by Lyndon Hardy
"Farnel's tyro," he said as he approached. "Who would have guessed it? Returned to his homeland, no doubt to seek his fortune the same as an old soldier who knows that where there is turmoil, there is also the opportunity for gain."
"But the message said that there was a sorcerer among the captives," Jemidon whispered. "Did you come with someone else?"
"I am the master." Canthor patted his chest and laughed. "It is for me that Pelinad staged his raid. And he has just told me why. He is to meet this morning with Ocanar, the leader of the other rebel band, and the village whispers say that this rival has acquired the aid of a master of one of the arts. Pelinad feels that he must show equivalent strength if he is to bend Ocanar to his will, rather than the other way around."
"But you do not practice sorcery," Jemidon said. "Pelinad has made a mistake."
"And one that I have chosen not yet to correct."
"But why?"
"Why not? For all intents now, I can weave illusions as well as any master." Canthor grimaced and looked in the direction of the sea. "No need, they said. No need for a bailiff or men-at-arms. With no art, there would be no visitors. What little order they needed they could manage by themselves. Booted out from the keep with wages a month in arrears! A fine thanks for services almost two decades done. And so it was either starve or beguile the weak-witted with impressive-sounding chants that I have heard repeated over and over. A wave of the hand, a penetrating glance, a deep-pitched voice in a dimly lighted room. There are enough begging to imagine some fantasy in the air that the coin was easy enough to come by along the way."
"Pelinad rescued us for no less," Jemidon said. "With sixty men or three times that, he will not directly challenge Kenton's sharp steel and tight mail. The rest are all babbling about their good fortune. They think that finally they have a weapon to use against the catapults and the lord's missiles of war. You had better explain quickly that you are a fighter like them and no more."
"You did not seem so quick to speak when they filled your bowl with a double portion," Canthor remarked. "Even the tyro of a sorcerer rates more than an even share."
"I put forth no such claim," Jemidon protested. "The forced march was enough, after a day in the fields, to keep any man's mouth from wasted chatter."
"Nevertheless, they have accepted my word as to your budding proficiency." Canthor waved down the volume of Jemidon's voice. "And, as I said, Pelinad needs to have a sorcerer in his retinue for the parlay. For the moment, it is better that things proceed as they are. Besides, with two we should be able to carry out the illusion all the better. There will be time enough to reveal the reality. And if no harm is done in the process, then what can it really matter?"
"My purpose for coming to the wheatlands was not to fight in a rebellion," Jemidon said. "Rather, I intended to warn the high prince of the power of a stranger who has mercenaries of his own."
"Indeed." Canthor flicked another branch onto the fire. "Then perhaps you should demand an immediate audience with Pelinad and inform him forthwith where your allegiances lie. I am sure that the others who were released with you would delight in the presence of a representative of the prince."
Jemidon scowled and looked about the campground. What Canthor said was true. None of Pelinad's rebels would care anything about warning the prince. Perhaps he should slip away when there was opportunity. But slip away to what? Certainly not back to the toil of the cages or the oppression of Kenton's barony. Was it for the benefit of the Arcadian nobles that he was to offer his aid? He shook his head in confusion.
But if there was no warning to the prince, then how could Melizar be apprehended? And the secrets of the stranger were the slender threads from which everything else hung. There would be no robe of the master, no calming of the strange longing that made him turn away from all that Augusta had offered.
Jemidon lapsed into a deep contemplation, clutching the coin about his neck and cutting out Canthor's words. He tried to dissect the compulsion that apparently lay behind all the reasons he had thought were driving him on. What was the allure of Melizar's lattice and the soft, cold words that issued from the dark hood? Why did he care about the Postulate of Invariance and the new laws, the new sorceries, and the magics that somehow switched on and off, according to the stranger's commands? Lattices, drums and weights, flitting imps, visions of changers, and stacks of coins danced in his head. Copper and silver slid into the slit, and precise columns of gold issued from the bottom. Benedict's problem-inserting three regals followed by one galleon should produce-
"Alert, to arms," he heard Pelinad say. "Ocanar comes for the parlay, and I do not trust his intent." The tall, angular warrior thumped his fist on his chest. "Stand upright now and show them, each and every one, that you are the equal of any whom he has to command."
