by Lyndon Hardy
"Let us be gone," Rosimar said behind Jemidon'sback. "This is an affair of magic, not gossip of the harbor. If Augusta had not wished that I come along, I would be elsewhere, employing my skills as a master."
"There is no time to learn everything that we must know," Jemidon said. "The knowledge of a divulgent may save us many a step."
"His brain is clearly addled." Rosimar moved to Jemidon's side and waved across the high table. "He can only impede what I must do."
"I plan to convince him that our goal is the same," Jemidon said. "That we can work to the benefit of us all."
"No, not of us all!" Rosimar suddenly thundered. "By no means will we all achieve what we seek." His face flushed; with a deep glower, he raised his fist in the air. "This time I will not be haunted by your memory, Jemidon. This time there can be no doubt about the value of what I provide. This time there will be gratitude without reservation. This time Augusta will not whine and complain about the love she left behind, about how slowly I advanced in the hierarchy of the guild, and about how few were the gowns of silk that I could afford. When I snatch her away from Trocolar's certain torture, there will be no excuse to cast me aside and strike out on her own."
Rosimar's knuckles whitened. His hand shook as he continued. "And this time I will make sure that the credit is properly placed. In the end, it will all be mine, not shared with a would-be neophyte who cannot work the simplest ritual-one who curries favor by resurrecting the past, rather than with solid works expertly done."
Jemidon blinked at the sudden rush of passion. He returned Rosimar's stare, looking for a spark of reason behind the emotion. In addition to everything else, he did not need petty bickering. He pushed the confused tangle that defined his own feelings toward Augusta away and focused on why he was in the divulgent's cubicle. "There is no time for that now, Rosimar," he said. "Three working together will serve Augusta better than each laboring apart."
"If I will not share with one, then neither will I with two," Rosimar rushed on. "And certainly I see no advantage in a timid divulgent who does not know even the value of pebbles I can fetch from an ore dump."
"Did you not see the exchange board as you passed?" Benedict asked. "It is empty, wiped clean in the past hour. No longer is value measured in tokens. Each commodity is individually bartered, and no standards prevail. And I know what will happen as a consequence. There is information from the past and other places that foreshadows the events here. Already I have learned of the effects on the shoreline. Ships have missed the tide because the fee for the crew's provisions could not be settled. Goods will remain to rot in storage because no one is sure of their true worth. Commerce will halt. Many stomachs will be empty before a new order is established."
The divulgent's eyes took on a faraway look as he stroked the lid of the box in his lap. "But scentstones are different. They possess a spicy essence that men will fight for; they produce a thirst that cannot be slacked. And more importantly, there are not enough to satisfy the demand. Already a large one has been traded for a barrel of the purest oil. There is a rumor that my rival Cumbrist will offer the use of his cubicle for the next year for three handfuls.
"I desire them as the rest do, but I can see also a second purpose they serve as well. The price has doubled in the last hour. In the next, it probably will double again. With only two more days to the election, who knows what one's fortune might turn out to be?"
"I saw you in line to buy some of the first," Jemidon said. "Worthless pebbles with allure for minutes at most."
Benedict's eyes glazed over, and he did not acknowledge Jemidon's words. Looking past Rosimar's shoulder, he stared vacantly at the curtain behind.
Jemidon stamped his foot and then clapped his hands, but Benedict did not move. With little spasms, the divulgent's fingers twitched on the lid of his strongbox.
"The scentstones," Jemidon said. "Benedict, pay attention. Do you have them here?"
"My dagger." Benedict shook out of his reverie and fumbled with a blade at his belt. "It will be my answer if you press too close."
"Yet before today, did you care at all about such pebbles?" Jemidon continued. "Does it not strike you as odd? Yes, think of something else besides the stones. Break the connection as I did on the street. What of the threat to what you have in your arms in addition to the chips of rock? Jerk your attention away."
Benedict huddled in the corner and raised his dagger threateningly. Slowly Jemidon slid from the stool and advanced. "All of your information," he said. "Is it worth sacrificing that to save what rattles between the scrolls?"
