Secret Of The Sixth Magic m-2

by Lyndon Hardy

  "Yes, wits and craft enough to barter his own daughter for advantage, if he saw the need," the first said. "And if he were to win, then for us it would be no better. Kenton or Ocanar, to tithe to one lord is as good as to another."

  "You mention a troop from Searoyal," Jemidon interrupted. "Do you know the names of any who make the trip? Is there a Melizar as well as men-at-arms?"

  The two men abruptly stopped speaking and looked at Jemidon critically. "The cape is not the fashion here," the first one muttered. "Not one of our own." The second nodded. "He should ask our good lord himself at the feast tonight. The one to which no freetoiler is invited."

  Jemidon frowned. Perhaps a bribe would help. He reached for his purse, but stopped as the words of the high prince echoed across the square.

  "Freetoilers of Arcadia," the booming voice said, "again the nobility has granted you a boon. Again you will harvest fine crops from the plots scattered around your fair plain. And again the wheat will mature and ripen in the proper sequence so that none is spoiled while waiting the thrasher's flails. Rejoice in your good fortune. Exult in the high yields. Thank the graciousness of your lord Kenton that you have the means to be, not slaves, but free."

  At the mention of Kenton's name, a low murmur started in the crowd, and the men-at-arms straightened from their slouches to a state of alert,

  "Yes, thank your lord for the way that he has analyzed all elements of the cycle." The high prince raised his voice above the buzz. "The seed selection, the fertilization, the water channels, the grain barges, and the pushing back of the harvest of winter wheat to early spring, so that there are two crops a year instead of one. Without his guidance, you all still would be scratching out barely enough to feed yourselves. Instead, you nourish all of Arcadia and, indeed, even baronies across the sea. Tonight in his feasting hall, the millers, the barge captains, the traders, and the grainkeepers all come to pay homage to your lord's great use of craft."

  "And had he not been so clever," someone shouted, down the line from where Jemidon stood, "then at least we could have starved with some leisure. As it is now, we toil from sun to sun, and our stomachs growl all the same."

  "You need not avail yourselves of your lord's machinery and arts," the high prince replied. "Farm your rented land as you see fit. But if you rely only on the natural climate and soil, your neighbor who gives his labor in exchange for the benefits of the art will have a production that exceeds yours manyfold."

  "And so only the ones who march in step in the cages will be able to pay the increased rents that rise every year," the man next to Jemidon muttered.

  "And once you miss payment, you are trapped as a bondsman and forced to labor just the same as the rest," a second replied. "Free or fettered, it makes little difference. We will all be Kenton's in the end."

  "But if you owe nothing at the close of the season, unlike the others, you can leave," a third said. "Only if you are in debt are you legally bound."

  "Walk away to what?" The first one spat. "The plain over the mountains to the east is ruled by a lord, just as is the one here. The walled cities will not admit one who does not have a craft." He paused and shook his fist. "A pox on whoever first applied thaumaturgy to the fields. It has tied us to the land far tighter than any edict ever could."

  The hubbub intensified. The high prince stamped his boot for silence, but no one heeded. A few of the men-at-arms pushed the shafts of their spears menacingly into the crowd. The agitation grew. The prince tried to speak once again, but he was drowned out. He paused for a second, then whirled about in disgust and waved his arms for the thaumaturges to follow. Rigidly erect, he marched through the small archway that led from the square and disappeared. The thaumaturges hastily shouldered their way after. In an instant, the square was deserted by the masters.

  The men-at-arms became more aggressive in their pokes and jabs. Without any focus for their hostility, the feeling of the crowd ebbed away. The ranks to the rear started to turn. In twos and threes, they stepped back into the alleyways and disappeared. Those in front shouted one last defiance as they retreated into the empty space at their backs. Far more rapidly than it had filled, the square was emptied of everyone except the men-at-arms.

  Jemidon frowned. His father had been right. He was no closer to the high prince than he had been at the start. The incantation for the spring harvest had presented no opportunity at all. He could only hope that, if somehow he got into Kenton's keep, his chances would be better. But for that he needed to accompany a grain trader or a miller.

