by Lyndon Hardy
"Finally the bladder," Melizar directed. "Inflate it quickly and place it so that it will intercept the sharp point as it flies upward."
"Enough, enough!" Trocolar said. "Scoop up this refuse and be away."
"In a moment, it will be done," Melizar said in his soft voice. It projected no strain and only a hint of the need for speed. He drew into a tight ball and huddled to the floor. "The nexus can be no stronger," he said, "and the contradiction is easy enough to make."
Jemidon struggled erect to see better what was happening, but his vision suddenly swam when he moved his head. A wave of disorientation swept over him as he collapsed weakly back to the floor, He closed his eyes to steady himself, but the feeling cut deep, down to his core. It was more than a loss of physical balance; his whole being was adrift. The sensation was like what he had felt when Holgon performed his ritual with the dove, but with much greater intensity. Trivial facts, flashes of memory, subtle concepts, intuitive insights, and all his thoughts mixed in a jumble. There was no framework to sort one from the next. Childhood delights blended with logical deductions. Intense passions blurred slender shafts of subtle reason. Simple hunger engulfed algorithms that solved complex puzzles. In a swirling sea of abstractions, he floated away from a sharp focus.
"Rest, Jemidon. Do not give them cause." A gentle touch ran across his forehead.
Looking up through glazed eyes, Jemidon saw Augusta kneeling beside him.
"I am sorry for the blow," she said, "but I did not know what else to do. Surely if you resisted further, you would have been slain."
"But the election," Jemidon managed to say. "Without an explanation, it is all over. Trocolar has won. Our fate has only been postponed while his attention is elsewhere."
"I said I am sorry," Augusta repeated. "But forgive me the one last weakness in wanting to have someone at my side when the trader finally forces his way."
"And thus it is done." Melizar's voice cut through the ringing in Jemidon's ears. "The domino, Holgon. With the softest touch you can manage."
Through the haze, Jemidon saw Melizar return to standing. He watched the magician strike the first wooden block in line. One after another, the rest tumbled in order across the rough floor. The last hit the trigger on the trap, flipping it into the air and hurling the pin into the inflated bladder, which exploded with a loud pop.
"And now you will be gone," Trocolar said when the action had stopped.
"Two more simple demonstrations," Melizar insisted, waving off the man-at-arms who moved forward to grab his shoulder. He huddled a second time for a brief moment and then rose again with majestic slowness. "Two more and then I will depart."
Jemidon breathed deeply. He had to regain control. With determination, he held himself perfectly still and concentrated on Holgon's apparatus. Item by item, he willed that he should see. For a long moment, nothing happened; but then, gradually, the swirl started to subside. Dominoes became distinct in the blur, then the sprung trap. Finally the entire cavern returned to focus. The pain in his calf sorted itself from the rest as the disorientation ebbed away. His thoughts resumed their order and wispy phantoms disappeared.
"Holgon, clap your hands in the rhythm of the Adagio for Perpetual Lights, but as softly as you can muster." Melizar's voice cut through Jemidon's concentration.
Holgon's face registered confusion, but the magician began to push his palms together, so that Jemidon could just barely recognize the familiar cadence of a neophyte's training. On the final stroke, the ground rumbled. A spout of water coursed up the hole that led to the vault. A great spray of cold and slimy wetness struck the fow ceiling and showered down on those nearby. The ground trembled slightly, and Jemidon thought he heard the grinding of great masses of rock.
"The vault! It's flooded! The weak walls have given way!" one of the men-at-arms shouted as he peered down the hole to see what had happened.
"And now the Stomp of the Forging Presses." Melizar did not pause. "And then a taste of other forms of power."
Holgon complied. Beginning with his third step, the ground shook, this time not in slight trembles, but in great jerks that tumbled Trocolar and those around him to the floor. The basin of water below the landing began to slosh. With creaks and groans, the moored boats crashed into one another.
"Stop them, Nimrod!" the trader shouted. "Stop them before they collapse this cavern as well!"
