by Lyndon Hardy
But as he did, without warning, he tripped and stumbled, falling to the ground. Surprised, Jemidon shook his head and looked around for what had gotten in his way, but he saw only smooth planking all about his feet.
Jemidon rose to standing and took a deep breath. Old memories began to stir in their hiding places.
"Away, away!" Rosimar stormed back through the door. "It is just as I remembered. You never had a talent for magic, Jemidon, even for the simplest of neophyte tasks. It is no wonder that Augusta forsook you for my attentions instead."
Jemidon looked back at the master. The contempt in Rosimar's face was sharp and clear. "A moment's spasm," he shot back. "And it has passed. I will do as I have said. You need not summon back one of the neophytes too afraid to be less than perfect."
"I will perform the ritual myself," Rosimar declared. "One side, and observe how it is done."
Jemidon's chest constricted in anger. He whirled from where he stood to face the scale. With a swipe of his hand, he reached for the topmost weight to flick it aside. But as he did, he felt his arm streak off in an uncontrolled arc. His hand crashed into the scale. With a clatter, the weights bounced off onto the floor.
Jemidon lunged for the falling weights, but he managed only to trip over the scale and spin around. His feet tangled in the ropes and levers; with snaps and twangs, they jerked free of their moorings. He heard the giant triangle gong three times and then a sharp crack as the ballista released its charge. The sheet of metal arced across the room, tumbling while it sped, and struck the row of saws broadside rather than on end,
With an ear-piercing shriek, the plate exploded into shrapnel that flew back across the room. One piece bounded beside Jemidon's leg and another grazed his ear, knocking him again to the ground. The bellows started pumping, and the flutes and horns blasted monotones in a giant dissonance.
"A resonance!" Jemidon heard Rosimar's shout mingle with the noise. "There is a flaw in the ritual-a resonance that feeds on itself. Stop the bellows and saws. Shut it all down!"
But the shrieking grew louder. Isinglass buckled from the ceiling and crashed to the floor. The bounding shrapnel continued to carom off the walls and apparatus. A large chunk hit the nearest flute in midsection, smashing a hole in its side. The hot air blasting forth caught Jemidon in the chest and flung him down just as he started to rise. He struggled to stand, but the pressure forced him backward toward the spinning blades. Disoriented, he turned to the side to move crosswind, bvit Xhet't suddenly frou in place. In the confusion, he heard one of the giant grindstones, freed from its mooring, lumber by to crash into the opposite wall.
Instinctively he fell prone to the dusty floor and held his breath. As the crash of breaking wood and the whiz of hurling projectiles continued unabated, he dug his fingers into the flooring and waited for the tumult to pass. After a long while-how long he could not tell-the instruments, the hurling debris, the runaway equipment all came to rest. Cautiously, he opened his eyes and rose to his feet. He dusted himself off, blinking at what had happened.
The hall was in complete disarray. Two grindstones were tumbled among the wreckage of the musical instruments. One had crashed through to the chamber beyond. The complicated array of ropes and linkages was a tangle of broken beams and knotted loops. It looked like a huge version of Drandor's lattice dashed against a rock. The saws had stopped spinning; one end of the shaft was out of its bushing and leaning against the floor.
"You can tell your mistress that you have performed your mission well." Rosimar glared at Jemidon from across the room. "It will not be from this guild that she will get the tokens to save her fair skin."
Jemidon was stunned. What had caused him to lash out so inaccurately with his arm? And how could such a small error cause all the damage that he saw around him?
"I don't know what spoiled my coordination." Jemidon shook his head. "It should have been simple enough to move weights about the scale. And in any event, a resonance, as you say, is highly unlikely."
Rosimar's face contorted even further. "Out!" he commanded. "Out! There is no time left for excuses!"
Jemidon started to say more; but before he could, one of the oarsmen from the day before raced into the room. "Master Rosimar," he cried, "master Rosimar, come quickly to my mistress' bidding! She will pay you ample fee!"