  A grain trader or a miller. Anton. Anton was a miller and forever in debt. Yes, that was it. Jemidon touched his full purse. Perhaps his cousin would be receptive to a little transaction to the benefit of both.

  The afternoon passed swiftly before Jemidon found his cousin. Anton was as his father described, long on appearances but short of coin. And once the agreement was struck, the rest had been surprisingly easy. As darkness fell, Jemidon found himself in the feasting hall of lord Kenton and mere yards away from the high prince.

  But barely an hour had gone by when Anton drained the last of his fifth goblet and waved it over his head to be refilled. With a lurch, he sagged against Jemidon's shoulder.

  "You cannot empty the kegs alone, no matter how hard you try," Jemidon whispered beneath the din. "Pace yourself, Anton. The bargain was a seat at the table against the gold for a feathered cape. I did not offer to carry you home to your mill."

  "Nor did I agree to hear pious judgments from a freetoiler's son," Anton slurred. His face was puffy, like rising dough. Beads of sweat trickled down ruddy temples, even though the huge room was cold. "Had I not the need to dress to catch lord Kenton's eye, a sweet doxy would have been my choice for companion, not a cousin suddenly visiting from afar."

  Jemidon started to reply, but a page arrived with a flagon, and he contented himself with pushing Anton erect. He had far more important things to attend to. For the dozenth time, he looked around the large, rectangular room. All four walls were hung with tapestries from floor to ceiling, with cutouts for high doorways that led to the kitchens beyond. In each corner was a treadmill, a belt of wooden planks tied together with rope and looped around two axles in a tight band. An ambulator sat on each, muscular legs dangling over the sides. Long tables defined the perimeter of a central square. Around the outside edge sat over fifty revelers, eating Kenton's fowl and drinking his wine. The table to the south was slightly higher than the rest, and its center was the focus of Jemidon's attention.

  Lord Kenton's loud and commanding presence dwarfed even that of the high prince, who sat on his right. The two men were most unalike. Prince Wilmad's face was thin, like a hatchetfish, and his eyes were set high above a nose that seemed razor-sharp. His head was always tilted slightly back. From under half-closed eyelids, he slowly scanned the room, daring anyone to relieve a majestic boredom. KentorTs face was round, with full cheeks that pushed his eyes into tiny dots. His chin bristled with a two-day growth of beard. After perfunctory wipes of a gravy-laden hand on a soiled surcoat, he was as likely as not to run his fingers through a tangle of jet-black hair. At his left was what looked like doll furniture, an array of tables and chairs, laid out in a scaled-down replica of the feasting hall.

  With a booming command, Kenton slammed down his flagon and beckoned the wine steward for more. Pushing aside Wilmad's hand with a laugh, he grabbed the skin from the steward and filled the prince's cup until it overflowed. With what appeared like an afterthought, he splashed a few swallows into his own.

  "Do not be so cautious, my liege." Jemidon strained to catch Kenton's words. "You are among friends, as safe as in the highest keep in Searoyal. Everyone here is a man of at least some means. Master thaumaturges, barge captains, millers, and sackmakers. The last harvest incantation is done. It is an excuse to enjoy yourself. Even a prince must sometimes indulge in simple pleasure."

  "Our interests in a successful harvest are mutual," Wilmad said. "The mood throughout the ki
ngdom would grow more ugly if it fails, I do not deny that. But the whole does not necessarily follow from one of the parts. The crude humor of a misplaced melon peel does not compare with the experiences one can feel on Morgana."

  "Yet what will you do next season, my prince?" Kenton smiled. "The rumors have it that sorcery is no more. Perhaps it is time now to cultivate new tastes."

  With a wave of his hand, he signaled to the far corner of the room. Jemidon turned to see the ambulator stand up and begin to pace on the treadmill. With a fluid kick, the man picked up speed, pushing the planks under his feet faster and faster. The creak of the boards as they rounded the axles added to the noise drowning out the prince's reply. Jemidon tensed. He knew the ambulators were one of the ways for providing the energy to an incantation. Kenton would not have started one running unless he intended to exercise the art.

  "And now let me see," the lord boomed. "Who is in most need of stretching his legs to relieve the tedium of the feast?"

