by Lyndon Hardy
Jemidon rose groggily to his feet. Something significant had just happened. It was another fact to add to the other thoughts that his insides insisted were important. "Your sorcery with the animations," he said. "Now it has the basis of law, and not the other."
"This woman was the first to experience it," Melizar said. "The enactment was simple, but it was sufficient to tip the scales."
Another moan pierced the canvas walls of the tent. Jemidon thought of what it must be like to have pain suddenly return. The first crisis must have been in surprise as much as in anguish. As Melizar said, a simple performance of the animation and then sorcery was no more.
Jemidon sucked in his breath at the thought. First must have come Drandor's performance, and then afterward there was no more sorcery. Just as Canthor had flung the rocks before there was any effect. Animation preceding the Rule of the Threshold. Blinding with pebbles because the words did not yet work. The action and then the law.
Suddenly everything fell into place. The whirling events of the past marshaled in step and left him with no doubt.
"Contradictions," he said. "You speak of contradictions and which ones are the least. When things are drifting, when somehow the laws are cut loose, the seven that will be chosen will be those that best explain what is happening-the seven which leave the least contradictions outside their scope. The node of the lattice will be the one which best fits the happenings around it. Enactments of others become exceptions and wither away.
"And you performed the unlocking with the cube," Jemidon rushed on. He had to articulate it all before the thread faded from his grasp. "Yes, an unlocking, a release of the grip which holds the laws as they are. With the cube, you control when the change has an opportunity to take place. Only when you set the conditions can the various laws compete for dominance.
"The unlocking is easier when you are near the power of the crafts, but once it is done, you want it the other way. Otherwise things will remain exactly as they are. On Morgana, you must have decoupled during the performance for the prince; and then at the celebration afterward, when all the masters were filling themselves with ale, Drandor enacted his animations on the beach. It was what I saw from the cliff top-a single glamour that would have power according to the new law, but far closer to you than any sorceries is Procolon across the sea. It was the least contradiction; the law that explained more then was the Rule of the Threshold, not the Rule of Three.
"And in the grotto, you had Trocolar add the additional tokens to the vault holdings so that the strength of magic would be stronger and the disconnection easier to make. Many magic tokens; that is why you had Drandor seek the sorcerer's prize. But before Holgon walked through his ritual, the pumps were stopped and al! the tokens safely secured in chests out of sight, so that no one could see. Again the new magic was the one that held sway.
"Later, when I returned with the sword, you were sure to have three instances of the Maxim of Perturbations to two for that of Perseverance."
"You are not speaking like a manipulant," Melizar said. "You have thought about things too much."
"And these first attempts have no real power at all." Jemidon ignored the interruption. "Drandor's initial screening used some natural property of the eye to simulate motion; Holgon's sleight of hand in the vault moved the dove. They were contrived to be as close to the new laws as possible, even if they were shadows of what would come to pass. They were boosts to shove things from one node in the lattice in the direction you wanted, rather than in a random drift you could not control.
"And even Canthor in the pass! You unlocked the laws when Ocanar and Pelinar met. That was responsible for the drifting feeling I felt-the feeling I experienced each time the laws could be shifted from one node in the lattice to another. Only this time you planned to wait until after the insurrection had spread before nudging the transition on its way-until the practice of thaumaturgy had fallen to a low enough level that the shift could be easily made. But by chance, Canlhor's attempted glamour came first. His words and the tossing of the sand were an example of a traditional charm. Without the planned animation, of the Rule of the Threshold there was none. The Rule of Three dominated, and sorcery was restored.
"It fits, it fits, all of it. There is a second metalaw. The, the-the Axiom of Least Contradiction, you probably call it. Yes, the rule follows from the example. That is how you have manipulated all the transformations that have swept sorcery and magic away."
Jemidon paused for breath. His skin tingled with excitement. Coming to Melizar directly had not been such a bad idea after all. The closeness of the cold one and the swing back to the Rule of the Threshold together had catalyzed the synthesis that had been building in his mind all along.
