Secret Of The Sixth Magic m-2

by Lyndon Hardy

  "Strange, I was sure we secured the entrance as Trocolar had directed when we left." Jemidon heard a voice he recognized as that of Holgon the magician. "But it is no wonder. Nine passes with the dove were boring enough. Today's tedium dulls even the brightest mind."

  "Continue as you have been told, and you will be rewarded well," another voice answered. "The Maxim of Perseverance, 'repetition unto success,' may not be as precise as the one before, but the results are nearly the same."

  Jemidon strained to hear the second speaker and frowned. The voice was not unfamiliar, but he could not place it for certain. He looked down at Rosimar and saw the magician's knuckles pressed to his teeth. Cautiously, Jemidon released his grip and waited for a reaction. Rosimar remained still, rigidly stiff and unmoving. Jemidon paused a moment more and then, indicating silence, slowly rose to peer through a crack between the stacked crates.

  He looked out to see Holgon, tightly bundled in a heavy cloak and wearing woolen gloves. The magician huddled over the furnace and was talking to someone just outside Jemidon's view. Two guardsmen with bored expressions lounged against supporting posts, ignoring the conversation. From the metallic rustle of mail, Jemidon could tell that there were more men-at-arms in the room as well.

  "It will take nearly a hundred times," the soft voice continued. There was a hint of some accent about it and a breathless quality, as if each word would be the last before a massive gulp of air. "But with each repetition of the ritual, the effect becomes more likely to happen. You rushed the first stones to the marketplace, Holgon, with barely a dozen complete enactments. Some of the purchasers were able to shake the illusion that compelled them to buy and saw what the pebbles truly were. Only when you increased the repetition for the next batch did the images hold firm beyond the first hour. And without the subsequent trades, an increase in value would never have happened."

  Jemidon nodded in his hiding place. That explained why there had been no outcry about worthless stones as there was for the tokens. Except for himself, Benedict, and a few others, the illusion had held. After the glamour that compelled him had faded, something else convinced the owner that they were still very special. With growing excitement about what he was learning, Jemidon strained forward to catch more.

  He saw Holgon sigh and then dip into the sack for one of the small stones. The magician gripped it with tongs, inserted it into the furnace, and began to stomp his feet. The guard on the left unbuckled his sword and lowered it to the ground. He then joined Holgon's beat, clapping his hands to the rhythm while simultaneously banging together two cymbals strapped to the insides of his forearms. The other guard scooped some pieces of rope from the floor and tied them together in a series of intricate knots, while puffing his cheeks with air and then swallowing in noisy gulps.

  "The Rhythm of Refraction," Jemidon muttered to himseif. "Except for the use of cymbals instead of drums, it is the magic ritual for making a lens that focuses all of the colors the same."

  "Enough," the soft voice commanded abruptly. "It is the number of repetitions that count, not the perfection of each step as it is performed."

  Holgon grunted and extracted the stone from the furnace. With his free hand, he flicked open a small vent above the coals. A brilliant yellow shaft of light shot out into the room. Holgon held the stone to intercept the beam, and one of the guards scurried to hold a scrap of cloth on the other side.

  "Nothing," Holgon said after a moment. "It is no different from all the times before."

  "Patience," the soft voice commanded. "I suffer without comment the small air volume of this room. Repeat the ritual as you have been told."

  Holgon shrugged and began to move the stone slowly back and forth across the beam, momentarily blotting it out and creating bursts of light that hit the cloth. Another guard extracted a poker from the coals; with each pulse of light, he gently dabbed the cloth with the tip.

  "And again enough," the voice said. "After a dozen passes, the burning point grows too cold. Start from the beginning and proceed as before."

  Everyone returned to his former position, and the sequence was reinitiated. Holgon heated the rock in the furnace and stamped the dust, while the others executed their parts of the ritual in step with the cadence.

  "Eventually there will be transparency," the voice continued. "Never as fine as the most exacting lens, but with each heating, each bathing in the flow of the flame, each burning of the cloth, the barrier to the light weakens. Eventually it will suddenly shine through."