"What has happened?" Jemidon asked, trying to block out his thoughts about what he had caused to occur. The feeling was all too familiar, and he did not want to wallow in it again.
"Most unexpected," the oarsman replied, "and yet most welcome news indeed. Trocolar the trader has changed his mind. He will redeposit his holdings into the grotto and with even more tokens besides. Augusta will earn her fee and a larger one than before."
"She asks for me?" Rosimar shook himself away from surveying the wreckage. "Augusta asked specifically for me?"
"Trocolar brings with him his magician, Holgon, to ensure that all is secure. The mistress wants to be represented properly as well."
Rosimar straightened and pushed out his chest. He glared at Jemidon a final time. "An opportunity," he said. "An opportunity despite the hellhole. An opportunity for her to realize who is her better choice."
"My original treasure plus hundreds more," Trocolar said. "You may deduct the storage fee from what is there."
"Why the sudden reversal?" Augusta asked. Even in the dim imp light, Jemidon could see the suspicion in her eyes. They were all huddled together around the chests in the vault, their voices echoing from the walls above the beat of the pumps and the drip of seeping water. Trocolar had already been there when he and Rosimar had arrived. There had been no time to tell her what had happened at the guild-not that he could explain the events in a manner that would keep Rosimar's look of contempt from spreading to Augusta's face.
"Why the reversal?" Trocolar shrugged. "It is because of my new partner, the one whom Holgon found. He has presented to me a plan that is greatly to my benefit. For my part of the bargain, all I have to do is carry out a few simple steps, like redepositing my tokens here, along with his more modest amount. He was furious when he learned that I had made a withdrawal. So many tokens in one spot, he said. Far more than he could quickly assemble himself, each the result of an independent act of ritual, none of them shielded by a magic vault. And the more there are, the easier is Holgon's task."
"What has Holgon to do with this?" Augusta asked.
"He arrives shortly," Trocolar said. "As long as he can perform his ritual of safekeeping here, then these treasures are again yours to guard."
"Other than the pumps and the tokens themselves, there is no magic needed here," Augusta said. "It is the tide alone that keeps the vault in the grotto secure. You know that as well as I."
"Nevertheless, my partner insists," Trocolar replied. "He has prescribed the ritual himself. And you can use your Rosimar here to ensure that nothing goes amiss."
"I am no bondsman to Augusta," Rosimar said weakly. He pushed himself from where he sagged against the slimy wall and tried to fill his lungs. Jemidon saw the color return to his cheeks.
"I serve her for a fee," Rosimar continued, "and because-because that is what I choose."
"Dear Rosimar." Augusta stroked the magician's arm. "Your fear of small places has not gotten any better. I would have asked another master, but you are the one I trust the most in such affairs as these."
"No matter." Rosimar swallowed. "My strength is already returning. And I am as curious as the rest about what this ritual of safekeeping might be. At Cantor Guild we have heard of nothing like it."
"Nor has any other on the island," a voice rang out from the shaft leading to the landing above. A magician, robed in black like Rosimar, splashed down onto the vault floor. Heavy-framed and balding, his eyes were deep-set and burned with some hidden hunger. "It is an example of a new departure. Like none you have seen before."
"So say they all, Holgon, so say they all," Rosimar replied, "But somehow, on close examination, the new rituals
turn out to be mere variations on what has worked before."
Holgon ignored the remark and turned to direct a neophyte struggling down the shaft with the magician's gear. "Your partner arrived with me, expert Trocolar," he called over his shoulder, "and he says that we may begin. He would join you down here in the vault, except that the air circulates too little for his needs. The landing above is as close as he chooses to come."
"But it was to be this very place," Trocolar protested. "He explained that no other would do."
"He assures that all is well," Hoigon said. "Once the tokens are securely hidden in their chests and the pumps are stopped, then I can proceed."
"Stop the pumps?" Augusta exclaimed. "But then the vault will begin to fill!"
"Only for the duration of my ritual, so that there is no distraction," Holgon said. "It will be short enough so that little additional seepage will occur."
