by Lyndon Hardy
Jemidon ducked through the low opening and saw a room crammed with furnishings. Stools short and tall were pushed against shelves sagging from the weight of leather-bound books. Scrolls of parchment lay unwound on the floor, weaving a coarse tapestry between small chests and smooth boxes bolted shut with massive locks. Two oil lamps on the far wall shone above a high table with chairs on either side. Hunched over a ledger like a mantis watching its prey, a thin and gangly figure mumbled as he scanned entries and made small notes with a quill.
"Tomorrow Gandis will pay twenty tokens for the name of Trocolar's latest partner. And since I bought it from Brason for sixteen, that is a profit of four. Sixty-seven tokens for the week. Two thousand eight hundred and twelve in all. Ah, if only the election were another month away, Cumbrist would not have a chance. Three thousand at the most; he could not be worth a brandel more."
"I seek information," Jemidon said when the other did not look up. "And I think I will not be able to afford the surroundings that the other divulgents seem to offer."
The man behind the table jerked to attention. His elbow bumped the bowl of ink onto the sawdust floor. "Calm yourself, Benedict, calm yourself, or it will be Cumbrist for sure." He breathed deeply as he watched the ink sink into the ground. Then, focusing on Jemidon, he motioned to the empty chair. "I am Benedict, pansophical divulgent," he said. "Ask me anything and I will know. Gossips of the guilds are a specialty. Futures of the exchanges with generous guarantees. For a copper, the use of the seat is yours."
Jemidon halted just as he was lowering himself into the chair. He pushed it aside in irritation. "An unthinking way to treat a potential customer," he growled. "It makes one want to try somewhere else."
"You will find none charge less than a copper," Benedict said. "Everything on Pluton has a price. And besides, you need look no further. Anything you wish to know, I will tell."
"Then what of a trader called Drandor?" Jemidon asked. "How much for where he is now?"
"For two coppers I will speak my fee." Benedict centered the ledger on the table. "How soon do you wish to know?"
"You have heard of Drandor?" Jemidon exclaimed. "What luck on my first try! Then what of Delia, the slave girl with the golden curls? Is she still safe? Who is the partner Melizar? Has he interceded on her behalf?"
"One at a time," Benedict said. "For someone who begrudges the copper for a chair, you talk as if your purse were full. Show me your assay so that I will know you are worth my time."
"Assay?" Jemidon shook his head. "I have come to this exchange directly from the harbor." He furled his brow. "And even that cost two coppers for the directions."
"What, no writ certifying your worth?" Benedict asked. "Not a single token in any of the vaults? Then why are you here? It cannot mean you seriously intend to trade."
Benedict stopped and his eyes widened. He quickly snatched the ledger from the table and raced to the wall. Jemidon saw the divulgent stuff the book into a large box on the floor and slam shut the lid. A flash of painful blue light sparked from the container as it closed. The air crackled and hissed. Jemidon caught the pungent smell that came with a storm.
"Forever protected, save by my command." Benedict shot back a triumphant look. "No hammer can dent the walls, nor can the box be moved from where it sits on the floor. And unless I am calm, even my words will have no effect. A knife at my throat will not force entry if I do not wish it so. A small strongbox as those of magic go, but effective nonetheless. You will have to try your thievery on one who is not so fortunately secured."
"I will take nothing here that you do not freely give," Jemidon growled. "And if I must have some piece of paper before we can talk, then tell me how one is obtained and I will be back."
Benedict paused, eyeing Jemidon critically, but a roll of drums outside in the court stopped him from speaking. He hurried back to the high table and grabbed a belt from a shelf. It was plain leather and buckled on the side. In the very front, it looped through a row of small columns that butted together and protruded with thumb levers. Buckling the belt around his narrow hips, the divulgent dashed past Jemidon and through the opening. "No more time to weigh your merits," he called. "The court is full, and many will want to wager on the outcome with less than a full token."
Jemidon turned to follow, his annoyance growing with each step. He flung aside the curtain, but then stopped as he sensed the sudden change of mood in the courtyard. Except for the drumbeat, the throng was quiet. The jostle of bodies had ceased, and all eyes were on the center of the court. A pathway had cleared itself back to the rate-board. From behind the changers marched a small troop of men-at-arms. The first two pushed the crowd farther back on either side. Behind them came two lines of three, supporting a huge gleaming box on their shoulders.
The coffer was a perfect cube of glistening metal, polished to such a smoothness that Jemidon saw the surrounding scene reflected better than if by the finest mirror. Along the top edge, just below a row of hinges, he recognized the arcane script that magicians had chiseled into the side as part of the ritual of formation. Near one bottom corner, a small pipe protruded from the interior. Except for these, nothing else marred the clean and rigidly flat surfaces.
A whisper of anticipation started through the crowd as the next in the procession came into view. Jemidon stood on tiptoe to look over a shoulder and saw a man with eyes wide with fear, his hands secured behind his back and his neck circled with iron. From the heavy black ring, a chain ran to a second prisoner, similarly bound, and then to a third. The last was a woman, clad only in a thin chemise, stumbling barefooted after the others.