Benedict's face froze in a mask of tension. He tentatively jabbed the blade forward as he watched Jemidon approach- He started to speak again, but then paused, squinting his eyes.
"Now the stones themselves," Jemidon said, coming another step closer. "What allure can they really have? Look at them quickly. Make sure that they are worth the risk."
Benedict shook his head in denial. But as Jemidon moved forward again, the divulgent quickly thrust his hand inside his box to withdraw one of the stones. He looked at the rock hurriedly and cast it aside. Throwing back the lid, he reached to the bottom and extracted a handful of pebbles, the smaller ones slipping between his fingers to bounce on the floor.
"Cinnamon," the divulgent said, puzzled, "Only cinnamon! By the looks, the magician is right as well. Murky stones with inclusions and flaws."
Benedict looked back at Jemidon. "But how can that be? It is as I have said. Some purchased after mine have traded hands many times, and each exchange has fetched a more princely sum."
"I know who is responsible for the mysteries," Jemidon said, returning to his stool. "And I hope that you know how to gain entry into his keep by some stealth. If we exchange what we know, then perhaps in addition to who and where, we will be able to learn how."
Benedict looked at the pile of rocks as they dribbled out of his hand. Slowly he inverted his palm to let the last few drop away. "Penniless," he mumbled. "Everything I traded for worthless rock. And more I borrowed from others, besides."
Finally he looked up at Jemidon. "You may have information of some value," he said. "And as things stand, I have few options, other than to hear what you have to say. Perhaps the fee for the chairs can be waved."
Jemidon smiled and motioned Rosimar to the other stool. But before the magician moved, one of the pages thrust his head through the curtain leading to the court.
"The men-at-arms," the boy said. "They are searching each cubicle, one by one. It is to impound the assets. All property belonging to the vaultholders is to be seized against payment of their debts."
"Another exit," Jemidon said. "We cannot exchange information if I am bound."
"The debts of the vaultholders are no concern of mine." Benedict retreated back to the far wall. "From the mercenaries I have nothing to hide."
"And neither will you learn about the stones," Jemidon said, "nor of what has happened to the tokens and sorcery. Without information, how can you hope to repay your newly acquired debts?"
Benedict bit his lip. His eyes darted around the small room. He looked from Jemidon to Rosimar and then at the pebbies at his feet. "Why did I care?" He shook his head. "The allure was so real. And no doubt Cumbrist pursues them still. The divulgent who first understands it all will have knowledge of great value, to be sure."
He paused and looked at Jemidon a final time. "Quickly." He motioned to a hinged panel in the rear wall. "We will strike the bargain, once we are away from the exchange."
Benedict ducked through the opening. Jemidon rounded the high table to follow. He turned to look at Rosimar, who was slowly descending from his stool. "The two of us will proceed without you if we must," he called back, "but a master's knowledge of magic may be useful as well."
Rosimar hesitated a moment and then frowned as he heard the clink of mail. "Until you are to be cast aside." He shrugged. "Until then, I will permit myself to follow."
CHAPTER NINE
The Shadow in the Keep
IN the moonlight filtering through the trees, Jemidon shifted position to get a better view. He looked down to the shoreline where their small skiff could be seen bobbing on the gentle waves. Farther back across the water were the lights of Pluton, some mere pinpoints, but others the flickering brightness of fires out of control.
Jemidon looked back at the rising slope of the island. The trees blanketed the hillside toward the crest, except on the right, where they had been cleared away for the garishly decorated structure of stone and iron. Behind the crest and out of sight was the other island in the bay, the one that contained Augusta's vault. Jemidon had not guessed that the larger of the two islands in the bay was owned by Trocolar. The leader of the tradesmen had indicated nothing when Augusta ferried him to her vault three days before.
But Benedict had been insistent. The island and the estate were indeed Trocolar's. The divulgent had said that, if there was more to be learned, it would most likely be there. And so, under the cover of nightfall, he, Jemidon, and Rosimar had rowed across the bay and landed unobserved where the green canopy came nearly to the shore.
