Secret Of The Sixth Magic m-2

by Lyndon Hardy

  After all, why had he pursued the robe of the master? Were not the arts the means to the end, the paths most likely to lead to success, despite his failures along the way? Now he could have them all-the gold, the nods of peers, the bows of servants, and adoration in a woman's eyes. A mantle of black was no longer necessary. There was no need to restore the art of sorcery, no reason to rescue a slave girl to prove that it could be done.

  Or was there? Jemidon looked down at Benedict's changer. He pressed a lever, and a shower of brass and silver spilled into his hand. A single gold brandel gleamed on top of the pile. He picked it up and compared the sharp contours of the embossing with the dull indistinctness of the coin about his neck.

  Jemidon stiffened. He ignored Augusta's suddenly questioning eyes. Did anything that she offered wipe away the guilt of his sister's death, the humiliation of failing the initiates' examinations time and time again, the frustration over the formulas that would not work, and the slight shake of Farnel's head when the glamour did not complete?

  "No, they are not enough." Jemidon surprised himself with the intensity which the words blasted forth. "The prestige, the power, the wealth-I want them, yes. But if I could trade them all for my own self-respect, then gladly would I deal. I have the knowledge, the intuitive skills, and the deep understanding of the arts that few will ever possess. Dullards ten times my inferior have succeeded. By the laws, then, why can't I?"

  Clumsily, Jemidon pushed Augusta away. With a booming thud, he crashed his fist down upon the rail. The taste of victory soured in his mouth. What did it matter that he had escaped the cube if he still must carry his burden?

  "Gently, my sweet." Augusta wrapped her arms around his waist from behind. "The poisons of your exertions have not yet run their course. Be calm and fight inner demons some other day."

  "But I am not a master," Jemidon exclaimed. "I found the reason for the vanishing of sorcery and then I let it slip away."

  "No man can be a master solely from desire," Augusta said. "Each must have inherent aptitudes, as I am sure you have amply learned. But put the thought from your mind. You have shown me skills that I have found in no other."

  Jemidon gently pulled Augusta's arms from around his waist and turned to face her. He attempted a smile; but despite her words, he was not comforted. For a long moment, he pondered all that he had experienced.

  "I have learned much, Augusta," he said at last, "and solved more than a single riddle-the vanishing of sorcery and magic, and their replacement by new arts heretofore unexpected." He held out his hand and began to coil his fingers into his fist, one by one. "But there is more still unanswered. First, why have I had the feeling of drifting? From where does it come? Second, it may indeed be that my tongue is ill-suited for sorcery, but what forced me to trip and stumble when attempting the simplest of rituals in Rosimar's guild? Third, the skill of Melizar-how does the stranger change the very fabric of existence to move from one law to the next? Somehow, with certainty, he can direct where reality is to go."

  Jemidon started speaking faster as he realized where his thoughts were leading him. "And lastly, the Postulate of Invariance. If there is one metalaw, can there not be others as well?

  "Yes, yes, Augusta. There is a way for me to be a master yet. I need to learn just a little more of how to guide the laws to ones that fit. My quest goes on. It is of Melizar I must learn more. From him, I will extract what I need to know."

  Jemidon looked into Augusta's eyes and stopped. He sighed and then spoke softly, almost not believing the words as they came forth. "The cold one travels to the wheatlands; the high prince must be warned. And, and-there is a slave girl who must be freed. The reasons are too great, Augusta. I must be gone."

  "You speak nonsense," Augusta said. "How can such a course compare with what I can give you here?"

  "It is nonsense," Jemidon agreed, shaking his head. "I do not fully understand the feeling, but I know it cannot be denied." He touched the cold, unresponsive metal of the changer and felt a longing swell. "I must follow the nodes of the lattice until I find one that is meant for me. I must return, Augusta, return home to the wheatlands, to discover what Melizar means when he speaks of contradictions."