As the procession stopped in the center of the court, the men-at-arms set the cube on the ground and flung open the top face with a crash. Two more guards struggled forward underneath the weight of a pair of huge sandglasses. The last brought up a ladder, placing it against the side of the box. The top rung came to rest near the rim, well above the height of Jemidon's head.
"The men are worth nothing, but for the woman, ten tokens," someone shouted.
"Twelve," another countered, "and one of my own in trade."
"A brandel that the bidding will not go above fifteen," a third called out.
"Ten coppers that she will plead before it is finished."
"A token and three that the first glass will be done before the contraction," a woman in an embroidered gown next to Jemidon said to her companion. "A token and three coppers against your token plain."
The man accompanying her nodded and pulled a gleaming coin from a pouch. The woman produced hers and then frowned as she searched through her purse for the rest.
"Perhaps I can be of assistance to my lady." Benedict suddenly appeared and patted the mechanism strapped to his waist. "Brandels for tokens, coppers for silver galleons, dranbots from the south, regals of the inland. I can change them all. Only one extra for a fee, and whatever you have can be transformed into another."
The woman nodded and reached a final time into her purse. "All copper and silver," she said as she dumped a pile of brass and tin into Benedict's palm. "I expect to wager more before it is done."
With a speed that Jemidon could hardly follow, Benedict inserted the coins into the slits in the top of the device at his waist. As the metal dattered downward, he tripped the levers near the bottom and his palm filled with another collection, different from the first.
"May your wagers be perfection," Benedict said as he handed the money back to the woman. With a slight bow, he darted away into the crowd.
"Eighteen has been bid, but the debt is thirty-five."
Jemidon turned his attention back to the center of the court. A man-at-arms with a red surcoat over his mail paced around the cube, shouting to the crowd.
"Expert trader Trocolar's due is thirty-five, and he will accept no less. Speak now, else the justice of Pluton will run its course."
The crowd again fell silent as the guard made a final circuit of the box. He jerked his thumb upward and the prison
ers were goaded onto the ladder at spear point. The first reached the top and hesitated, but one of the guards prodded him over the side. Jemidon heard a muffled thud as he hit the bottom and saw the chain pull tight on the one who followed. When the woman reached the top, she turned and looked out over the throng.
"Trocolar," she shouted hoarsely, "Trocolar. I cannot pay him, it is true, but my spirit will not rest until he suffers the same, if ever he becomes short even by one token only, then I charge your judgment to be no less than what you have prescribed for me."
With her chin thrust out defiantly, she turned and leaped in after the others. Two of the men-at-arms grabbed the lid of the chest and arched it up over the hinges to clang shut. A blue flash like the one from Benedict's strongbox cut through the air overhead. Low-hanging banners about the court seared and smoldered, turning black along a thin horizontal line at precisely the height of the top of the coffer. One of the glasses was tipped over. As the sand began to fall, the crowd broke into another round of spirited betting.
Jemidon looked about, puzzled. No shouts could be heard coming from the box, nor any pounding on the walls. In perfect silence, it stood gleaming in the high morning sun. He watched the sand drain from the glass and, just as the last grains emptied, the starting of the other.
"There are three this time, rather than the usual pair," Jemidon heard someone say. "That is the reason. Without her, it would have long since been over."
''But the pressure does not relent," another replied. "Three coppers that we will not see the turning of another glass."
A sudden shimmer caught Jemidon's eye, and he glanced back at the cube. He saw the walls vibrate as if struck by a hammer and then a sudden jerking movement as they simultaneously contracted. Jemidon blinked at what he had seen. The cube was still perfectly formed as before, but, with no excess material or visible seams, it had shrunk to half its former size.
With a sickening feeling, Jemidon realized what was going to happen. Before he could turn away, the cube jerked a second time and then again. With each movement, it halved its dimensions, confining its contents closer together in smaller and smaller volumes. The vibrations of the walls intensified, so that a low-pitched hum filled the air of the courtyard. Drops of reddish pulp appeared at the end of the pipe at the bottom. With the next constriction, it gushed in a steady flow. Bits of cloth and shattered bone swirled out onto the courtyard. A thick, stringy liquid added its stain to the sunbleached blotch that was already there.
Jemidon turned away and staggered back through the entrance to Benedict's cubicle. On Pluton for less than an hour, and already he wanted to be away. He thought of the tangle of three bodies as they were cramped together and the woman's face that he had seen just moments before. He sagged into a chair, shook his head to clear the images away, and tried to focus on why he had come.
After a moment, he heard the slide of the curtain and looked up, thankful for the distraction as Benedict entered.
"Still here?" the divulgent asked. "If you stay, the chair rent remains one copper."
Jemidon started to rise, but then slowly settled back into the chair. Disgustedly he threw a coin on the table and placed his arms around his stomach. It would be worth the cost for a few more minutes to allow his insides to settle.
Benedict circled to the other side of the table and scooped up the copper. With a laugh, he slid it into the changer at his waist and patted it affectionately.