"You asked to be an apprentice," Melizar said in a whisper that Jemidon could barely hear. "Perhaps it is indeed better that you serve." He waved his arm over his head, and imp light twinkled into tiny points of brilliance. The air in the tent grew chillingly cold. "I demand complete obedience. When lithons soar close to one another, there is no margin for less. The three metalaws are for my concern. You must forget the two you have learned."
"Your plan is to change them all, isn't it?" Jemidon asked. "One by one, until only your minions can perform any of the crafts. The thaumaturges, the alchemists, the magicians, the sorcerers, the wizards, even the archmage, all will be powerless against you. Despite what Canthor says, it is not men-at-arms who hold the balance in their hands. One who has exclusive command of unknown crafts would rule the world against the sharpest blades."
"This world, the stars, your whole universe," Melizar said. "Ocanar sulks in defeat; but for me, the battle has accomplished almost as much as I planned. I now know why the animations did not work and have no great sorcerer with whom to contend. Tomorrow, with the help of some simple animations, the villagers will believe in a setback of the royal troops, despite whatever else this Kenton may say. The timing is right; the passions will be inflamed. In a fortnight's time, the plains will vibrate to the stomp of thousands of scythes and flails. More than four companies from Searoyal will have to come. And with the harvest stopped, thaumaturgy will be easy to push aside.
"I will have gone from a single greedy trader, from a dozen men-at-arms, to a whole kingdom at my command. Alchemy will be next and wizardry after that. In the end, everything will be mine."
Melizar paused and jabbed Jemidon on the shoulder. "Yes, be my apprentice. The choice is a wise one. Serve without failure and you will be rewarded well."
Jemidon held his breath. The goal that motivated his coming to the tent had been achieved. Even more, he now understood not one metalaw but two. But the disquiet that had impeded him before was still there.
He looked at Delia, who was still staring blankly into the distance, and fingered the coin around his neck. He thought of his father sleeping on the downslope and what the old man would say. With one decision, he could exorcise all the ghostly burdens and be close to what he wanted for himself as well. Perhaps with time, when Melizar realized his true worth, he could learn more and complete the last pieces of the puzzle. He glanced at the cold one's cube and then looked up to stare at Drandor's slack-jawed face.
But at what price was he willing to pursue his quest? The robe of the master was supposed to bring the respect of peers and followers-a proof that he, too, was a man. Would it be there, if won by treachery and guile? If the order of all things were destroyed in the process? If he were the lackey of one so cold and strange? Jemidon drew his lips into a firm line. He wanted the robe, but not if he lost everything else in exchange.
"No," he said quietly, his voice as soft as Melizar's own. "I have changed my mind. It is too much power. The laws were not meant to be altered."
"Whence I came, the laws were not meant to stay the same." Melizar stepped forward. "But no matter. By one means or another, you will serve. Seize him, Drandor. If he chooses not to offer his mind and muscle to me, then the manipulants will enjoy his marrow."
&nbs
p; Jemidon stepped back, wishing that he had a weapon. As he did, he saw the imp light about Melizar's head brighten to a fiery incandescence. Too late, he tried to dodge a handful of dust that Melizar splashed into his face. He felt the beginning of a numbing torpor. Then nothing.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Door into Elsewhere
JEMIDON felt a gentle touch on his forehead and forced open his eyelids. A bouncing glow of reddish light and strands of golden hair filled his view.
"Delia!" he said thickly. "It was you whom I came to rescue."
"With about as much forethought as when we raced into the presentation hall." Delia pulled away to give him room. "And your discussion with Melizar seemed to focus on other things. Even though bound by the animation, I recall most of what was said."
Jemidon rose to sitting. He felt stiff and sore. His mouth was dry and the taste rancid, as if he had been awakened from the middle of a drunken sleep. Hovering a few feet from his head was a large, glowing sprite, its bony arms crossed in front of a shallow chest and its legs coiled into a knot. The forehead bulged with bumps and mounds. Tufts of coarse hair protruded from tiny ears. The nose lay smashed across a broad and pockmarked face. Except for the whine of rapidly beating wings, it seemed like the well-preserved remains of a grotesque child.
