Secret of the Sixth Magic

by Lyndon Hardy

  Augusta worked her lips for something more to say, but no words came. After a moment, she sighed and slapped her hands to her sides. “Then let us get to the skiff at once. Because of the hour, you will have to pay my rowers double as it is. And you should accompany us, Jemidon. One more will make the loading proceed quicker.”

  Trocolar stood with majestic slowness, his face drawn in a slight smile. With a perfunctory nod as she passed, he followed Augusta through the front room and out onto the street. Jemidon came last. In a silent single file, they made their way down the hillside to the harbor’s edge.

  Soon they were gliding across the water in a narrow boat. Oarsmen front and back propelled them toward the smaller of the two islands in the center off the bay, the one of gnarled rock that was seemingly devoid of life.

  Jemidon watched the weather-beaten rock loom larger and larger with each stroke. The sun, low in the west, hid most of one side in soft shadow; but even so, he could distinguish the deeper blacks that marked the entrances to the caves. The boat headed unerringly for one opening larger than the rest. Like the mouth of a large serpent, it opened directly on the water, sucking in each lapping wave and expelling it with the next breath.

  The oarsmen maneuvered the boat into the entrance and paddled into the dark tunnel. The oars were secured. In an eerie quietness, the skiff coasted forward on the still water.

  A long moment passed, and then they halted with a gentle bump. Jemidon heard a fumbling in the bow, the scrape of flint on steel, and finally a gentle whoosh as an oil cresset chiseled into the rock sprang to life. He saw their way barred by a heavy iron grating that protruded from the ceiling above and disappeared into the dark water. Augusta placed her palm on a small box next to the burning light; after it opened, she extracted a large brass key.

  “You see, there is magic protecting the vault that resides in the grotto,” she said as she worked the lock on the grating. “But only what is necessary to complete the security. For the large containers, we never had to pay.”

  “Holgon, my magician, would not be impressed by such items,” Trocolar said. “And guarding a single entrance does not guarantee that others do not exist.”

  “Yet you have seen fit to leave a considerable treasure here,” Augusta said. She motioned to the oarsmen. The one in front grabbed the protruding handle of a bolt and pulled it free. The other tugged at a circular chain draped nearby. With a rusty creaking, the grating slowly began to rise.

  “A considerable treasure,” she continued. “And none of your reasons for withdrawal carry much persuasion.”

  Trocolar grunted, but did not answer. Instead, he pointed to the red horizontal line painted on the wall.

  “Yes.” Augusta nodded. “In less than an hour, the tide will be too high. I warned you before we came. All your tokens will not save us if we are caught in the passage between the two pools.”

  The grating clanged against its upper stops. The two oarsmen rushed to get the skiff back into motion, while Augusta lighted a torch from the cresset. In its flickering light, Jemidon and the others glided deeper into the cave.

  Immediately behind the grating, the ceiling and walls receded from view. As if traveling on calm seas under a starless night sky, the small boat slid through the water. Jemidon breathed still and fungal air, the only clue to his true surroundings. He tried to pierce the gloom, but saw nothing to aid in orientation. The rhythmic splash of the paddles wove complicated patterns with the rustle of Augusta’s smoking flame. No one spoke. The feeling was oppressive.

  After several minutes, the pace of the paddling quickened. Jemidon sensed the tenseness in the oarsman behind. He looked around and saw the walls again coming into view. Like a crumpled funnel, they converged on the skiff, defining a narrow passage where there had been none before.

  Jemidon watched the undulating surfaces resolve into distinguishable textures, dry swaths with large crystals of pegmatite, glistening walls of fine-grained granite, areas of gas-smoothed slickness, and jagged fissures that trickled with rainwater seeping from above. Closer and closer converged the walls. Jemidon felt himself breathe deeply to stave off the instinctive fear of confinement. A boat length away and then barely two arm lengths apart, the rock pushed in from either side.

  Augusta lowered her torch. Jemidon looked ahead to see the ceiling crushing inward like the walls. The oarsman in front ducked to the side to avoid a low-hanging projection, and it whizzed past Jemidon’s ear. Augusta set the base of the torch on the keelboard and experimented with huddling low at its side.

