by Lyndon Hardy
“Still here?” the divulgent asked. “If you stay, the chair rent remains one copper.”
Jemidon started to rise, but then slowly settled back into the chair. Disgustedly he threw a coin on the table and placed his arms around his stomach. It would be worth the cost for a few more minutes to allow his insides to settle.
Benedict circled to the other side of the table and scooped up the copper. With a laugh, he slid it into the changer at his waist and patted it affectionately.
“Faster than any of the rest, and they know I am accurate as well,” he said. “It garnishes only little profit, even when the courtyard is full, but each token I am able to accumulate brings me closer to Cumbrist’s total.” With a practiced motion, he levered a half-dozen coins into his palm and then recycled them through the top.
“A curious device,” Jemidon said, reaching for any distraction to blur the memories of outside. “It seems to be a collection of distinct columns fused together. The type of coins which come out the bottom of a particular shaft are all the same, even though a mixture is inserted in the single slit at the top. Somehow, internally they are permuted about.”
“A minor magic.” Benedict shrugged. “Necessary to make the thing invulnerable. More of a puzzle than anything else.”
“Do it again, but more slowly so that I can watch.”
“Another copper,” Benedict said. “I am no practiced performer, but it would be folly to give away my skill when fetching a price would be better.”
Jemidon scowled and waved the thought aside. “Never mind, then. Let us return to why I am here. Where do I get this assay? Or must I pay for that information as well?”
Benedict pursed his lips. “Everyone on Pluton would know. The value of the knowledge is worth far less than the smallest coin we could exchange.”
“Then answer more questions until I have received full value,” Jemidon said, bouncing a second coin on the table.
“Well enough.” Benedict nodded in agreement as he grabbed the copper. “As for the first, any vault will perform the service for a small fee—even certify what is deposited in accounts other than their own.”
“Another small fee,” Jemidon said, “given to a vault which also will probably charge for me to sit while I explain what I want.” He paused as another idea popped into his head. For a moment he turned it over, then shrugged, making up his mind.
“And the vault in the grotto,” he said at last. “Will that serve as well as any other?”
Benedict ran his fingers over the small, weathered disk. “I owe you still and so I will answer fairly. Of all the vaults on the island, that is the last with which I would entrust my wealth. The others have protection that is true magic, strongholds like mine, only large enough to hold the fortunes of many. But the one in the grotto—” He shook his head. “It depends on the tide to protect it. I would not take the risk. No matter that it means the fees are smaller. Cumbrist does not choose such folly, and neither shall I.”
“I have no fortune to be so concerned,” Jemidon said, “and on the sloop from Morgana, I heard that an Augusta earns her livelihood there. Perhaps she is none other than an old friend and will be less eager to demand a fee at every turn. Give me the directions to where she is, and then we will be done.”
“In the end, you will receive what you pay for.” Benedict shrugged. “The difference is the degree of risk. And as for the consequences, think again of the exhibition in the court.”
“The ledger does not indicate that you are expected.” The clerk on the left looked up suspiciously from the paper-strewn desk. “Surely one of us can handle your needs just as well.”
Jemidon glanced around the small room. Neither of the two women could be Augusta, despite the number of years since he had seen her last. And the drab decor was not what he had expected. Simple curtains of cloth hung from the walls to hide the rough wood planking underneath. Candles from a single chandelier overhead added their feeble glow to the filtered sunlight from the windows facing the street on the east. Missing were the fancy divans and tables heaped with fruits and drink. Unlike the other vaults he had passed, there were no laughing women in low-cut gowns to entertain the traders while they waited.
“Tally the account as of the moment.” A door to the rear swung open, and a woman with an armful of scrolls bustled through. “Trocolar will be here within the hour, and I do not want him to find some petty excuse to move his funds.”