Jemidon ran his hands over his leather vest, touching the reassuring smoothness of the coin about his neck and the lump of Benedict's changer underneath. He placed his palms down at his sides and felt a tingling from a surface that was glassy-smooth. As his senses returned, he detected the same vibration through his thighs. He looked around in the sprite light and saw rock everywhere. He and Delia were enclosed in a perfect sphere, centered on the small demon and showing no seam or exit. As if from the polished face stone of some great palace, specks of quartz and mica cast back pale reflections of the flickering luminescence.
"A rockbubbler," Delia said. "It can maintain a void several arm spans about itself in all directions, even at the greatest depths. One of the score or so that keep open a pit under Drandor's tent. And apparently I have some degree of control over this one. He responds to my bidding, as long as it does not conflict with his other instructions."
'The Law of Dichotomy," a small, squeaky voice radiated from the gentiy bobbing devil. "One of the two upon which wizardry is based. 'Dominance or submission.' There is no other choice." One small eye cocked to the side and stared at Delia. "I have a master and I must obey. I fulfill your request because it does not contradict and it is my choice."
"By whatever justification, the end result is the same," Delia said. "I instructed him how to trick two others of his kind with which he had a petty feud. And now he has kept his sphere just tangent to the others so that the manipulants could not find you, Jemidon, before you awoke." Delia stopped and shuddered. "Although with the fighting that will eventually happen above, they will have many from whom to pick."
"What has happened?" Jemidon shook his hands at arm's length to restore the circulation. Any excitement from being with Delia was muted by the remains of a deep lethargy. "Where are we? The last I clearly remember is Melizar casting some powder in my face."
"Torpordust," Delia said. "Something that can be made with the new magic. He uses it to slow prisoners for the manipulants."
"I thought it might have been a freezing."
"The cold does not come from Melizar. It is generated by the imps that circle his head. Without them, he would have to sleep with the rest, I suspect he can barely tolerate moving among us as it is. When he must concentrate deeply, he requires it to be even more frigid."
"Then where is he from?" Jemidon asked. "From what he has said, not across the sea or from another star in the sky."
"No, not another star." Delia shook her head. "Somehow, it is farther than that. I asked him once and he laughed. He said that on all our worlds the laws are the same. It was only through the demon's portals that one could journey whence he came."
"The realm of demons," Jemidon said. "It may well be the lands beyond the flame from which the djinn appear when they are beckoned."
"My master forbade me to speak of it, or I would tell," the sprite said. "But even in sleep, I must honor his will."
"These manipulants?" Jemidon asked. "Are they demons too?"
"No, I think not," Delia said. "Even demons would not behave as they do."
"But if not djinns, how can they exist behind the flame?"
Delia reached out and grabbed Jemidon's hand. "There is little else that I know. Little else except for some of the workings of Drandor's animations. Melizar has been teaching me the craft and has made sure that I remained unharmed. The cold one wants the trader to know he can he replaced if he does not continue to comply. There is nothing with which Drandor can bargain, not even the exercise of the new sorcery."
"And I?" Jemidon looked around the featureless sphere. "What do I have that is any better?"
"At least you are fully awake," Delia said. "For four days you have slumbered, while I kept the rockbubbler apart from the rest. Now you must use your wits to aid me as you have done before. Come," she said. She turned until she was on hands and knees. "Follow the sprite. You will see what else lies in the rock under Drandor's tent."
Jemidon frowned as the small demon turned in Delia's direction and began to drift slowly away. Delia's answer to his question was not what he had hoped to hear. But before he could say more, hefelt the sphere rotate beneath him, pushing with increasing firmness behind and then finally toppling him forward to sprawl by Delia's side. He looked up to see what appeared to be a tiny opening form in the curved wall directly ahead.