"I will have the correct amounts in a moment," Benedict whispered above the soft jingle of coins. "My sorting device barely functions; the output from a single column is more often a scramble than not."
"Why not carry a pouch the way everyone else does and dip into it, once the price has been settled?" Rosimar growled in irritation. "The guards on the wall or some patrol will soon find us if you continue to fumble."
"A full purse is no way to bargain for several favors," Benedict said. "You will empty it for the first and get no other. I acknowledge your mastery of your craft, Rosimar; respect my skill in mine. A divulgent prepares his cape with many pockets, each with but one coin or two."
Benedict moved slightly, and Jemidon saw the glint of the coinchanger at the divulgent's waist. He watched as Benedict fingered the levers and scowled at the results in his palm. The divulgent selected a single coin from the pile to put in a pocket and returned the rest to the top of the device.
"I am ready at last," Benedict said as the jingle stopped. "The guard at the postern gate has told me much before, but never have I convinced him to let me enter. What we learn in Trocolar's private estate had better be of supreme value to justify our risk."
"Then perhaps I should proceed alone," Rosimar said. "I would have expected something more from this skill of yours than a simple bribe."
"A secret passage, perhaps," Benedict snapped back. "Or maybe a ring that levitates the bearer over walls. You are the magician. What do you bring to our agreement in addition to your razor-edged tongue?"
"Enough!" Jemidon waved his arms for silence. The muscles in his neck were knotted from anticipation. Keeping the other two from bickering was an added irritant that he could well do without. "Enough. Just get us inside. The rest does not matter."
"You are the least qualified to speak," Rosimar said. "Except in stealth, you cannot move about on Pluton at all. The mercenaries will make sure all frozen assets are properly impounded; their annual fee depends on how well they perform."
"Our goal is to learn how the laws of magic and sorcery have been turned off," Jemidon said. "And, if the random factors align, how to reactivate them as well. With the tokens in Augusta's vault once more a well-regarded tender, she will be no debtor, and I can act as I choose."
"But if not within two days, the election will be over and Trocolar will prevail," Rosimar said. "After that, it will not matter for you whether the craft is again operative or not."
"If you see all outcomes so bleak, then why continue?" Jemidon asked. "Return to your guild and wait out the storm. From the safety of your surrounding walls, try to convince Augusta of your aid in her behalf."
Rosimar glared at Jemidon, then at Benedict. Finally he shrugged and folded his arms inside his robe. Benedict hesilated a moment, but no one said more. The divulgent nibbled on his lip and started to move farther into the shadows.
They traveled the rest of the way to the estate in silence, filtering among the trees. While Jemidon and Rosimar waited on the edge of the clearing, Benedict darted across to confer with the guard.
The moon was bright in a cloudless sky. Strong shadows of the roofline traced a jagged pattern across the naked landscape surrounding the keep. The structure was not large-two storeys with perhaps a half-dozen rooms in each-but the face work resembled that of a large castle from the mainland of Arcadia or even Procolon across the sea. Miniature bartizans budded from crenellated walls. Tiny loopholes dotted shallow bastions. Each row of square-cut stone was slightly smaller than the one upon which it rested, giving the illusion of greater height as one scanned upward.
While Jemidon watched, Benedict appeared out of the gloom of the small gatehouse, beckoning him and Rosimar to come forward. In a moment all three were inside, examining the dim walls and a grim-faced guard still clutching a fist full of coins.
"He says that they all are at their evening meal," Benedict whispered. "Including Trocolar's new partner, who spends most of his time in the dampness below."
"Then to the dungeon," Jemidon said softly. "We may learn everything we need before they have finished their wine."
"The stair is on the south wall." Benedict motioned with his head. "But the guard will not escort us down. And the entry is barred and locked, besides."
"A simple lock will not stop us." Jemidon felt his excitemment begin to rise. "Come along. I will show you how it is done."