"Faster than any of the rest, and they know I am accurate as well," he said. "It garnishes only little profit, even when the courtyard is full, but each token I am able to accumulate brings me closer to Cumbrist's total." With a practiced motion, he levered a half-dozen coins into his palm and then recycled them through the top.
"A curious device," Jemidon said, reaching for any distraction to blur the memories of outside. "It seems to be a collection of distinct columns fused together. The type of coins which come out the bottom of a particular shaft are all the same, even though a mixture is inserted in the single slit at the top. Somehow, internally they are permuted about."
"A minor magic." Benedict shrugged. "Necessary to make the thing invulnerable. More of a puzzle than anything else."
"Do it again, but more slowly so that I can watch."
"Another copper," Benedict said. "I am no practiced performer, but it would be folly to give away my skill when fetching a price would be better."
Jemidon scowled and waved the thought aside. "Never mind, then. Let us return to why I am here. Where do I get this assay? Or must I pay for that information as well?"
Benedict pursed his lips. "Everyone on Pluton would know. The value of the knowledge is worth far less than the smallest coin we could exchange."
"Then answer more questions until I have received full value," Jemidon said, bouncing a second coin on the table.
"Well enough." Benedict nodded in agreement as he grabbed the copper. "As for the first, any vault will perform the service for a small fee-even certify what is deposited in accounts other than their own."
"Another small fee," Jemidon said, "given to a vault which also will probably charge for me to sit while I explain what I want." He paused as another idea popped into his head. For a moment he turned it over, then shrugged, making up his mind.
"And the vault in the grotto," he said at last. "Will that serve as well as any other?"
Benedict ran his fingers over the small, weathered disk. "I owe you still and so I will answer fairly. Of all the vaults on the island, that is the last with which I would entrust my wealth. The others have protection that is true magic, strongholds like mine, only large enough to hold the fortunes of many. But the one in the grotto-" He shook his head. "It depends on the tide to protect it. I would not take the risk. No matter that it means the fees are smaller. Cumbrist does not choose such folly, and neither shall I."
"I have no fortune to be so concerned," Jemidon said, "and on the sloop from Morgana, I heard that an Augusta earns her livelihood there. Perhaps she is none other than an old friend and will be less eager to demand a fee at every turn. Give me the directions to where she is, and then we will be done."
"In the end, you will receive what you pay for." Benedict shrugged. "The difference is the degree of risk. And as for the consequences, think again of the exhibition in the court."
"The ledger does not indicate that you are expected." The clerk on the left looked up suspiciously from the paper-strewn desk. "Surely one of us can handle your needs just as well."
Jemidon glanced around the small room. Neither of the two women could be Augusta, despite the number of years since he had seen her last. And the drab decor was not what he had expected. Simple curtains of cloth hung from the walls to hide the rough wood planking underneath. Candles from a single chandelier overhead added their feeble glow to the filtered sunlight from the windows facing the street on the east. Missing were the fancy divans and tables heaped with fruits and drink. Unlike the other vaults he had passed, there were no laughing women in low-cut gowns to entertain the traders while they waited.
"Tally the account as of the moment." A door to the rear swung open, and a woman with an armful of scrolls bustled through. "Trocolar will be here within the hour, and I do not want him to find some petty excuse to move his funds."
"Augusta?" Jemidon blinked in recognition. She was full-figured, perhaps a trifle heavier than he remembered her. Her face was broad and her eyes wide-set. None would call her a beauty, but few men would ignore her smile. Her hair was clipped short, combed straight back and held in place by tiny combs. She was a year older than Jemidon at most, but already the hint of wrinkles had appeared in the smooth glow of youth.
Augusta frowned at Jemidon and then broke into a smile. "My somber neophyte!" she exclaimed. "A happy event on an otherwise miserable day!" She dropped the pile of paper onto the nearest desk and circled around the side. "Within the hour." She waved back at the scrolls as they fell.
With a fluid motion, she slid her arm
around Jemidon's back and pushed her cheek forward for a kiss. "You always were the dreamy one. To seek me out after all these years! It is good to think that at least one man is interested in something other than the number of tokens I hoard in the vault."
Jemidon started to speak, then thought better of it. He followed Augusta back through the doorway into a room scarcely larger than that occupied by the clerks. Slowly he sat on the bench she had cleared with a swipe of her hand.
"Now tell me everything that has happened since we went our separate ways," Augusta said. "Do not hold back any detail. I want to hear it all." She stopped and looked at a water clock dripping on a shelf. "I want to hear it all, that is, until Trocolar comes blustering forth with his accusations and threats."
Augusta breathed deeply. She settled in a chair opposite Jemidon and rubbed the frown in her forehead. After a moment, she looked back at him with a weak smile. Jemidon rose and circled behind her. More sleeping memories awoke as he placed his hands on the taut tendons of her neck.
"You are overwrought," he said as he began to massage the tightness.
Augusta let out a long sigh and patted Jemidon's hand on her shoulder. "It has been too long," she whispered. "Rosimar was the practical one, but his back rubs could never compare with yours."