“Augusta?” Jemidon blinked in recognition. She was full-figured, perhaps a trifle heavier than he remembered her. Her face was broad and her eyes wide-set. None would call her a beauty, but few men would ignore her smile. Her hair was clipped short, combed straight back and held in place by tiny combs. She was a year older than Jemidon at most, but already the hint of wrinkles had appeared in the smooth glow of youth.
Augusta frowned at Jemidon and then broke into a smile. “My somber neophyte!” she exclaimed. “A happy event on an otherwise miserable day!” She dropped the pile of paper onto the nearest desk and circled around the side. “Within the hour.” She waved back at the scrolls as they fell.
With a fluid motion, she slid her arm around Jemidon’s back and pushed her cheek forward for a kiss. “You always were the dreamy one. To seek me out after all these years! It is good to think that at least one man is interested in something other than the number of tokens I hoard in the vault.”
Jemidon started to speak, then thought better of it. He followed Augusta back through the doorway into a room scarcely larger than that occupied by the clerks. Slowly he sat on the bench she had cleared with a swipe of her hand.
“Now tell me everything that has happened since we went our separate ways,” Augusta said. “Do not hold back any detail. I want to hear it all.” She stopped and looked at a water clock dripping on a shelf. “I want to hear it all, that is, until Trocolar comes blustering forth with his accusations and threats.”
Augusta breathed deeply. She settled in a chair opposite Jemidon and rubbed the frown in her forehead. After a moment, she looked back at him with a weak smile. Jemidon rose and circled behind her. More sleeping memories awoke as he placed his hands on the taut tendons of her neck.
“You are overwrought,” he said as he began to massage the tightness.
Augusta let out a long sigh and patted Jemidon’s hand on her shoulder. “It has been too long,” she whispered. “Rosimar was the practical one, but his back rubs could never compare with yours.”
“Rosimar!” Jemidon stopped. “Are the two of you still—”
“A child’s entanglement, no more enduring than our own.” Augusta laughed. She wiggled her shoulders for him to continue.
As simple as that, Jemidon thought as he resumed kneading. Rosimar was dismissed with a few words. And he and Augusta were chatting and sharing pleasures together as if they had never been apart—as if there had been no deep hurt, no searing wound that left him so disillusioned. He pushed his thumbs along her spine and arched her shoulders back, digging for the feelings of what had been.
The frustration, the despair, the helplessness had brought him to tears; he remembered them, yes, but now only as abstractions, mere labels for an event which marked his passage into manhood. The fire, the intensity, the overwhelming flood of emotion that had consumed his thoughts—those were hollow voices that spoke no more. And beneath them, the delicate whispers of his first love and the unfolding of his innermost self to share with another were trampled and torn gossamers hidden away in a box as strong as Benedict’s. Could he dare to open it again, to hear the broken murmurs and try to make them whole? Jemidon flexed Augusta’s shoulders in larger oscillations, watching her gown fall slack and then pull tight across her breasts. And yes, the passion—could that again be as sweet?
“You were going to tell me of your adventures.” Augusta cut through Jemidon’s reverie. “What made you decide to seek me out at last?”
Jemidon hesitated. He was on Pluton for a different reason entirely. Seeing
Augusta was only a means to an end.
He wrenched his mind back to why he had come. “I need an assay, an assay so that I can barter with a divulgent. I had hoped that you might help me for less than others would charge.”
Augusta stiffened. She abruptly stood and turned to face Jemidon. “So practical,” she said. “Now, so practical and blunt. You have changed, my dreaming one, you have changed indeed.” She looked at him intently. “No matter, do not apologize.” She laughed. “My vanity has withstood stronger affronts. Besides, there is no reason to rush. I am in such a position now that I do not need to seize the first opportunity that presents itself.”
“About your position,” Jemidon said. “The vault in the grotto—what role do you play?”
“I am the vault,” Augusta said. “Those who held it previously were foolish where I was wise. Or perhaps it was the luck in speculating in the exchanges. It does not matter. In the end, their choice was to surrender title to me or accompany the mercenaries and their contracting cube. It is not a bad result for one who once thought trailing the robe hem of a master magician would be enough.”