Jemidon groaned and willed his body erect. Understanding the puzzle of his own mind would take more than a few minutes in a crowd of men pursuing a desperate cause. Without words, he accepted Canthor's nimble fingers tightening and adjusting his leather vest. He grasped the scythe in one hand, wondering how well he would fare against someone who knew how to use a blade. Pelinad shouted orders, drawing his men into a jagged line that faced the direction from which Ocanar would come.
After a few moments, the trail sounds that had alerted the lookout grew loud enough for everyone to hear. Shortly thereafter, the first of Ocanar's band topped the small rise to the west. Murmurs of surprise arose among Pelinad's own troop as they saw the procession come forward.
"Mail," the rebels whispered. "Some of them are in mail."
"Yes, Ocanar and at least a dozen more."
"And the total number-he comes with unexpected strength."
"Silence," Pelinad snapped, but Jemidon barely noticed the command. He had expected Ocanar's master to be the same as Canthor, another fraudulent sorcerer manipulating the gullibilities about an art that was no more. But instead, what followed the line in front was a shock.
"Melizar!" Jemidon cried. "And the men in mail. They must be Nimrod and the Pluton mercenaries."
Canthor cuffed Jemidon in the arm as a warning. Jemidon looked back, surprised, and then dropped his eyes from Pelinad's disapproving stare. Fidgeting uncomfortably, he waited with the others, watching the troop pour over the hill and form into another straggly rank, a few pike lengths from Pelinad's own. He saw his father march up with the last, in a clump of older villagers, all with faces set in grim lines. But he was already numb from the jolt of Melizar's appearance and gave the second surprise little thought. Both troops spread out to span the depression from lip to lip, each a single row deep, alternating clumps of men and large gaps. Despite the attempts of each leader to make his following appear the larger, Jemidon estimated that the forces numbered about the same.
"Greetings, brother," the red-bearded man in front hailed. He alone wore an embroidered surcoat, and the morning sun glinted off a cap of steel. "The hills speak of an increase in your might. Had I not been augmenting myself, then your size might have begun to rival even my own."
"The lord's burden grows too oppressive." Pelinad moved forward to answer the greeting. "Two nights ago my following tripled. Tomorrow, if I approach the village, it will probably double again."
"A day too late." Ocanar forced a laugh. "I have already made the sweep while you were fussing over the harvest of a single field. Look at my legion." He waved a thick arm to those filling in behind. "At least two hundred, trained freetoilers, and ready to fight. Yes, two hundred. It is clear that the momentum has swung my way. The rebellion is growing, and I am the center. The time for timid confusion is over. I charge you to accept my command, Pelinad. Swear allegiance to me as leader, so that we may strike Kenton's strength rather than poke with petty irritations at his periphery."
"Command is not measured by mere numbers." Pelinad pointed at Jemilor and those around him. "If I wanted to enlist the old men and the lame, I could have done so a year ago. No indeed, my raid was strategic. Because o
f it, I have garnered an element of great power." He motioned Canthor to come forward. "Henceforth I battle with a craft far removed from simple thaumaturgy. Here is my sorcerer, Ocanar, and from no less than Morgana itself."
Ocanar looked at Canthor as the bailiff walked forward. He frowned and pulled at his beard. "The village whispers that sorcery is no more," he said slowly. "And this man wears no robe with a logo. His walk is that of a fighter, not the shuffle of the masters I have seen."
"Look me in the eye and we will test the truth here and now." Canthor put his hands on his hips. "Let us see to what extent the village talk is true."
Ocanar took a step backward and threw his hand across his face. "Whatever resources we have should be tested in battle," he said quickly. "It is folly to waste them fighting between ourselves."
"Allow me to accept the challenge to your place." Melizar glided forward to stand by Ocanar. "Let the so-called master pit his skills against the powers that are mine."
"Ocanar speaks with good judgment." Pelinad put his hand on his sword hilt. "There is no need for confrontation."
Melizar hesitated. His deep cowl slowly scanned the line of Pelinad's men, all grasping weapons. Like cranked crossbows, they tensely waited the signal that would release their restraint. Ocanar's troop responded in kind.