"The Maxim of Perturbations." Melizar's voice competed with the shriek of tearing rock. "With it my minions can shake the earth or skim carpets across the ground. And beyond that, there are other maxims as well. Those of perspective, of penetration, persuasion, and pomp. You speak of power, insignificant mite, but know not one hundredth of all it entails."
"The sword," Trocolar demanded. "Nimrod, use the sword."
The constable snapped shut his gaping mouth and sprang into action. He ripped the blade from the man who held it and slashed at Holgon's legs. The magician's support buckled, and he tumbled to the ground. With eyes wide in fear, he threw his hands across his face, awaiting the next blow.
But the rumbling instantly stopped, and Nimrod hesitated before continuing the attack. He grunted as he saw a crimson stain begin to glisten in the hem of Holgon's robe and turned his attention back to Melizar.
"Yes, the sword." Melizar stepped forward to meet his assailant. "The sword that once sliced through rock. Until a moment ago, it held great power. But now, did it really feel all that different from any other when you tried it on the magician's flesh?"
Nimrod paused in mid-strike and turned the blade aside. It plunged toward the ground at Melizar's feet. With a shriek, it skittered across the rough stone and suddenly snapped near the hilt.
"And the scentstones." Melizar glided to the three bags that Jemidon had brought to the grotto. "Holgon's stompings have done more than rearrange the structures of the caverns. See also what they have done to crystal impurities."
With a surprising grace, he dumped the sacks to the floor, one after another.
"Cloudy!" someone exclaimed as the stones poured over his feet. "Not even citrine or amethyst. Milky quartz and no more!"
"Look closely, Nimrod," Melizar continued over the din that arose as everyone present began to examine his own collection of stones. "It is with this simple rock that you will be paid for your labor and the past year. Who knows what it will be for the next? Come with me to the wheat fields of the mainland, and there will be plunder enough for all."
The wave of white pebbles spilling onto the floor acted like a catalyst. The voices competing with Melizar's rose in volume. First had come the shock of the ruined tokens and now of their glittering, worthless replacements-financial ruin twice within a week. Traders and vaultholders began to push between the men-at-arms to side with trusted comrades. Swords rattled with anger in their scabbards.
"The stones are nothing!" one of the men-at-arms shouted. "And I am in debt! I depended on my fee to settle free and clear."
"Then to the mainland with the cold one," the guard next to him said. "Enough of dull sentries and shrinking cubes."
"Trocolar is the one at fault," a trader cried. "Without his tampering, this election would have proceeded as all those before."
"To your positions," Nimrod ordered. "We have an obligation still to discharge."
"For what?" one of his men shouted back. "For ballast, good enough only to weight a ship's keel?"
"Divulgents, to your guildsmen. Protect one another until we are safely away."
"Trocolar is not a winner. His clouded gems can be worth no more than mine. Now is the opportunity, vaultholders! Seize the records. Once again, the island can be ours."
"Those for the mainland, to my side," Melizar said. "Do not let them dishonor you more."
"Death to the schemer!" Luthor pushed his way through the crowd and headed for Trocolar, waving a small dagger over his head.
Another trader crumpled as he was hit from behind. A torch went sailing overhead to crash into the throng.
Someone screamed, and then one guardsman tried to prevent another from reaching Nimrod's side. In a moment, the scene swirled into a chaos of motion, flashing blades, and flowing blood. The shouts and cries of pain mingled with the echoes reverberating from the walls. Torches were ripped from their sconces. In growing dimness, fists, daggers, and swords flailed at whatever was closest at hand.
A richly robed merchant dropped at Jemidon's feet, clutching his stomach, with spurts of gore pulsing between his fingertips.
"His dagger!" Jemidon shouted. "Quickly, Augusta, cut my bonds so we can be away."
Augusta grabbed the blade just before another body fell. She severed Jemidon's bonds with quick slashes. In an instant, he was on his feet and testing his leg, "Into the passage." He pointed at one of the tunnels leading from the cavern. "On the way, you can tell me where it leads."