  Augusta looked intently at Jemidon, searching for some hint of doubt, but he stood unmoving, his decision firmly made. Finally she drew him close, turning her head away.

  "Indeed, there has been change in you, my gentle one," she said at last. She looked back at him and smiled weakly, batting away a tear. "But no matter; I am still mistress of the grotto and will have a wide selection from which to choose."

  Her cheeks trembled as she struggled to broaden her smile. "You will need the means for your passage, shelter, and food. Let me refill your purse for services rendered."

  "There is no great need," Jemidon said. "As a scholar, I can-"

  "Hush." Augusta put her finger to his lips. "One of the traders here, Martin, I think, has said that in three days' time he sails for the Arcadian mainland. No other leaves before him, And I am sure he will be happy to take you along, provided you have the means to pay your way."

  "Augusta, if it were not for the master's robe, I-"

  "You stomp and shout about riddles and robes," Augusta said, "but I wonder. How much of your quest is for them and how much for this slave girl whom you mention the last of all?"

  PART THREE

  The Axiom of Least Contradiction

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Spring Harvest

  JEMIDON walked down the deeply rutted path, guided only by the moonlight. Little was different in his native village, despite seven years' absence. As he walked, he pondered the logic that had brought him home.

  Two months had passed since he had left Pluton. The lingering winter rains had slowed his journey; the accompanying chill had made travel a definite displeasure. And Melizars path was as cold as the weather. Nowhere could he find anyone who remembered the passage of a cloaked stranger in the company of a small band of men-at-arms.

  And so, when he had learned that the high prince also journeyed to the wheatlands, he made the royal party his quarry instead. Along with everything else, the regent should be warned of what Melizar had done and of the stranger's interest in unrest and plunder. Perhaps, with the minions of the prince looking as well, Melizar would be found all the sooner.

  But then the random factors must have aligned for him to catch up with the prince when he visited the barony of lord Kenton. Now there was no reason for Jemidon not to visit his father's hut as well. Indeed, it probably was no less than his duty. But what would he say? Could any words match the expectations and finally obtain forgiveness for what had happened so long ago? He would have to be assertive and somehow cast an image that emphasized accomplishment, rather than additional failures along the way.

  Jemidon wrenched his thoughts away to something less distasteful. Having the conversation with his father once would be enough. For perhaps the hundredth time, he turned back to another puzzle, one that he had played with ever since he left Pluton, Augusta and Delia. Where did his true feelings really lie? If it were not for the quest for the robe, which, then, would he choose? Augusta had made very clear her feelings for him. In her eyes, he was already what he wanted himself to be. And she was intelligent and perceptive-perceptive enough to suspect that Delia was more than a casual interest,

  But why should Delia be more? He had known the slave girl for a few days only. True, she showed courage and independence. She probably had the makings of a great sorceress as well. But a deep-felt relation built on so little acquaintance was substance only for the sagas. In life, it would have to take much more.

  Jemidon suddenly recognized a familiar structure and broke out of his reverie. His father's hut stood to the side of the path. It seemed unchanged from the image painted by the wash of memories. As before, the tattered curtain which served as a door fluttered against its lashings in the quickening wind. The feeble wisps of smoke from the tin stack indicated that the fire
inside was little more than smoldering coals. The light of a single candle winked through a high window stuffed with rags.

  Jemidon hesitated. Then he gathered his cloak tightly around his chest and decided that it was foolish to stand in the unseasonal cold any longer. He sighed and approached the cloth-covered opening.

  "Jemilor, freetoiler jemilor, are you there?" Jemidon called out. "The air chills deep, and I ask to share your fire."

  A moment passed, and then a hand that was beginning to show the blotches of age fumbled with the thongs holding the curtain closed on one side. The drapery fell open and Jemidon looked into watery, blue eyes. The cast of the chin was like his own, but the face was deeply lined with rows of coarse furrows that remained, regardless of the expression.

  "Father," Jemidon said, as the other squinted and did not speak. "It is your son. At last I have returned home."