  A sudden blur of motion streaked by Jemidon's side. He turned just in time to see Anton fall to the floor, his chair tumbling back to the wall.

  "Ah, you always were the alert one." Kenton laughed as the miller struggled to regain his feet. The buzz of conversation transformed into a chorus of laughter as Anton stomped on his new cape and fell again to the ground. Jemidon glanced back at the ambulator and confirmed his suspicion. The man now panted heavily, trying to rebuild the treadmill's speed. And where was the simulation? Jemidon scanned the hall for something that would be related to the chair. When he saw the small model held in Kenton's fingertips, he stopped and nodded. A trivial case of thaumaturgy, but an exercise of the art nonetheless.

  "In the wheatlands, it is polite to help one's cousin." Kenton caught Jemidon's eyes. With a deft motion, the lord flicked another model chair with his thumb. Jemidon felt his own seat scoot away. He grabbed for the tablecloth as he fell and crashed to the floor in a pile of plates, flagons, and spilled food. The laughter increased, and even the tapestries could not muffle the roar.

  "Two chairs. They account for two of the treadmills," Kenton continued. "But with four ambulators in the hall, there must be additional bindings."

  As Jemidon struggled upward, he saw a wine cup across the way suddenly jump from the table, splashing its contents down the front of a woman's dress. A turkey thigh rose from a platter and plunged into the beard of a grain-keeper on her right. For several minutes, the laughter continued as Kenton manipulated the objects, dashing the chairs into anyone who lost track of where they were, bouncing the cup off heads and elbows, and thrusting the turkey leg into mouths not discreetly shut when it passed by.

  "Enough," the lord said finally. Jemidon saw the ambulators collapse to sitting, their chests heaving from their effort and their treadmills still. The laughter died away.

  "Release the bindings," Kenton ordered, and the thaumaturges started to sing as they had done earlier in the day. The lord turned to the prince. "This is just a sample of what the other arts can do to amuse one nobly born."

  "It is little different from last year's," Wilmad said. "And a few minutes' entertainfnent at that. You presume too much, Kenton. Guide your masters in the production of wheat. In that, you have shown much skill. But leave true art to those who have the sense to judge the subtle from the mundane."

  "But the goblet," Kenton protested. "Have you no idea the difficulty involved in fashioning a replica on such a small scale?"

  "The craft of your masters is well regarded, even in Searoyal," Wilmad said. "The candles that they carefully build, taking a full day for each layer, are used throughout the plains."

  "You waste time in debating the merit of foolish games when you should be attending to the responsibilities of being lords," Jemidon suddenly interrupted. The snickers and the hot gravy soaking down his legs as he tried to blot the wine from his tunic had proved to be too much. He had come to tell the high prince of an impending danger, not to be the butt of a baron's jokes.

  Jemidon's outburst brought the hall to silence. He immediately realized what he had done, but there was no way to turn aside the look that began to etch itself on Kenton's face. A growing sense of apprehension began to mingle with his flash of anger. Boldly, he plunged on before the lord could speak.

  "First sorcery, then magic. Can you not see that even thaumaturgy might be next? How will you harvest all of these ripening fields if the art gives you no aid?"

  "The last incantation of ripening has been performed," Kenton said in a surprisingly quiet voice. "The thaumarurges stood in the village square in exactly the same geometric pattern as that of the fields upon the plain. The crops will mature, each field one day after the next in lock step, just as the representative stalks did in the square." The Jord glowered at Jemidon. "All that remains is to ensure that the labor for the reaping is properly applied to the task."

  "Not the cages again," another voice on Kenton's left interrupted. The man stood and faced the prince with his palms spread wide. He looked like the senior master of a guild instructing a first class of neophytes; a ring of white hair circled a completely bald crown. Burst veins of blue netted his cheeks, and flesh hung limply from slender arms. "The freetoilers work to their limit as it is. Another fetter will drive them directly into the brigands' hands. Instead of eleven bushels where you used to have ten, you will have none at all."