For a long moment, no one moved. All eyes were on the leader to see what would happen next.
"A fight here in the foothills sheds none of Kenton's blood," Melizar said at last. "And it is not according to my plan. Perhaps I do agree, Ocanar. The battlefield is best. There is no need to test this so-called master now. Let him show his merits in the pass, and then all can judge the true prowess of his craft."
Jemidon bit his tip. Melizar knew full well that nothing remained of sorcery. The stranger was maneuvering Canthor and Pelinad into a position from which they were bound to fail. But right now, he could say nothing. His own position was too tenuous. And it was just as well that Melizar did not recognize him as one who had disrupted Trocolar's scheme in the grotto. Later, when he knew more, he could formulate the best course of action.
Ocanar tugged on his beard, looked at Melizar, and then glanced across to where Canthor stood. "Yes, tomorrow can be the judge. Pelinad, do you abide by it? The one of us whose power best decides the battle, then he is to lead us both."
"What battle?" Pelinad asked. "We do not yet have the strength to confront Kenton in his keep, even with both of us acting together. And soon he is to be fortified by a troop of the prince's own from Searoyal."
"It is your good fortune that we have met," Ocanar said. "Your ignorance would otherwise prove quite costly." He turned and forced a laugh that his men picked up in chorus. "This troop from Searoyal. No doubt you have seen some trace?" He turned back to mock Pelinad. "What would happen if they came upon you unaware?"
"In truth, we have seen nothing," Pelinad said. "We have been in these hills, planning for our successful raid."
"You would have seen nothing, even if you had been on the plain!" Ocanar roared. "They do not beat upriver for all to see, so that we can melt away." He waved a fleshy palm to the east. "No, they proceed by stealth in the next valley. Through Plowblade Pass they intend to come-to fall upon us in our lairs and thrash us from behind is their plan."
Ocanar paused, sucking in his breath. "But we are the ones who will stage the ambush. It is into our trap they will fall, not us into theirs. And after our victory, the plains will erupt with fire. Not a single man will hold back. Kenton and the others will be swept from the fields. It will be a true rebellion at last." Ocanar gazed off into the distance, savoring his thoughts, then fixed Pelinad with a hard stare. "You dispute my leadership, Pelinad. But by the laws, on what grounds? Certainly not your vision; you show as much imagination as an ambulator upon his mill."
"It was I who found the truth," Melizar said before Pelinad could reply. "Nimrod has many friends in the royal garrisons. Let us keep the importance of my contributions firmly in focus, Ocanar. I have been deceived once by your kind. This time there is to be no misunderstanding."
"Our agreement still stands," Ocanar said. "I see no reason to change it. You come with a dozen men in mail, fully trained fighters whom you offer to be my captains. And they have bullied my rabble into fighting shape, I do not deny it. Aid me in plucking Kenton from his keep, and what you ask shall be yours, even if I do not understand why you want it so."
"You find it strange, do you not, that my lust is not for a manor and rows of humble servants? Those trappings, Ocanar, will all come in the proper time. For now, I desire only a halt of all thaumaturgy. After the unlocking, I will need nothing more. And what better way to achieve what I wish than the chaos of insurrection? Unlike sorcery and magic, the craft is too widespread for the contradiction to be effective any other way."
Melizar paused, and his voice hardened. "And in the end, we shall see whose fiefdom is the greater. A single valley is not enough to interest even the least able pilot, and among them I am the first."
"As I have said, it is agreed." Ocanar waved his arm in irritation. "I have heard enough of your mumbled nonsense before. Just make sure that your rock rumblings and strange images are ready when they are needed."
"I begin my preparations for tomorrow now," Melizar said, motioning back to the hill over which he had come. "It is somewhat paradoxical that ihe power of thaumaturgy, which makes the transition so difficult, also greatly mitigates the unlocking."
"Your cozy tent provides the catalyst for much grumbling among the men," Ocanar said. "You should sleep on the ground like my men."
"Warmth?" Melizar said. "Rest? It is not for those that the Maxim of Perturbations was vitalized in the grotto. Which would you rather? Push a pack train along these trails, or have a single minion effortlessly guide my possessions as they are guided now?"