  "But why not have the glamour carry it all?" Holgon asked. "If the owner believes, it does not matter whether the scentstone truly is flawed or not."

  "As I have already explained, the glamour can do no more. It is the Rule of the Threshold, or 'fleeting in sight, fixed in mind.' The subtle messages that flash on the screen with the animations cannot be too short, or they never would be noticed. But if they are presented too long, the mind becomes aware that they are there, and their power is lost. The glamours in the marketplace strain to the limit. They can convince no more than they do now."

  "It still sounds better than this excuse for magic." Holgon extracted the tongs for a second time. "Perhaps I should become like the archmage and learn more than one art."

  "Your archmage!" The voice tinkled in what Jemidon took to be a laugh. "Soon his skills will be no more. The imps twitter that he has heard of the strange failures of sorcery all around this globe and that he finds no explanation at home and plans even to strike across the seas in search for the cause. But by the time he gets to Arcadia, Trocolar's payment to me of Pluton's mercenary constabulary will have long since passed. And then for the rest, it will be too late."

  Jemidon strained against the crates which defined his hiding place, trying to ferret out the true meaning of all the words. He shifted his position slightly and then felt a sudden kick from Rosimar's legs. He looked back to the ground just in time to see the magician explode in a frenzy of motion, his eyes twitching in a wild panic,

  "Air, clear air! I can withstand no more!" the magician screamed. He bolted upright and shouldered against the crates in front, sending them in a crash to the floor and knocking open the grating to the larger room. Instinctively, Jemidon pulled at Rosimar's robe, but grasped only emptiness. Together, they clattered out onto the dusty stonework for all to see.

  "Seize them," the voice commanded as the men-at-arms sprang to life. "This is not according to my plan."

  Jemidon turned for the doorway, but managed only half a step through the clutter before he was hit from the side and hurled to the ground. He rose to one knee, but two more guards joined the first, pushing him to the stones. He looked quickly about to see another slap the flat side of his sword against Rosimar's head, crumpling the magician in a heap. Benedict bolted from his hiding place and tried to rush past Holgon, but the master thrust his glowing poker between the divulgent's legs as he dashed by, crashing him to the ground, where he lay gasping in pain.

  "Trocolar advised me well to keep his dungeon secured," the voice said with the same soft cadence that had come before. "When these are fettered, search the other alcoves. There may be more."

  Jemidon struggled to look in the direction of the anthanor and, for the first time, saw Holgon's companion. The figure was thin and tall, easily a head taller than even Canthor, the bailiff on Morgana. He was totally covered from head to toe with a dark brown greatcloak and deep hood that shielded his face entirely in shadow. The cloth hung heavy and limp, water glistening among the coarse threads. A small pool had formed from what dripped from the low hem to the floor. A belt of gold braid cinched in a narrow waist, and a multicolored cube hung from the clasp. Jemidon saw a tiny circle of imp light dancing around the hood and heard the hiss of gently moving air behind the soft tones of the accented voice.

  The guards dragged Jemidon to his feet and, with his arms held tightly behind, pushed him toward the stranger. As he drew closer, Jemidon caught his breath. Cold air rolled around his knees and sw
irled up to his chest. As if stepping out onto an arctic meadow from a well insulated hut, he found himself shuddering and tried to turn away.

  But as he did, he suddenly remembered the suggestion of coldness in Drandor's tent and the wisp of icy air behind the latched door in the presentation hall. They had been only hints before; but now, in the almost overpowering numbness, he was sure they were the same.

  "Delia," he blurted. "What has become of her? Your presence is tied closely with that of the smiling trader; I can sense it. You must know where they are. Where is Drandor and how did he cause the changes to come to pass?"

  "Drandor?" the voice asked. "Drandor, the cause of the changes?" The soft burble of laughter continued for more than a minute. "He has served his purpose well and now he sleeps with my manipulants."