Limping as rapidly as he could, he pulled her into the opening and away from the fighting.
"It dead-ends after a twist a hundred paces farther along," Augusta said as Jemidon hobbled after. "There is no other way out, except back the way we came."
"A place of defense, then." Jemidon grimaced. "And time to tell me of what you saw happening through clearer eyes." He stopped a second and thought back over what he had seen. "From what Melizar had said, the sword still held power when I tried to withdraw it from the rock. And then, almost without effort, the laws have changed again. Another node in the lattice-and Melizar selected exactly which one it would be."
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The Final Tally
JEMIDON flexed his back and peered around the corner. He saw only pitch blackness. Except for the soft splash of distant oars, there was no sound. No one had pursued them. For over four hours, they had waited for the chaos at the other end of the tunnel to die away and the last survivor to leave.
"Let's hope that in the confusion at least one boat was left," Jemidon said as he straightened to full height. "Come, I think it is safe enough now that I can get you out."
"But what has happened?" Augusta asked in the darkness. "Does one faction now rule the island?"
Jemidon frowned. He was a good deal less confident than he was trying to appear. Twice he had rescued her from an immediate danger. But he had done little to free her from her ultimate fate. Now it was more than Trocolar's minions they had to fear. No faction on the island would aid the ones who disrupted the election with the magic sword. Likely as not, they could become the common focus for the frustration and anger, an outside enemy that everyone could hate, a catalyst for uniting into a new order out of the destruction of the old. And what could he accomplish now that he could not before? With an invisible shrug, Jemidon ignored Augusta's question and started down the passageway.
Cautiously he fingered the cold and damp walls and stepped over the rough variations in the rocky floor. Still limping, he guided Augusta back to the landing above the vault. In the entranceway, he stumbled over a lifeless body. He moved to the side, but ran into another. He felt Augusta tense to scream and put his arm around her shoulder.
"It is to our good fortune," he said. "Surely one of those who remain has a flint and steel."
Positioning Augusta near the wall, he gave her a reassuring pat and then, on all fours, began to explore the floor of the cavern. After several minutes of distasteful groping, he found the necessary tools on one of the victims. Soon a single torch illuminated the arching ceiling with its flickering glow.
"Half the wealthholders of the island are gone," Augusta gasped, "Look, there is Cumbrist and next to him Benedict, his principal rival. Beyond them, I think I see even Trocolar among the rest."
Tears welled up in her eyes as she looked at the form barely an arm's length away. "Poor Rosimar," she said softly. "He came for my sake and now he will play the hero no more." She sank her head on Jemidon's shoulder and shook with a spasm. "And he was bound, with not even the slightest defense. When I freed you, I should have thought of him as well."
"You have seen enough." Jemidon tugged her away. "Let us go to the cliff edge to see what remains."
The torchlight cut through the darkness down to the water. Only two skiffs were left. Even Jemidon's raft was gone. Sprawled over the side of one, with hands dangling in the water, was a trader with a dagger in his back.
"Luthor." Augusta squinted through the gloom. "He wears the embroidered leggings from his last trade. And look at the tide. I have never been here when it was so high. Quickly, Jemidon, we must leave."
Jemidon nodded and started to move along the edge of the cliff toward the rope ladder. He looked back at the carnage and saw the sparkles of light that reflected from links of mail and broken blades. Would any of Melizar's equipment still be there? Or perhaps even the body of the stranger?
Jemidon stopped and frowned. He and Augusta must flee. Clearly that was the best course of action. Any other was folly. But other currents also swirled in his mind. Slowly he placed one foot on the ladder and then hesitated again. Flee into what new uncertainty? His thoughts tumbled. How had anything he had done led him any closer to what he truly wanted? The Postulate of Invariance was only a beginning. With more information, who knew what he might be able to deduce? The urge to explore, if only for a little longer, began to well up inside. He could not put the feeling away.