Without waiting to see if the others would follow, Jemidon turned and ran down the steps. It felt good to move quickly after all the cautious stealth. The passage was narrow, dirty, and hung with cobwebs. Just enough light to guide his feet flickered down from torches set high in the wall.
On the landing below, Jemidon paused a moment for his eyes to adjust to the gloom. He saw a single short passage leading to heavy wooden doors barred by a single beam chained in place. From his cape, he pulled a finger-length shaft of metal with a narrow flange on one end and inserted it in the lock. After a few experimental probes, he rotated it a quarter turn to the left, and the hasp snapped open. Just as Rosimar and Benedict came up behind, he carefully pushed the bar aside and motioned them to enter.
The doors opened onto one vast room, the view interrupted only by stout posts that supported the beams and planking of the ceiling above. In each corner, small alcoves projected off at odd angles, their entrances barred by grates of iron. Each was filled to overflowing with sacks, barrels, and wooden boxes. Stuffed in crannies were heaps of chain, shafts of steel, shields, pikes, and bowls of polished copper. More goods cluttered the main floor-piles of linen, bins of grain, huge leather volumes bound in groups of six, and rough tarpaulins covering stacked crates and lumpy mounds. In the very center, barely separate from the piles which pushed in from all sides, was a small anthanor with its coals still smoldering. Next to it was an array of large sacks, one tipped to the side, spilling hundreds of small, translucent stones on the floor. The smell of cinnamon mingled with the musty and humid air. Pokers and tongs lay scattered about, and pushed to one side was a large lattice of wires and beads.
"Drandor!" Jemidon exclaimed, forgetting the hushed tones he had used before, "I knew I would track him down. And this time we will examine his wares with far more care to learn what secrets they possess."
Jemidon eagerly moved across the room toward the lattice. He looked up at one of the supporting beams and saw the familiar form of the guarding imp asleep in its bottle. Staying far enough away not to excite the sprite, he slowly began to examine the structure, looking for any differences since he had seen it last.
"Why is it so important?" he muttered aloud. "So important to Drandor that Delia took it rather than anything else when she fled? If only she-"
Jemidon stopped and looked around the room. Except for Benedict peering curiously into one of the alcoves and Rosimar standing in the entrance, there was no one else there.
/>
Jemidon grimaced in disappointment. Although he had never expressed it consciously, he had evidently envisioned Delia to be with the rest-a daring confrontation and a final rescue. But what if he could find the secret of how the trader suspended the laws of sorcery and magic and be away before anyone returned? He would have all that he needed to obtain the robe of the master. Why then track down Drandor to ask what he had done with a slave girl? Jemidon's scowl deepened with his hesitancy. He tried to force himself to examine the lattice, to focus on what was most important before being distracted by anything else.
Tentatively, he took another step closer to the structure, but stopped in midstep as a chorus of footfalls echoed down the passageway leading above. Benedict dropped the book he was examining, flung open the grating in front of him, and squirmed into the alcove behind. Jemidon looked back at Rosimar and saw the master standing rigidly erect, making no attempt to hide himself.
Jemidon ran back across the room. "Quickly," he said. "Into one of the side rooms. Apparently the iron gates are unlocked."
"Too small," Rosimar moaned feebly. k'Too small. The gloom, the musty walls. I cannot. The room, it confines. I must be away."
Jemidon looked into the sweating face and dazed eyes. He had seen the same expression when Rosimar had ventured into the grotto. The noises outside became louder. Jemidon stepped to the doors and pulled them shut. He turned back to Rosimar and grabbed him about the shoulders. "This way," he commanded. "Control your feelings. We must hide without delay."
Rosimar opened his mouth to protest as Jemidon herded him toward one of the alcoves, but Jemidon clamped his free hand over the magician's mouth. He hooked the grating with his foot, swung it open, and pushed Rosimar inside. With a final swirl, he looped his foot behind the iron bars and pulled them shut. Just as the wooden doors to the room creaked open, he shoved Rosimar behind a crate and tumbled on top of him.