Jemidon saw Augusta look at Rosimar and the magician shrug indifference. She signaled an attendant by the pumps, and soon the deep, rhythmic throbbing stopped.
Holgon bowed slightly to Augusta and moved to where his neophyte had erected two tripods in front of an uncluttered stretch of wall. On each was a small box, colored in bright blue with a red sash running around the edges and yellow, five-pointed stars in the middle of each face.
Holgon pushed the tripods closer together and then lifted one of the boxes from its stand. With exaggerated flourishes, he unhinged each side of the box from the top. Holding it in his hand, he slowly scanned it in front of the group. The magician replaced it on its stand and repeated the procedure with the other.
"Street conjuring," Rosimar snorted. "No ritual of true magic has such gaudy display."
Holgon did not seem to notice the comment. With his face frozen in a blank smile, he produced a small dove from the sleeve of his robe and pointed at a jeweled collar around its neck. "A bracelet of teleportation," he said. "Completed except for the final step."
Then he placed the dove in the box on the left and snapped shut the sides and lid. He showed the one on the right a second time and closed it up as well.
"And now we wait a moment until the conditions are right," Holgon said. With a flourish, he drew his arms inside opposite sleeves and stood staring straight ahead.
For a moment, everyone was silent, and nothing happened. Then Jemidon felt a sudden jerk from somewhere deep inside. His feeling on Morgana-the one on the top of the cliff, watching Drandor's projections-swelled up within him, only this time more intense. Again he felt cast loose, as if a tug of the tide had parted a mooring rope and set him adrift. He pressed his hands to his sides and squared his feet on the slippery ground. Inwardly, he drifted, gathering speed, joining an invisible current that was sweeping him away.
"The journey begins." A muffled voice snaked down the shaft. "Set the example so that it can be properly completed."
Holgon grunted and resumed his ritual. He produced a small wand from his sleeve and sent it through a rapid series of gyrations.
Jemidon no longer had any interest in following the ritual. He looked at the others, but none showed any sign of discomfort. All were watching what the magician was doing.
Holgon tapped the box on the left, and the sides unlatched and fell open. It was empty, and the dove was gone. Then he put the wand away and carefully cradled the box on the right to his chest. Opening the top, he reached inside and produced the bird wearing the collar. The magician waved the dove back and forth; with a small bow, he hid it back in the container.
Without waiting for comment, Holgon rapidly repeated the steps he had just performed. When he was done, he showed the right-hand box to be empty and the dove to occupy the left. A murmur of impatience ran through the watching assemblage, but Holgon paid no attention. Again he enacted the ritual and yet again.
"And thus it is finished," Holgon shouted out finally after the ninth performance. "The fortunes and futures of expert Trocolar are now well secured."
Jemidon suddenly felt the drifting feeling stop and things anchor as firmly as they were before. In an instant, there was not even a glimmer remaining of what he had felt. As quickly as it had come, the sensation faded away. He shook his head in annoyance, then released the tension in his arms and legs. He could move about as he always had done. There was no feeling of danger that he might leave the ground and float away.
"That is no ritual of magic," Rosimar said. "And the wand patterns were as ill-formed as those of a neophyte. No circles closed, and the cadence was off by at least half a beat. It takes perfection to perform magic, Holgon. I am surprised that your technique shows such a lack of grace. Is that what becomes of one who indentures himself to a trader instead of working in the security of a guild? Does he become a performer of street tricks that mimic magic and waste the watcher's time?"
"And I am still puzzled as well," Augusta said. "You speak of fortunes and futures, but Trocolar's desires are not enhanced if you give me a greater fee rather than none at all."
"Yes, it would seem to be a conundrum for you, Augusta," Trocolar agreed, "a conundrum to be explained in its own due time. But as for me, it is quite simple. If my partner speaks false, then his tokens are forfeited to me. If his words are truth, ah, then, my scheming one, you will indeed have to worry about the cube."
Augusta's eyes widened, but Trocolar did not explain further. He motioned for Holgon to follow and pushed through the others to the ladder leading upward.