"The secret may yet be here," Jemidon said half aloud. "Outside is more peril and, if we are lucky, another flight." He returned to Augusta and drew her close. "I cannot abandon the quest. You saw how Melizar so easily changed the laws. It seems he has discovered a greater magic than the five we know. Call it a sixth magic, something governed by a metalaw different from all the rest. And perhaps among the bodies there is some clue that will explain more. It does no good to understand what was done unless I also know how."
"But the tide," Augusta protested. "We have waited long enough." She looked about the landing at the bodies and shuddered. "I cannot remain here while the passageway submerges."
"Then you go ahead," Jemidon said gently. "You have traversed the tunnel many times, and I am sure you can manage alone. Wait just behind the portcullis that opens onto the bay. At most, I will be a few minutes behind."
Augusta started to say more, but Jemidon drew his face into a mask of rigid determination. "Every minute we delay, the water rises higher," he said. "You help me best by making haste."
Augusta nuzzled closer for a moment and then sighed. "I am not so much the dreamer that I would offer also to stay," she said. "But take care, Jemidon. The events spin too fast. I seem to need your comfort more and more."
She disengaged and descended the ladder. With the precision of an oarsman, she maneuvered the empty skiff away from the cliff and toward the narrow opening in the far wall. As she disappeared from view, Jemidon saw her wave a final kiss.
Jemidon cleared his head. Now he must hurry to find out what he could before the tide rose any higher. He would first explore the other passageways, then whatever remained among the wreckage on the landing floor, and finally the vault itself.
Quickly he crossed back over the bodies and debris to begin. He entered a side tunnel and examined the ceiling and walls for any trace that Meltzar might have left behind. Falling into the pattern of the scholar, he investigated to the end of the passage and then started to explore the next, losing track of the time.
An hour later, Jemidon emerged from the last, as empty-handed as when he had begun. He turned his attention to the floor of the cavern and located Holgon's body sprawled across Melizar's toys. In the torchlight, he examined each one-the broken bladder, the sprung trap, and the painted blocks of wood. They felt quite ordinary, and no arcane symbols were anywhere to be found. Nearby was the broken sword of magic; when Jemidon grasped it, only the sense of cold steel greeted his fingertips. The shocks of electric pain were gone.
In frustration, he rubbed the worn coin about his neck. There was nothing here that told him anything more than he already knew. Somehow, with greater ease than the simplest glamour, Melizar h
ad changed the laws, replacing the substitute magic with yet another,
Jemidon gripped the broken sword tighter, twisting its strange, unbalanced feeling back and forth with his wrist. Perhaps later, in the light of day, there might be something else that he could not see now. Yes, that was it-take an example of each form of magic and study the connection at a better time. He placed the sword hilt where he could easily find it again and then scooped up a handful of dominoes that lay next to the guard. He looked around for some example of traditional magic and saw Benedict's coinchanger reflecting the torchlight from a few feet away.
Jemidon stooped and pried loose the divulgent's stiffening fingers from the device, which was still strapped to his waist. He cut it free and experimentally tripped one of the levers. A pile of worthless tokens fell into his palm and bounded onto the cavern floor.
Jemidon continued his search, but found nothing more. Finally he knelt by the side of the shaft leading down to the flooded vault and peered into the inky blackness. Impulsively he gathered the tokens he had spilled and dropped one of the coins into the opening. Almost immediately, he heard an answering splash.
The water level was halfway up the shaft, he decided. There was no way to see what had happened below. Exploration was impossible. If any secrets were in the vault, they would forever remain there. One by one, he dropped the rest of the tokens into the dark water, trying to visualize the imagery of their grave.
As the last one left his fingers, he bolted upright with a sudden thought. The tokens in the vault were totally submerged and inaccessible. It might work at that. It offered no bearing on the riddle of the changing laws but was useful, nonetheless. Why hadn't he thought of it before racing after Rosimar with no idea of a detailed plan?
With a rush of excitement that blotted out the pain in his leg, Jemidon decided what he must do. He had learned all he could. There was no reason to remain. Now the feeling of urgency returned. He must get out ahead of the rising tide, out to safety so he could tell Augusta what they could do.