  “We probably will have to extinguish our light on the way back,” she said. “There will be just enough clearance for the skiff itself to squeeze by.”

  “How high does the tide rise?” Jemidon asked.

  “Above the ceiling at the narrowest point,” Augusta answered. “The vault is shaped like a carnival man’s barbell, with this passage the only connection between two large chambers on either end. And for most of the day, the inner chamber is completely sealed off. There is no way to get through. Only at lowest tides, when the water level is under the red line, can one attempt a passage. And even then, the margin of safety is none too great.”

  Jemidon copied the others, hunching over and then squirming even lower when a sharp outcrop skittered across the top of his head. He heard the rower behind give up trying to paddle the water. Instead, the oar was pushed against the side of the passage to propel them along. The skiff scraped and splintered against one wall and then bounced off to rub along the other. Jemidon felt the unyielding rock press him still lower and then heard a sickening grating as both sides of the boat caught at once. For a second they stopped, jammed against the walls, but the oarsmen rocked back and forth, and the inflowing tide pushed them free.

  Jemidon tensed, waiting for the next constriction, but he felt instead the pressure on his back gradually lessen and then abruptly fall away. He watched Augusta stretch and extend the torch as she had done before. Once again, the walls receded to provide an easy passage.

  “We are in the inner chamber,” Augusta said. “And now to the vault itself. It is a small, separate cavity that took some fifteen years to suck dry, even with pumps of magic. The ledge above it does not provide enough space for the treasures.”

  As she pointed out the direction, the skiff sailed across the bowl of water. When they reached the wall, one oarsman secured the boat to some iron rings. The second rower sprang onto a rope ladder suspended from above.

  Jemidon and the others followed. In a moment, they climbed onto a wide ledge twice the height of a man above the level of the water. Augusta’s torch lighted several cressets, and Jemidon blinked at the sudden increase in light.

  The shelf cut back into the overhanging rock for a sizable distance, creating a pocket far larger than the size of Augusta’s rooms back on shore. Sand and planking made the irregular floor more or less level. A single table supported heavy ledgers, and a collection of scrolls was crammed into the cracks and crevices in the walls. Blooms of mold followed the trickle of water down the sloping surfaces, and Jemidon saw splotches of growth peppering the more exposed parchments. Billowed soot covered one portion of the low-hanging roof where a fire evidently had been tried long ago. Charred stumps mingled with small bones and discarded refuse on the floor. Two spots of blackness led off further into the interior. A heavy cauldron lid covered a jagged hole in the rear from which dank smells rose to taint the air.

  “The two side tunnels lead back to smaller caverns,” Augusta explained to Jemidon. “And the lid covers a shaft that leads down to the vault itself. All of it is natural; the magic pumps and the lock on the entrance grating are the only indebtedness to the guilds.”

  An oarsman pushed the lid aside and threw another ladder down the tube. Looking over the edge before he placed his foot in the opening, Jemidon saw a narrow vertical tunnel, knobby and twisted, about five times the height of a man. The shuffle of hands and feet echoed along the shaft, making conversation impossible
as Jemidon descended; but as he went lower, he heard the drips and gurgles of running water and then the suck and push of throbbing pumps.

  Jemidon’s foot hit bottom, splashing in a small, stagnant pool. A glow of imp light caught his attention on the right. From bottles fastened to a semicircular wall, the dim, blue glow bathed lumbering complexes of wheels and levers that pushed water up a tube and out of sight. Behind them was an array of chests, neatly ordered in precise rows and columns into a great square. Splashes of soft greens and yellows covered the tops and side plankings. Long tendrils of oozing growth stretched to the wet and rocky floor. The far walls could barely be seen.

  The volume was larger than the hold of Arcadia’s biggest grainship. Jemidon calculated how much he had climbed and descended as he made room for the others following. Yes, bigger than a galleon’s hold and three man heights beneath the level of the sea.