“I saw the cube in the courtyard today,” Jemidon said quietly. “For what sort of crime would something such as that be used?”
“For debt,” Augusta replied. “For inability to pay. On Pluton, tokens and life are the same. Without one you cannot have the other.”
“But why the obsession?” Jemidon asked. “On none of the other islands is there so much focus on one’s wealth.”
“Because here it truly can be measured. There are no ambiguities or changes other than those of your own making.”
Jemidon frowned in puzzlement. Augusta smiled and reached for a small bag piled with many others on a cluttered desk. “It is because of the token,” she said, flinging him the sack. “You were a neophyte in magic. You know the properties of something created by the craft.”
Jemidon nodded as he reached into the pouch and extracted one of the gleaming disks. He held it in his palm and felt the strong tingling that coursed up his arm. Mirror-flat and unblemished by a single scratch, it vibrated with the magical forces that gave it life. The coin was a geometric perfection that would last forever, long after all around it had returned to dust.
“Yes, ‘perfection is eternal.’” Augusta watched his eyes as he fondled the cold smoothness. “A token illustrates so well the Maxim of Persistence upon which all magic is based. At first the small guild on the island made them as curiosities, a training ritual for the initiates and nothing more. They were sold as souvenirs to the traders who stopped on their journeys across the sea.
“But the tingle is addictive. Gradually, as more and more people coveted them, the token’s true value came to be realized. They are small, lightweight, indestructible, and impossible to counterfeit. The flutter in your palm is unmistakable. Once you have handled a token, nothing else can ever be mistaken for one. And since Pluton saw goods and moneys from many lands, tokens became the standard by which all else was measured. Even more reliable than gold, they are the medium of exchange. With them are balanced the transactions between Arcadia, Procolon, and the other kingdoms.”
Jemidon replaced the coin in the sack and tossed it back on the desk. “Brandels or brass,” he said, “it is all the same. The cutpurse or the marauder can take away in a trice what a lifetime has carefully built.”
“And so it was on Pluton,” Augusta agreed, “until the guilds again exercised their arts, building strongholds both large and small, impregnable havens for the coveted tokens that only a true owner could unlock. With a standard that was unimpeachable and a mechanism that made the possession of wealth secure, Pluton blossomed as a trading center. There is none like it anywhere on all the shores of the great sea.”
“And the obsession?” Jemidon asked.
“As in any land, wealth is a measure of power.” Augusta shrugged. “But, unlike elsewhere, on Pluton there is nothing else. The stacks of coins hidden away in the vaults are true treasures and forever secure. There is no force that can take that basis of power away. The measure of a man is the size of his assay, not the circumference of his bicep.”
“And hence the price on everything?”
“And hence the price. We have no hereditary rulers in any of our guilds. All is decided by election, with each one’s vote proportional to the tokens he has on account, even for the ruling council. In a few days we will determine who is to lead us for the next three years. And hence everyone strives to increase his assay by whatever means he can. Why, even information brings a fee; the divulgents scramble to accumulate wealth the same as anyone else. And for those already owning treasures, there are the gambles of the exchange by which they trade back and forth their riches.”
“I need to find a trader who has come to Pluton,” Jemidon said. “How much will it cost?”
“If you must know immediately, prepare to pay a full token,” Augusta said. “All divulgents will profess already to know, but they must spend large sums to ferret out the facts.”
“A full token,” Jemidon repeated. “Why, I know that even a slave girl can be purchased for fifteen. My purse is not flat, but after I paid for my passage from Morgana, neither does it bulge. It would take me quite a while writing scholarly scrolls to amass the value equivalent to a full token.”
“That is the rate, nonetheless,” Augusta said. “They are skilled in their trade and will learn far quicker than you would yourself. But without a purse that gleams, then from the divulgents you will gain little.”