  A long, thin finger with smooth, unwrinkled skin poked out from one of the draping sleeves and touched Jemidon's chest with an icy coldness. "Know Drandor for what he is. A minion. A minion like Holgon here and no more. A minion who has traded his talents for what he might have when I am done."

  The finger retracted and touched the center of the greatcloak. "It is I, Melizar, who is the master. Melizar, the first among the pilots."

  Jemidon peered into the inky blackness of the hood, but only a hint of the dark features could be discerned. He tested the grip of the guard behind; the man was well trained and held him firm. "But what of Delia?" he insisted. Somehow he felt he wanted to know that the most of all. "What has been done with her?"

  "Drandor does not always show good judgment in the treatment of his property," Melizar said. "Especially when it is jointly owned. I have done what is necessary in her regard."

  Jemidon's thoughts raced to frame another question; but before he could speak again, more footfalls sounded on the stone passageway outside the room. All turned to look. In a moment, three more of Trocolar's men raced through the doors.

  "The stones, the scentstones! The trader needs another chestful of them now."

  "They are not ready," Melizar said. "We barely will have a gross of them finsihed by the eve of the election. As they are endowed now, too many purchasers can break out of their spell."

  "The spell does not matter," the first of the newcomers said. "It is enough that they can be distinguished from the opaque pebbles on the beach. The demand exceeds the supply. Already a woman is the price for the smallest. Not even a fine team of horses will serve for one bigger than a pecan. Who cares about scents that eventually decay away? With the collapse of the token, it is the new fever of the hour. No one bothers to trade in anything else. Everyone scrambles to recover in a day the fortunes that have vanished.

  "And the prescription is so simple. Buy in the morning and sell at noon for a return that nets you tenfold. One cannot fail. Why, Trocolar is the richest man on the island. He has been offered an estate on the crestline for a chestful. Make haste with the whole sack. We are all to come as guards, the entire household. The mercenaries cannot keep order everywhere at once. He has promised us each a handful if we are prompt."

  "It proceeds too quickly," Melizar said. "It is not according to my plan. The crowds may prove fickle without the full use of the arts."

  "Our orders are to transport them now. Stand aside. Our own fortunes are at stake with the rest."

  "It does not follow the dictates of my plan," Melizar repeated, "The stones are not properly prepared."

  "All of us here serve Trocolar the trader first." The speaker's voice grew threatening. "The wishes of his partners, no matter how well reasoned, must come later."

  "Wait!" Melizar suddenly waved his cloaked arm over his head. "Wait until I have calculated the consequences. Do not show such haste."

  Jemidon heard the gentle hiss about Melizar's head abruptly increase to a roar. The imp light intensified into painful stabs of light. Frost began to form over Melizar's cloak as he drew his arms to his chest and slumped into a ball. The cold air billowed down his sides, and a wet fog rolled across the floor. Trocolar's men hesitated, stepping back from the dense air as it encircled their boots.

  They looked from one to another, trying to see who would take the lead on what to do next.

  For several minutes, no one moved. The air in the room grew chillingly cold. Jemidon could tell which held their breath by the absence of cloudlets about their faces. Then, as quickly as they had started, the noise and lights began to fade. Melizar stood erect and unfolded his arms. Small shards of ice tinkled to the floor.

  "Enough." Melizar waved his arms again. "Enough. I have thought through the pattern of events." The imp light dimmed to almost nothing. The whistling sound receded to the distant murmur it had been before. "I will do as the trader suggests and let you transport the stones now. It is as Holgon says. If the beholder perceives value, then intrinsic worth does not matter. But I must go along to ensure that Trocolar does not act too precipitously or even forget all the conditions of our bargain."

  The deep shadow turned back to face Jemidon, "And as for these, place them in one of the side rooms. They perhaps are the minions of a disgruntled vaultholder. Or maybe even his assets. Yes, it will save Trocolar the trouble of searching. For their capture, I will ask an additional fee."

  Jemidon watched sullenly as he and the other two were thrust into one of the alcoves and the lock snapped shut. He saw Holgon remove a crucible of molten metal from the anthanor and pour it into the keyhole as the rest of Trocoiar's men prepared to leave.