  “What miserable storage,” Trocolar sneered as he followed Augusta back to the chests. “Look at this dampness, the cracks in the walls. Even a gentle shift in the earth, and the trickle would become a flood. It is worth the fee to have my tokens reside in a dry, clean vault, rather than in this slimy mess.”

  “The cloth and oak may rot,” Augusta said, “but for tokens, it does not matter. Never will they alter.”

  “Nonetheless, mine will be gone,” Trocolar said.

  Jemidon saw the trader’s eyes glisten as a chest lid was flung back and the subtle glow of the tokens added to the imp light. Trocolar turned to Augusta and pulled his jowls into a slight smile.

  “And do not profess that it is of no concern,” he said. “The loss of my fees just before the election will give you a smaller vote. I plan to persuade other traders to withdraw their holdings as well. Altogether, it will make a considerable difference.”

  “The issue is in doubt.” Augusta shrugged. “Neither your faction nor mine has sufficient wealth to win on the first round.”

  “But there will be the subsequent ones,” Trocolar said. “And, in a contest between the vaultholders and the traders, what do you think the outcome will be?”

  “The vaultholders have governed Pluton fair and well for two decades,” Augusta replied. “Indeed, your trading has never prospered better.”

  “But not as well as it might,” Trocolar snapped as he waved his arm over the chests. “I have not forgotten the innocent-faced girl who charmed a debtholding from me all those years ago.”

  “I paid you a premium for the writ,” Augusta said. “You received more than you were due and a year early besides. You have no cause for complaint.”

  “No, no cause for complaint,” Trocolar spat out. “No cause for complaint. I am reminded of it each time the others ask me again to tell the tale. No cause for complaint, because I did not ask why you wanted the writ. This vault should have been mine, Augusta, not the prize of some barefoot mainland girl who chanced upon it first!”

  “You were greedy enough for immediate gain,” Augusta shot back. “I took the gamble that months later the vaultholders would not be able to pay. And we have been over the same story many times before. You keep your treasures here for the same reasons as the others. Despite how you feel about who earns the fees, you are eager enough to take advantage of the fact that they are less.”

  “This time there is a difference,” Trocolar said. “This time I am close enough that my faction may win.” The trader stopped and grabbed Augusta by the shoulders. “I have paid the divulgents, and they have told me what I needed to know, Augusta. I have learned from what you taught me as well. Your only indebtedness is for the pumps that keep this pit from washing away. Periodic payments to the guild that made them will continue for many years. But you are aggressive, Augusta, always hungry for more, speculating to the limit and holding back barely enough to transfer the sums when they are due.”

  Trocolar sucked in his breath and raced on. “Know that I am your new debtholder, Augusta. I paid a premium for the writ, just as you had done with me. And if I win control of the council, their first act will be to change the laws governing magical items procured by the vaults. Those are too precious to be so capriciously obtained from the guilds. A proper vault should have title to its items of security free and clear. Someone who places his treasures for safekeeping should expect no less. Yes, there will be a change to the laws so that such liens immediately will be due and payable.

  “Think of it, Augusta—in a few days it might all be over. In less than a week, you may be a true debtor, unable to pay. Everything you have, including your life, could be mine to do with as I will.”

  Trocolar tilted back his head and laughed, his voice bouncing off the walls in booming echoes. Then, with a swirl of his cape, he turned and headed back for the ladder. “I will count them in the skiff after they are loaded,” he called back. “Holgon, my magician, has found a potential partner who thinks a few hundred is an impressive sum. Wait until he sees me with some eight thousand more.”

  In the gloom, Jemidon saw Augusta’s shoulders sag and he ran to her side. “How serious is his threat?” he asked. “Can you not pay him from one of the other chests that are here?”

  “The total number of tokens on Pluton is known.” Augusta shook her head. “And for every credit to an account, there must be a debit elsewhere. These chests are not mine to do with as I please. They belong to many others. And Trocolar’s knowledge is accurate. The total of what I owe on the pumps exceeds all that I personally have on account.”

  “Then a new partner. A share in future profits for someone to pay what will be due.”

  “If Trocolar controls the council, none would dare thwart his intent.” Augusta shook her head again. “No, now my hope will have to be that Rosimar succeeds sooner than expected. When we return to shore, you must go to him immediately and tell him the increased importance of his endeavors.”