As Jemidon scrambled into a crawling position, the circle grew, revealing a larger cavern beyond. Sliding his hands along the smooth surface and pushing with his feet on the slope behind, he managed to keep up with the slow rotation of the sphere.
In a moment, the opening had expanded to the maximum extent. The rear of the bubble became a hemispherical bulge on a larger volume. Like a sealed chamber in a dungeon, the void in the rock was heavy with damp air and the smell of decay. The floor looked like the crate for an array of eggs, a lattice of shallow depressions that matched a similar set of indentations in the ceiling above. In between, in a more or less geometrical precision, hovered other rockbubblers, eyes closed and arms and legs crossed.
Like a rag doll flung aside, Drandor lay in the center-most sphere. The trader's eyes were barely open and his chest heaved with deep breaths. Occasionally he lashed out with his good arm, swatting the empty air. Dots of light showed where imps, much smaller than the hovering rockbubblers, flitted above him, dropping a fine mist of sparkling sand.
"More torpordust," Delia said. "It keeps the trader in lethargy until Melizar requires his efforts." Delia paused and swallowed. "And except for those, the manipulants, it would not matter."
Jemidon followed the sweep of her arm. On a large sled with rounded runners that fitted the curves of the floor he saw six humanoid forms, dressed only with loincloths and all lying prone in apparent slumber. They were tall and slender, more suited for the dance than for wielding blades. Their skin was an almost translucent gray. Beneath the tough elasticity, Jemidon could see the course of the major arteries and veins. Half wore massive ornamentation, nose rings, necklaces, and anklets, their fine black hair coiled in elaborate swirls. Sharp planes of bone defined blocky faces. Filmy lids covered deep-set eyes. Below the bulge of the nose, each had large pinkish lips that looked like the suction cups of an octopus or squid. Cupped in each left hand was a can with holes in the lid. On a chain from the waist dangled small picks like those used in gemstone mines.
"I have seen them before," Jemidon said, "on Morgana, in Drandor's animation the night of the storm, the one that shifted the Rule of Three to the Rule of the Threshold."
"Too close," one of the nearest sprites interrupted Delia's reply. "First you move away, barely maintaining contact. Now you press in on my space, my innermost core. Back whence you c
ame, prickly one. I would rather you not support my flank than push with so much pressure against my chest."
"Poxblisters," the sprite above Jemidon's head shot back. "For you there is no distance that pleases. You would be better off as a solitary. Always bickering, trying to force the swarm to your own natural harmonics. Never just accepting what resonates with the entire clutch."
"You are no better, mintbreath," the other replied. "Your wings must have been unbalanced in the egg. They have vibrated your brains to mush. You have no fre- quency that stands above the noise. You keep flitting like a djinn in heat around the soft and golden one-and not even your master."
"Vibration is what makes the lips quiver and the foolish noises issue forth," Delia said. "It is strange that you would be one speaking of balance."
A high-pitched whine bounced around the room. Jemidon guessed that the other sprites were twittering at what she had said. The demon directly ahead snapped shut his mouth and, except for the hum of wings, the pit plunged into silence.
For a moment, nothing more happened. Then one of the manipulants suddenly stirred and crawled from the sled, sluggishly groping over the dimpled floor. Like a newborn puppy, he seemed to flounder instinctively toward food and comfort. The manipulant bumped against Drandor. With uncoordinated jerks, it closed around the trader's boneless forearm. Drandor's eyes flickered and his face contorted into a mask of strain. With glacial slowness, he struggled to crawl away, but the manipuiant was slightly quicker and pinned him where he lay.
In staccato bursts of motion, the left hand with the shaker positioned over the trader's elbow. Jemidon saw a fine powder fall onto the pliant flesh, and then, after several misses, the large lips contacted the glistening surface. A loud slurping noise blended with the demons' hum. Drandor's entire body trembled; he opened his mouth with an ear-piercing scream.
"As Melizar would look without his hood," Delia said. "They suck the marrow through the skin after somehow dissolving the bone. That must be what keeps them alive as they wait. Apparently this place is so warm that they languish like lizards in a desert sun.