnel's hut, his conviction on how to proceed to win the prize. Sadly he shook his head. As preposterous as it seemed, there could be no other answer.
"Has any one of you tried to cast a charm since your celebration after the high prince left?" Jemidon asked.
"We were all too indisposed from the revelry," the master answered, "although several did attempt something simple to steady themselves after the fire."
"And the result?"
"Miscast, every one." The sorcerer shrugged. "It is still too soon, and the events of this morning could only make one more upset. And whatever the disturbance is, it will wear off soon enough. We often rest for months after a season to recuperate our powers. When it comes time to prepare for the next, we will all be ready."
"But if the charms continue not to work, what then?" Jemidon persisted.
The sorcerer cast a worried look at the remains of the hall and ran a hand across the nape of his neck. "Then we will be forced to act like all the others. Deep enchantments, cantrips of far seeing, curses, and ensorcellments. All life-draining and making us feared by everyone."
"And if they, too, have lost their power? If the basic law of sorcery,'thrice spoken, once fulfilled,' is now no more than a rhyme of nonsense?"
"A law no more? Impossible," Farnel scoffed. "A charm is sometimes misremembered or forgotten; that has happened. Or even a master discovers that he can cast no more. But the law applies to all charms and all men, on Procolon as well as Morgana, on the seas, under the ground, and on the stars at the very limits of the sky. Stopping the law from working is the same as suddenly preventing every tossed rock from returning to earth. What mechanism could possibly cause such to happen? How could you even conceive of such a thing?"
"I do not know," Jemidon said, "but for me, the evidence is compelling. Since the night of the presentation to the high prince, there is no charm that has been completed successfully. The simple and the complex, joined or unrelated, they all do not work. What else can it mean but that the law no longer functions?"
"But there was Farnel's charm this morning," the sorcerer protested. "And even, in a peculiar way, the moving illusions on the trader's screen."
"Drandor!" Jemidon cried. "After his ritual on the night of the celebration, there were no more working charms. Yes, somehow the trader is connected!" He wrinkled his brow, trying to piece the events together: the presentation on the screen in the hall; before that, the more primitive enactment at the bazaar; and at the first, the tent with the objects from far away.
"Delia!" Jemidon suddenly blurted aloud. His struggle to reach the chanting well jarred into memory. "What happened to her? Was everyone rescued from the hall?"
"I was backstage directing the change of scene when I heard her falter," Farnel said. "But the curtain was in flames before I was able to come to her aid. And I have talked to other masters who were closer. They babble about the imp shielding the trader from the heat as he dragged her away and of something else that met them at the rear door, dark and shadowy-a presence black and cold that directed both Drandor and the imp. But then their burns were bad, and the sweetbalm had not yet begun to work."
"Where are they now?" Jemidon asked. "A harbor pilot says that Drandor sailed on the tide for Pluton even before the blaze was fully controlled." Farnel shrugged. "Like the tokens, of the trader and the slave girl there is no sign."
"And the one who hurled torches and oil from the second-level box, starting the fire?"
"No trace, either," Farnel said. "Perhaps whoever it was worked with Drandor as well, creating a distraction when it appeared that the trader might lose the competition. But that is all speculation. We cannot be sure.
"In any event, Jemidon. forget all this irrelevant thinking. The important thing is the rebuilding of our craft. If there is some sort of blo
ckage in our abilities, it will pass with time. We will be back at full strength well before the next season." He stopped and looked at the ruins. "We must. There is no other way."
Jemidon nodded slowly, digesting Farnel's words. Perhaps the master was right. How the charms stopped working probably did not matter. They could regain their potency again just as abruptly. And he would be ready with a full arsenal of glamours-enough to hold his own with Erid and advance quickly to the robe of the master. It was why he had come to Morgana. His plan would be successful at last, despite the twists along the way. He would become a master, with no fumbling failures like his first time in the well.
He thought of his first time in the well. He recalled the growing panic as the words slithered away from his grasp, the choking throat that would not respond, and the looks of the masters when he trudged back up the stairs. Jemidon shuddered at the memory and then felt an icy wave of doubt wash over his body.