  Augusta started to smile bravely at Jemidon, but then stopped abruptly. For a moment she looked away. Finally she turned back and lightly placed her hand on his arm. “I am sorry,” she said softly. “You should not be involved. For a single token, it is too much to risk.”

  “I will help you if I can,” Jemidon said, “although my knowledge probably will be of little value.”

  “It is more than your knowledge that is bound in my plight,” Augusta said. “Your writ of indenture was recorded with the rest of the transactions of the day. And such bindings cannot be revoked, regardless of the sum. For the next week, you are one of my assets, Jemidon, part of what I must surrender to a creditor if I cannot pay,” she stroked his arm and finally completed her smile. “You see, I will have company if Trocolar manages to send me to the cube. It is to your benefit as well as mine to speed Rosimar along the way.”

  Jemidon’s late evening message to the guild had first been met with resistance. Rosimar had wanted to proceed at his own cautious and methodical pace. But the threat to Augusta had eventually won him over. The preparations for the next phase of the ritual were ready in three days, rather than four.

  When Jemidon returned on the third day to monitor the progress, he did so with more than passing interest. Before the trip to the grotto, Augusta’s investment in Rosimar’s guild had been an idle curiosity—something to stir up old memories of when he was a neophyte, far removed from his pursuit of the sorcerer’s robe. But now his focus had been diverted. He could not pursue one art without success in the other. If the remaining errors in the new ritual could be corrected soon enough, Augusta’s fortunes would receive a much needed boost. A hundred tokens returned with another hundred as well would more than compensate for Trocolar’s missing fees. Her faction might even win the election after all, and then he would have earned his own token and be free to track down Drandor and Delia.

  Jemidon looked up and down the length of the huge rectangular hall called the ceremonium that dominated the grounds of the guild. Scattered everywhere was a clutter of apparatus large and small, giant presses, arrays of pulleys and cogs, cascades of vats and pip
ing, cages of exotic beasts, clockworks, balances, and beams. The roof of the structure arched to a giddy height. Through carefully fitted isinglass panels, the morning sunlight flooded the parqueted floor.

  Directly in front of where he stood, Jemidon saw the neophytes straining against the huge lever of a ballista and heard the ratchet click another notch. The twisted leather rope grated from the effort. At the far end of the ceremonium was the target, a row of whirling saw blades with teeth sparkling from the diamond dust freshly applied. Behind them were the grindstones, each the width of a barrel and twice the height of a man.

  “Much more impressive than delicate tongs and tinkling finger cymbals, is it not?” The lean man next to Jemidon waved at the equipment while the final adjustments were being made. His nose was pinched between close-set eyes. Bony forearms dangled from a robe two sizes too small. Although his face was smooth, his shoulders slumped forward with the posture of an older man. “The larger guilds boast of innovation, but none of them have dared to take the chance,” he said.

  “And if the plate of steel can be split into strips by hurling it against the blades, what then, Rosimar?” Jemidon asked. “How soon until Augusta receives her return?”

  “The mistress of the grotto.” Rosimar’s eyes narrowed. “I am surprised that you would bother again to curry her favor. She uses men like honeypods, discarding the husk after she has sucked them dry.”

  “My fate is intertwined with hers,” Jemidon tried to say casually. “The more that her wealth increases, then the greater is the chance that she will be able to pay me my wage when it is due.”

  “One does not have to be a divulgent to know what is at stake,” Rosimar said. “And she needs the aid of a master magician, not one who failed to garner even an initiate’s robe. Many saw Trocolar march off under guard to another vault yesterday evening. The trader’s factors align; he has her positioned where she has never been before.”

  Rosimar paused and stared at Jemidon. “And understand that that is the only reason. Understand it well. If Augusta asks for help, I will give my consent. Even if it means a trip through that tiny hellhole to the vault itself. If it is for our future business together, to influence the tally when the leading factions gather for the vote, not to recapture what has gone before.” Rosimar hesitated a second time. “Besides, she can have no more than a passing interest in you, in any event.”