  Jemilor's face moved almost imperceptibly in recognition and then hardened. He reached out a hand and ran his fingers over Jemidon's new cloak. "Freshly woven, but without the logo of a master," he said. "Your status is little different from what it was when you left."

  "Father," Jemidon said, "it has been almost seven years. There is much that I have learned. Much that I want to hear from you as well. A scribbled note reached me on the shores of the inland sea. Mother was failing. No more have I heard."

  "She is with your sister, almost two years past." Jemilor motioned toward a small patch of rocky ground to the left of the hut. "Daughter, wife, son-they all have passed beyond the need for me to care."

  He turned without saying more and shuffled back toward the dimly flickering fire. Jemidon watched the hunched shoulders retreating and followed into the hut. "But I am here," he said. "And with a far better future than when I left. Isn't seven years enough to mellow the keenest disappointment?"

  Jemilor slowly settled onto the small stool before the fire, lowering himself as if the slightest miscalculation would result in a broken bone. "Your sister gave her life so that you might have a chance, Jemidon. A chance to find the means for the rest of us to break free from lord Kenton's bonds. Each year he has grown more oppressive. Each year his masters come forth with more abuse of the craft. Before you left, there was only the ripening. Now there are even harvest cages and sadistic amusements in the keep.

  "But if not by thaumaturgy, then with one of the others, you said. Not immediately, but perhaps next season or the one after that. For seven years I have waited. When you return again a failure, then I am entitled to keep my judgments."

  Jemidon looked about the interior of the hut. The painful memories bubbled forth. The little cot was no longer against the wall, but the image of his sister was bright and firm. He clutched the brandel about his neck and for a moment swayed from the rush of emotion. He thought of his decision in Pluton and tried to hold firm to why he was going on. "I return with the means to see you away to something better," he said evenly. "A vaultholder from Pluton gave me a full purse before I journeyed here."

  Jemilor looked critically at Jemidon's dress. "A merchant, then," he said softly after a long while. "A partner in some trade with the islands. Perhaps it would not be so bad. As long as you managed well, you probably would fare better than your cousin Anton. He runs a mill now, but is forever in debt, trying to maintain lordly airs." Jemilor rubbed his hand along his chin. "Yes, it might be possible. These purses you receive-how often does one come and how many coppers does it contain? Do you have a chance of increasing your share if your work is good?"

  Jemidon turned his head aside. "I refused the offer," he answered slowly. "The one purse was a gift. There will be no more."

  "A single purse." Jemilor's tone regained its harsh edge. "A single purse for fine capes and expensive leggings. And, no doubt, for fancy meals and down-filled beds as well. After it is gone, do you plan to labor seven more years to get another?"

  "No," Jemidon said. "I plan for my next reward to come much sooner. I have tracked the high prince here to warn him of great peril, if I can unravel its true cause as well, then the robe of the master may yet be mine."

  "The high prince!" Jemilor snorted. "It is true enough that he is here. He shares the bounty of the village's labor with lord Kenton in his castle on the rise."

  "For nearly two months, I have been following his party," Jemidon said, "up the river from Searoyal harbor and through the midland baronies to the central plains. I just missed him at lord Burdon's as it is."

  "Burdon has accompanied the prince to Kenton's keep," Jemilor said. "But the movements of the nobility do not matter. You are as likely to audience with the prince there as he is to grace my hearth here in the village."

  "He will lead the incantation for the spring harvest in the square tomorrow. The winter wheat is to be reaped despite the lingering cold. I hope to have a chance to speak to him then."

  "And he feasts with Kenton in the keep come nightfall, as well. But in either case, what will you say to the thaumaturges who will block your path?"

  "I will talk to them with these." Jemidon growled. The desire for forgiveness suddenly no longer mattered. If his father could be so unyielding at every turn, then so could he. He reached under his cloak and withdrew his purse. Reaching inside, he scooped out two gold brandels and threw them at his father's feet. "Use them for firewood," he said as he turned to leave. "Perhaps they will warm more than the air in the room."