That was before the night of the storm, he realized, before the final presentations to the prince, before the law stopped working, and before his tongue became so glib. Suppose the law were restored? What then would his abilities be? Would the practice be enough, would the phrases remain firm? Could he spout the Wall of Impedance as quickly as he had in Farnel's hut?
And would the powers really return unbidden? If Drandor's rituals were involved, was there not forethought behind what had happened-forethought coupled with some mechanism that shifted the very fabric of existence, as Farnel had said, throughout the world and encompassing the stars beyond? What a puzzle it was! Yes, a puzzle far grander than any he had worked before. Jemidon licked his lips as he stretched his mind, savoring how he would proceed to find out more, to reach for the insight that hinted at the first exciting clue. But how could he devote any thought at all to such a mystery while he studied in drudgery under Farnel, perhaps to no avail? Indeed, what was the surest way to the robe of the master? Instinctively Jemidon grasped the coin around his neck to steady his racing thoughts.
"And if the laws do not ever come back of their own volition?" Jemidon broke out of his reverie. "Suppose it takes a positive action to restore things as they were before?"
"What you speak of cannot come to pass," Farnel said. "It is only a matter of time."
"If our livelihood is taken away, by whatever means, and then someone through his own efforts restores it," the sorcerer beside Farnel replied, "then at the very least he would receive the master's robe without question-regardless of his station or his ability to cast a single charm."
The sorcerer looked back at the smoldering embers. "Yes, if by the slightest chance what you say were so, no honor would be too great."
Jemidon's eyebrows lifted. Another path to the robe! And one far more to his liking. It would not depend on innate reasonance with sorcery that he might or might not have, but just the solution to a puzzle, a complex one perhaps, but in principle no different from the ones he had solved so many times before.
"And Delia as well," he said aloud in a rush. "The goals are intertwined." His thoughts were still in a tumble, but deep inside, he knew what he must do-track Drandor to unravel his mysteries. At the same time he could also free Delia from the trader's grip. Yes, somehow, he knew he could. And the second time, her gratitude might be worth more than a kiss. Or better yet, he could turn his back and walk away when it was done so that she would know he was made of finer clay. He paused as he remembered their last time together. How did he really feel about her anyhow? But then he brushed the thought aside. That could be decided later, after he had accomplished his new plan.
"Yes, I must go to the harbor," he said excitedly. "I must book passage and sail for Pluton with the next tide."
"But wait," Farnel said. "Do you not understand? I offer you instruction, freely given so that you may become a master."
Jemidon bolted into a run and headed down the path ofcrushed stone. He gripped the brandel tightly to prevent it from swinging and called back over his shoulder, "My destiny lies elsewhere. I can feel it. When I return, it will be with sorcery restored."
"But how?" Farnel yelled.
"I must find Drandor on Pluton and learn what he knows. Examine the contents of his tent. Listen to the imp when he babbles about the lattice and his master, Melizar. Yes, the lattice, Melizar, and the Postulate of Invariance."
PART TWO
The Postulate of Invariance
CHAPTER SIX
The Whispers of Memory
JEMIDON paused before he entered the courtyard gate and looked back to Pluton's harbor. The passage from Morgana had been uneventful and the contrast between the two islands more or less what he had expected. The population of Morgana was small, barely enough for a viable community to support two dozen masters and cater to the lords when they came once a year. Pluton, on the other hand, was an active trading and financial center, a stopping point for the traffic between mainland Arcadia and Procolon across the sea, and the nexus for the interisland traders that flitted up and down the archipelago.
The harbor was crowded; several ships lay at anchor in mid-bay, awaiting their turn for a berth. The piers jutted into the dirty water with regular-spaced precision from two arms of land that gently curved into an enclosing circle. A small opening led to the unprotected sea outside the bay. Through the gap, one could follow the shipping lanes to the heartland of Arcadia, which lay beyond the horizon.
A narrow road that ringed the shoreline was a tumult of wagons, dust, and shouting drivers. Small boats pulled by oars and even a few biremes slid over the glassy water, dashing between the waiting ships, moving people and messages too important to delay onto the crowded shore.