"Send this one following after." Rosimar pointed at Jemidon immediately after the trader's party had climbed to the top of the shaft. "He deliberately sabotaged what has taken us months to assemble. Your investment is jeopardized and also my guild's."
Augusta's face contorted in deep furrows. She rubbed her forehead while squinting her eyes closed. "No, Rosimar, no more for today. Trocolar's threats are enough. For the moment, I wish only to think of the fact that his tokens are back and his fees as well. Perhaps this whole exercise is some elaborate charade just for my discomfort. Possibly his chance in the election is nothing but bluster, and he can do no more than torment me with his words."
"You need a steady hand and experience to guide you through the next few days," Rosimar said, "not an incompetent who cannot perform the simplest magics."
"You stated yourself that the ritual had a flaw," Jemidon said. "And your neophytes were none too eager to perform in my place."
Jemidon drew a deep breath to say more, but Augusta placed her fingers across his lips. "Hush, my dreamer. Do not bother to add your words to Rosimar's din. For now, let me be away so that I can rest. If you truly want to help, then try to understand what lies behind Trocolar's words. Does Holgon's pretty display have any real meaning, or is it merely a fantasy of the mind?"
She looked back at Rosimar. "And with Trocolar's fee, we are better positioned than before. There will be time enough to plan for additional funding for your guild-time enough after the elections are over and we have won."
Without saying more, Augusta glided past all who remained and began to climb the ladder.
Rosimar looked at Jemidon, grunted, and made his way to the tripods. "If it provides her with reassurance, then it will be worth the effort," he said.
Jemidon sighed with relief. His latest failure need not matter. He again could focus on tracking Drandor and Delia. He tried pushing the events of the morning out of his consciousness, back to the deep pit of memory where he hid the rest of the similar occurrences. With a shake of his head to clear his thoughts, he joined the magician in taking apart the tripods.
For over two hours, Jemidon and the magician examined the two boxes and their stands, looking for some trace of true magic, but finding only hidden latches and sliding panels.
"You were right," Jemidon said at last. "It is no more than a conjuring trick from the mainland."
Rosimar started to reply, but the pump attendant approached and pulled at his sleeve. "Master, I need assistance. I have tried all the variations that I know. The pumps! I
cannot get them to restart!"
CHAPTER EIGHT
The Essence of Value
JEMIDON waited impatiently while Rosimar struggled up the rope ladder. The magician shook his head, perplexed.
"I thought I knew all the major rituals of perpetual motion," he said, "but apparently the inner mechanism of the pumps is one that I do not understand. And the casings were very strange to the touch, like ordinary metal with no aura of magic about them."
Jemidon frowned. He was bothered about all the events of the day. First, he could not completely forget his inability to perform the simplest of steps in a ritual. Then there was the sensation of pulling anchor and temporarily floating free. And now the pumps were unable to restart after Holgon had performed what he claimed was a magic ritual.
"A token," he said suddenly to the oarsman who had ferried them into the grotto. "Fetch me one from the chests."
"They cannot be removed, once the ledgers are marked. Only on Augusta's orders are the transfers made."
"A single coin and for a moment," Jemidon insisted. "Your mistress is in peril."
The oarsman hesitated, but finally turned from Jemidon's determined stare. He descended the passageway and in a moment returned with a small bag of jingling metal. "From Trocolar's deposit, the most recent change." Jemidon nodded and plunged his hand into the sack. He plucked out one of the smooth disks and his frown deepened. "Cold," he muttered, "stone-cold. No doubt it will be the same with the rest."
"Put away the distraction," Rosimar said. "The riddle is the failure of the pumps."
"The problem is far more basic." Jemidon shook his head. "Look at what has happened to your craft."
Before Rosimar could reply, Jemidon placed the disk against the wall and pushed it across the wet surface. He looked at the result, grunted, and tossed the coin to Rosimar.
The magician grabbed the token and examined it in his hand. His eyes widened and his mouth dropped open in surprise. "Scratched!" he exclaimed. "Somehow Trocolar managed to slip in a counterfeit among the rest."