  "A more difficult challenge than the outer lock," the magician said. "I am sure that Trocolar would want you here when we return."

  Melizar exited with the last, pausing as he left to examine the lattice beside the furnace. Slowly he ran his slender hands along the wires and fondled the beads with his fingertips.

  "So close and yet so different," he said, touching one of the vertices and tapping it gently. "So unlike where we almost succeeded before."

  He ran his finger down one of the wires to an adjacent vertex and then at right angles up to a third. "And yet, two steps already taken. The basis is set for one more. And three should be enough. Three changes to the unfamiliar, and none here will be able to cope. The remaining four shifts will come with ease. And then I can traverse at will, move back and forth between what I know and the unexplored, and add new vertices with no threat of dissent."

  Melizar sighted down one of the slender tendrils that arched from the dense central maze. "I shall discover what lurks beyond the last node in the thaumaturgy line. Yes, the satisfaction will be great indeed."

  He turned back to look a final time into the cell that confined Jemidon. "Drandor the causes of changes, indeed! Not in this place and time."

  As the last footfalls of Melizar's departure faded, Jemidon shook the bars in frustration. He had learned much, but was no closer to his goal than before. He had to escape soon, before the trail once again grew as cold as Melizar's cloak. He looked at the broken sword blades on the floor. Trying to pry back the bolt had served only to snap the finely wrought steel. The rest of the crates contained nothing of value to aid in their escape.

  Benedict huddled on a small keg in the corner, wringing his hands and moaning softly about the burns on his legs. "I should not have been swayed by the value," the divulgent muttered. "The risk, the risk, it was too great."

  A loud groan cut off Benedict's whispering as Rosimar flailed his arms through the air and pulled himself to sitting. The trickle of blood from his scalp had clotted in a stringy cake that ran over one eye and down his cheek. "Air," the magician croaked hoarsely. "I must get out to the fresh air."

  Jemidon looked from one to the other and sighed. He moved to allow Rosimar to stumble forward and rattle the grating.

  "Air!" Rosimar shrieked again. "I cannot withstand it. Give me air."

  "The magician awakes." Benedict rose to his feet. "It is his magic that is our hope." He climbed over the intervening boxes and grabbed the front of Rosimar's robe, twisting him around. "You boasted of your worth. No
w is the time to prove your mettle. You must get us out before that cold one returns."

  "Magic." Rosimar shook his head vacantly. "Magic, magic swords and rings of power. Magic to give me air. If I had but one such object, I could barter my way to freedom." He turned and stared at Jemidon, squinting ihrough the clotted blood. "But this one says that magic is no more. All my craft is gone, vanished like a demon's wind." He sagged to the floor. "And in truth, none of my rituals work as they should. Empty forms that might as well be abstract dances for entertaining a prince! My magic is gone and I cannot get my air."

  Rosimar started to say more, but stopped and turned to the grating. He gripped the bars and tried to thrust his face between them, gasping for breath.

  Benedict watched for a moment and then placed his hand tentatively on Rosimar's shoulder. The magician did not respond, but continued to stare out into the storeroom, eyes bulging and forehead glistening with sweat. The divulgent nibbled at his lip and darted his eyes about the alcove. With a long sigh, he slumped his shoulders and resumed wringing his hands.

  "They left the equipment here untouched." Jemidon grabbed at Benedict as the divulgent started back for the corner. "Look about, man. Maybe there is something we still can learn by keen observation or something that Melizar said that can yet key a discovery."

  "So close and yet so different," Benedict replied absently. "So unlike where we almost succeeded before."

  "Yes, that is the idea," Jemidon said. "Melizar's words when he touched the lattice. You remember them well."

  "Those are his exact words. A divulgent must retain what he is told with no repetition, else he will find he has paid for nothing."

  "You remember all the conversation?" Jemidon asked. "Everything?"

  "Strange, I was sure we secured the entrance-" Benedict nodded and began again, but Jemidon excitedly waved him to stop.