Two smaller islands poked above the bay's surface, one covered with trees except where it had been cleared for an elegant estate, and the other rocky and bare, pockmarked with the dark entrances to deep caves that came to the water's edge.
All around the ring of shore, the land sloped abruptly upward to a circle of hills. Jemidon's eyes followed the landscape as it rose. Rough-planked shacks stood adjacent to the wagon road. In the tier behind, single-storey mud-brick boxes painted white crowded together. Above them, the larger structures of brick and iron marked the exchanges and countinghouses that distinguished Pluton from all the other islands in the chain. On the topmost slopes leading to the hillcrests were the manor houses of the wealthy-polished stone, fine-grained woods, and patches of cultivated greens towering over all the rest.
But his search would not take him to the hilltops, at least not initially, Jemidon thought. The advice of all the other passengers was to seek out a divulgent when he first came ashore. Information was a commodity on Pluton like everything else, and he could find out whatever he wanted if he could afford the price.
Jemidon patted his now much lighter purse and frowned. If not, he would have to hope that he could find an old acquaintance who would be disposed to offer him aid.
Augusta! How would she have remembered him? One of the merchants on shipboard had mentioned the name in connection with something called the vault in the grotto. Could she be the same? Unbidden, the whispers of memories flooded back…
"But I can wait no longer, Jemidon. Please try to understand," he heard the voice from the past say.
"We have forsworn all others, Augusta." Jemidon remembered his reply. His heart had been pounding and his palms sweaty, but he had tried to show an outward calm. "You do not care for this Rosimar's rough manner. I can see it in your eyes."
"But he is already an acolyte, Jemidon. The guild on Pluton has offered to teach him the mastery of magic there. And he has asked me tp go with him. Pluton, Jemidon, Pluton! Center of the islands and focus for trade. Why, in a single day there will be more excitement than this outland has in a year."
"And is that so important?" Jemidon asked softly. "When I am with you, the rest does not matter."
"Ah, Jemidon." Augusta smiled, placing her hand lightly on his. "Your sweet words are always a delight. But one must be practic
al as well. You are only a neophyte; the training of an initiate takes three years more before you can pass to acolyte, let alone a master. I know that within a year I would be longing for the silks, cold fruits, and prestige that the woman of a master magician could command. Rosimar gives me that promise; from you, I can see nothing for a long time to come…"
Enough, Jemidon growled at himself. He covered the old hurt and pushed it away. It would do no good to dwell on opportunities already lost. He was now seeking the robe of a sorcerer, tracking down a trader and a slave girl. He would find out if the Augusta of the vault in the grotto was the one he knew only if he must.
He wrenched his attention back to the courtyard in front of him and scanned its interior. It was large and noisy, crammed with stalls and partitions around the periphery. The scene reminded him of the bazaar that had flourished on Morgana a fortnight ago; but here the structures were more permanent, made of stone and wood rather than canvas and paper. Each was decorated in gaudy colors. Hawkers at the entrances called out what could be exchanged inside. With long ceremonial daggers, they pointed to hastily chalked lists on panels that swung out over the milling throng. From time to time, scurrying messengers flitted through the crowd to erase an entry or change a price.
"For the name of lady Magma's lover," one called, "I have been offered twelve tokens. Does anyone on Pluton desire to know it more?"
"Gold from the west in exchange for grain," another shouted. "Two brandels per bushel. Trade now while my purse is still full."
"A barge for the southern kingdoms will sail on the tide," a third said. "How much for a one-hundredth share?" At the far end of the court, on a board flanked by pages in silken hose, were listed the trading rates for metals and staples around the world. Gold, silver, wheat, stone, spices, and slaves all had entries scripted in bold black numerals. Below the board sat the changers, huddled between their huge scales and weights. Next to them were the assayers, with rows of reagent bottles and shelves crammed with specimens. Jemidon saw a richly dressed merchant exit from the freshly painted cubicle directly ahead and perfumed ladies duck to enter an equally elaborate facade to the left. He looked down the row and walked toward an entrance smaller than the rest. It had no hawkers outside, but the faded panel of fare was crammed with entries in a small, nervous script. "Tomorrow's departures," the first read. "The true age of the high prince," the second said. "The size of Procolon's fleet," the third proclaimed.