  "I have eleven where you have only six, Burdon. Eleven to your six because I know better what effort the freetoilers are capable of exerting. If it is the cages that will increase this year's yield to the desires of the high prince, then cages I shall use." Kenton waved his hand in Jemidon's direction. "And for every one that I can fill with legal cause, it is one less that the freetoilers must elect to enter by choice."

  "I do not care to interfere with your methods," Wilmad interjected. "As long as the grain is produced in sufficient quantity and my house gets its rightful share, the means are not my concern." The high prince paused for a second, eyeing Kenton down the length of his nose. "They are not my concern, as long as Arcadia remains at peace with itself and I do not have to explain to my doddering father why the royal garrison must be pulled from the coast to the inland plains. One company from Searoyal is quite enough, Kenton. Do not overstep the bounds, so that next year I again must shout apologies about a vassal's conduct to the rabble in the village square."

  "The chance of rebellion is not to be lightly dismissed, my liege," Burdon said. "Each day the brigands add one or two more to their cause-one or two more cursing Kenton's abuses of the art."

  "Abuses!" Kenton snorted. "A weak excuse for those unwilling to toil as they should. Why, of the five arts, thaumaturgy is the least sinister; it has the smallest potential for true harm. There is no opening of a channel to the frightening power of the demons with which the wizards toy. Nor the possibility of lifelong enchantment that can come from a sorcerer's gaze. No awesome weapons, like those from a magician's guild. No salves or philters of evil intent from an alchemist's anthanor. No, just two simple principles to aid in the production of our crops."

  Kenton paused for breath, but then raced on before Burdon or the prince could speak again. "Even I understand their intent, if not the incantations that invoke their uses. The Principle of Sympathy, or 'like produces like.' Because of it, when I move the model chair, the one in the room responds in kind. A whole field ripens as does a single stalk.

  "And the Principle of Contagion, or 'once together, always together.' Both the full-size chair and its model were made from the same log. The wheat maturing in the square is coupled to the field from which it came and no other. These two concepts, plus the binding of a bit of energy to make it all come about, span the full scope of the art. It is so simple that, as I have said, no great harm can result.

  "And look at what we have accomplished by dutifully applying the craft to our fields year after year: seeds placed in straight rows to equal depth merely by inserting one; germination in unison of all that is sown; acceler
ated growth, as if each plant were nurtured in the finest of fertilized soils; and an entire field ripening at once, while its neighbor is delayed for a day, so our limited tools can be used for each at the optimal time."

  "The harvest incantations occur in my villages, as well as in yours," Burdon said. "We all understand that each layer of candle wax was made a single day before the one underneath, and hence lives one more sunset from birth to death, and that each field's ripening is bound to a layer, so that it matures in the same sequence. All of that is not the point. You see no abuse, yet it is all around you, Kenton. What of those misshapen ambulators? Their thighs are as big as their waists, and they are of no use other than to provide the energies that your incantations demand. If by some chance the art were to go away, to what other craft could they be employed?

  "No, the issue is not the principles of thaumaturgy," Burdon continued, "but the degree to which magic robs our people of their will. Now the freetoiler has little choice. He must volunteer to man the cages in step with the bondsman so that his own field yields as much as yours. If you have your way, ultimately he will be little more than a machine, locked in a grotesque dance that stomps the stems and separates the chaff with jerking steps precisely placed."

  "My masters have not yet perfected their craft, it is true." Kenton smiled. "But it is a goal well worth striving for, nonetheless. The cage that you show so much concern about is no more than the logical extension of what we have been doing for years. And the freetoilers need not employ it. As long as they can get eleven bushels from each acre, where last year they harvested ten, how they accomplish the task I do not question."

  "Yes, eleven bushels." Kenton turned his attention back to Jemidon. "For one of the miller's trade, it will be agrand experiment. It is the form by which you will accept the punishment for your impertinence. Eleven days in the cage. Let us see if you are as skillful as the rest when you are done."

  Kenton smiled but said no more. He rang a small bell at his side; from somewhere in the castle, a huge gong sounded. He motioned to his thaumaturges and ambulators. The treading resumed. The words of a binding incantation again filled the air. A squad of men-at-arms marched into the feasting hall, carrying shackles and chains.