  Jemidon grimaced as the butt end of the spear jabbed into his back. All morning he had simmered over his father's treatment the day before. And now he had wanted to wait until the incantation was finished before approaching the high prince. But the men-at-arms made it clear that it would do no good to protest. Everyone was to watch. Packed shoulder to shoulder with the others, he shuffled forward against the line in front.

  Jemidon had been herded into the south end of the square, well away from the high prince and the double row of thaumaturges who flanked him on both sides. He looked around the familiar sights of his childhood and saw the same rough-hewn boards showing through blistered paint, the tattered awnings flapping limply over empty storefronts, and the drab signs that signaled little commerce and even less life. Only the thaumaturges carried an air of freshness. The morning sun filtered through tiny clouds to cast pale shadows of their crisply pressed robes on the cobbles of the square. A hint of wind from the west shook their hems as they moved toward the central fountain in stately cadence.

  The high prince wore the robe of a master, although Jemidon knew that it was only a courtesy for the sake of tradition. The thaumaturges would speak the incantations and invoke the words of power. The prince was an actor, miming the motions for gullible subjects, and no more.

  He was not the one who brought the crop to ripening at the desired time. It would mature as the thaumaturges directed, whether he gave his benediction or not.

  Jemidon stood on tiptoe to see over the shoulder of the villager in front. He saw the procession stop its march next to a huge, banded candle. The tallow column was an alternation of white and gray disks that towered well above the tallest head. On the prince's signal, a journeyman climbed a ladder to light the wick. With the first spark, it burst into flame. Faster than one would have expected, the topmost layer burned away.

  "Less than a minute for a full day," the swarthy man on Jemidon's left grunted to his comrade. "They will have to move quickly to ensure that each field is serviced at the proper time."

  As the candle began to consume the second layer, the master thaumaturges broke from their precise line and scattered around the courtyard. Each ran to position himself in front of an earthen pot from which sprouted a single long stalk of golden wheat. They began chanting a nonsense harmony, a complicated sequence of phrases and syllables that meant nothing to the untrained ear and disguised the words of power when they were spoken.

  While the candle burned through the second layer, the journeyman scampered to the thaumaturge the farthest distance away. He carried a giant lens, and the master gra
bbed it from his hands when he approached. Carefully judging the distance and angles, the thaumaturge focused the sun's rays onto the ripening plant. Jemidon heard him grunt with satisfaction as a small billow of steam almost instantly snaked upward from the drying grain. The master handed the lens back to the journeyman and extracted the kernels, one by one, from the tassel of the tall grass.

  As the candle wick began to expose the next level, the journeyman darted back across the square to another waiting master on the other side. The same steps were repeated with the second, while the first thaumaturge recited a solo incantation and then sat on the ground, his task done.

  One by one, the masters tended to their singular crops, each one acting within the time span specified by the melting of a single band of wax. When the last was completed, nothing remained of the rapidly burning taper. All the masters focused their attention on the high prince.

  "The rocky ground to the east." The man on Jemidon's left spoke again. "They ripen those fields last because Ocanar and Pelinad are so near. If any fields are to be sacrificed, they will be those."

  "Pelinad and Ocanar will be far away when the harvest starts tomorrow," another said in reply. "A large troop presses upriver from Searoyal at the high prince's command. Lord Kenton has convinced him that the threat is more than a brigand's idle boast."

  "Yes, that it will be," the first growled, rubbing his stomach. "Kenton again has increased his rents, and the late warming will mean the yield is poor. They call us freetoilers, but the margin between that and bondsmen has grown exceedingly thin. Pelinad might find many more in his camp."

  "Pelinad!" The other snorted. "It would be a shame if any of stout heart hearkened to his banner. It is to Ocanar that the support must come. Of the two, only he has the wits to give the high prince any cause for alarm."