“A full token,” Jemidon repeated once more. “And that fee might be the first of many. Perhaps it would be quicker to take a chance with the exchanges.”
Augusta paused in thought. She looked at Jemidon and slowly ran her tongue over her lips. Tilting her head to one side, she smiled and casually motioned him to sit again.
“No, Jemidon, not the exchanges or the slow drudgery of the scholar,” she said softly. “I can better help you with your needs. The vault will offer you a token in exchange for—for a week’s indenture to my service.”
Jemidon frowned at the sudden change in her tone. “What tasks would I be called on to perform?”
“You would be an aide, a messenger, whatever I decide needs to be done,” Augusta said. “For example, I wish an offer taken to Rosimar’s guild. I know that he is close to perfecting a new ritual but does not have the resources to investigate the final steps. He will give a generous share to an investor who provides the wherewithal to see it finished.”
“But why a token for a week’s labor?” Jemidon asked. “The rate seems far too sweet.”
“It is better than you will find anywhere else,” Augusta agreed. “And as to why—” She shrugged and laughed again. “I spoke earlier of opportunity. It is an opportunity for us both. I now can afford to indulge in dreamers.”
“I do not like the idea of the indenture. I have seen enough already of what the consequences could be.”
“In one week you will have the means to locate this trader, and I will have ample chance to convince you perhaps to stay for another. If what you seek is so important, you must risk what you have, in any event. Do you not think it better with me than with some other?”
Jemidon scowled at the rush of ideas. His instincts told him to proceed slowly. His quest was to find Drandor, rescue Delia, and restore sorcery to what it was before. The robe of the master was what he sought—the riches and the power. But as he looked at Augusta’s smile, he felt the confusion of his old longings. Her offer was attractive. On his own, could he proceed as quickly? And was not his striving because of her as well? Was it not to see the respect in her eyes, finally to be regarded as more than a comfortable dreamer with nimble fingers, and to savor her words when she apologized for the hurt? Jemidon puffed his cheeks and let out a sigh.
“Prepare the papers,” he said at last. “And instruct me to the guild which is to receive this offer of your assets.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
&
nbsp; The Vault in the Grotto
JEMIDON returned to the drab building at the foot of the Street of Vaults. He was satisfied with what he had done. Augusta’s offer had been readily accepted by the magician’s guild, just as she had said. He was even invited back in four days to monitor the next steps in the experimental ritual. If eventually the whole sequence worked, then tokens could be produced at a fifth the traditional effort. Augusta’s investment would be returned twofold. She could expect an additional ten tokens every month thereafter.
“On this evening’s tide. Another day I will not wait,” a heavy voice boomed from the back room. “And if you do not comply, I will tell the others that you cannot because they are gone.”
“I only point out that the hour is already late and the level is rising,” Augusta shouted back. “You speak of risk, but choose to ignore true threat for the insignificant.”
Jemidon passed through the doorway and saw Augusta scowling at the heavy-set man slumped in the chair. His sagging jowls gave him a bulldog look that the fine tailoring of his cape and collars could not hide. With watery, pale eyes he returned Augusta’s stare.
“Tonight,” he repeated. “You can have an oarsman light the way. After all, I would have no such trouble with any other vault along the street.”
“Any other along the street would charge three times the fee to hold your tokens secure,” Augusta said. “Their precious magic boxes do not come cheap.” She stopped and looked in Jemidon’s direction. “My newly indentured servant,” she said. “And this is Trocolar, elected leader of the tradesmen.”
“After the next polling, leader of the council as well,” Trocolar said. He ran his eyes up and down Jemidon’s frame. “Stocky enough, but I doubt he would last more than a day at the oars. No, tokens are my concern, Augusta, not flesh of questionable value. My tokens are what I want, and I want them now.”
Jemidon bristled at Trocolar’s rude manner, but he said nothing. Instead, he watched Augusta for the key to how he should behave.