Ocanar did not respond. Jeminod looked to the crest-line and saw a large tent float over the rise. It was Drandor's, the one that had caught his eye in the bazaar on Morgana, its faded canvas hung in loose folds; coarse stitching bound swaths of different colors together in jagged seams. But, unlike the structure on the island, no guy ropes or stakes were to be seen. The bottom side panels gently rippled over the rock and scrubby plants, like the hem of a woman's dress. All the cloth danced and wavered as the whole structure bobbed along. A single man-at-arms held the end of a rope that ran to a ring attached above an entrance flap. He tugged the structure along without effort into a quickening morning breeze.
"Perturbations," Melizar repeated. "Perhaps not as dramatic as a dance which crashes open fissures in the earth, but guidance of small swirls of air at the right place and time can produce buoyant effects as good as the largest balloon."
With a soft whoosh of the tent, the men-at-arms halted a short distance behind Ocanar's line of men. Melizar glided into the opening and returned shortly with the drums and weights that Jemidon had seen briefly in the interior of the tent when Drandor had shown him around.
Drandor's tent. Drandor. Drandor and Delia. Jemidon's thoughts took another sudden turn. He ran his tongue over his teeth, trying to recapture the taste of his thoughts before Ocanar's band had arrived. The slave girl still felt important, as important as the lattice and the rest. But he was no closer to understanding the other pieces of the puzzle than he was to why she held such an allure.
"These will be used for our common benefit." Melizar waved the drums in Pelinad's direction. "Simple devices that aid me in my craft. Hold your men silent, so that I may receive all that they tell." He looked at Canthor. "If your master has any preparations to make as well, then gladly will Ocanar's legion return the favor."
Pelinad glanced at Canthor and then scowled. He flung his arm to the side in acquiescence and prepared to watch with the rest.
Jemidon tried to concentrate on what Melizar was doing as the cold one set the drums up in a row between the two lines of men and adjusted the tension in the heads, one by one. But the surge of his thoughts increased
rather than subsided. He felt wispy tendrils in his mind, tantalizing glimmers of some insight that eluded his grasp. Deep inside, there seemed to be a tiny box whose lid was slowly beginning to open, oozing out marvels that had never been suspected, but which were nonetheless true.
Jemidon stared at Melizar. Even the proximity of the stranger was suddenly unsettling. Before, he had been mysterious. But now his every motion seemed to have an effect on Jemidon's thoughts. Each precise flick of the long, thin fingers crashed the images about in Jemidon's head. He felt the muscles tighten in his back. His mouth grew dry. A hint of queasiness floated up from his stomach. Something unpleasant was about to happen. For whatever the reason, now he wanted nothing to do with this stranger, nothing at all. Cautiously, Jemidon slumped to the ground and tightened his arms about his chest.
"Seven drums," Melizar said to Ocanar. "Seven drums, one for each of the laws."
"I am a fighter, not a practitioner of the arts," Ocanar responded impatiently. "The details of your craft are not my concern."
"Perhaps it is a weakness," Melizar said. "It gives me a perverse pleasure to display my workings for all to see and have none understand the slightest glimmer of what truths they mirror. Well spoken, Ocanar. It is the blind devotion to the narrow perspective of your kind that gives me the greatest assurance that a pilot and his manipulants shall succeed."
Melizar selected a small weight that was not wired to a drumhead and gently placed it in the center of the first tight membrane. The tare barely dimpled the surface. "The new sorcery," Melizar said. "And there are no animations, as the lack of depression shows.'" He placed another weight on the next drum in line, and it sagged further into the thin, translucent covering. "The tent," he said. "So close to the nexus that it alone has a strong effect."
The next three were tested in quick succession, each one pulling down the drumhead by about the same amount. "Alchemy and wizardry, three laws in all," Melizar continued. "They will be the last, after we are sure of the victory." He looked at the final two drums in the line and simultaneously moved a weight to the center of each one. Instantly, the tares snapped from his fingertips and, with what looked to Jemidon like a force far stronger than the pull of the ground, the weights distorted the planes with deep, cone-shaped depressions.