Secret of the Sixth Magic

by Lyndon Hardy

  With the last rays of the sun, he was allowed to stop at the end of the row he had just worked. His arms, his back, his legs, and every muscle were throbbing in protest to the strenuous labor. His waist bled from a dozen sores where the metal belt had dug into his flesh. He hung like a damp rag in his harness, feet dragging on the ground and arms dangling with no life.

  The blankness of his thoughts was interrupted by the sergeant, who placed a bowl beside his cage. The man-at-arms paused a moment, looked hastily over his shoulder, and then scooted a second bowl between the bars. “The first day is the roughest,” he said, “but if you do not eat to get strength, then the next will be your last.”

  Jemidon raised his head and eyed the sergeant dully, too tired even to offer thanks. “I earn no favor with the lord if one of the cages stops working during the day,” the guardsman said gruffly as he unknotted one of the chains binding Jemidon to the bars. “Take advantage of your good fortune so that I can ensure mine.”

  Later, with food in his stomach, Jemidon felt a small degree of reason return. Another ten days of this he could not endure. He slowly stood and looked around the cage. With only one fetter, he could reach the side, but rattling the bars revealed no looseness; they all held tight and firm. Tentatively at first and then with greater vigor, he sawed with the scythe against the linkage that still bound him, but the blade just skittered across the harder metal, refusing to bite and make a notch.

  Jemidon grasped the tool in both hands near the neck where the blade joined the wooden handle, trying to imagine how he might separate the two pieces and turn them into something that would be of use in an escape. He ran his hands over the gears and levers of the ceiling, pulling at protrusions and trying to break something free. Each object he could reach he studied in turn, grasping for some idea that would help his plight.

  But try as he would, all his thoughts were leaden. Evidently he was too tired from the labor to think anything more than the obvious. With the certainty of failure, he went through the motions, making the escape attempts that every cage occupant probably tried.

  Finally he turned his attention to his own possessions. He ran his hands over his newly purchased tunic, now deeply creased and smelling of sweat. As he touched his pockets, he felt the reassuring lumps of their contents; his purse of gold, Benedict’s changer, and the various curios of his seven years of wandering were still there. In the haste to have him confined, no one had bothered to take anything away.

  One by one, he removed the items, trying to couple them with something else in the cage. When he reached the changer, he idly thumbed piles of coins into his palm and poured them back into the slit in the top.

  As the metal disks slid into the opening, Jemidon could hear the soft click of some sorting apparatus that directed them to the various columns. But the output of each was a jumble—gold, silver, copper, and steel, diameters of all sizes, coins with central holes and those without, all mixed when a dispensing lever was depressed.

  Almost hypnotically, Jemidon cycled the coins, letting the soft jangle soothe the soreness from his limbs and back. He found himself watching the pattern of types as they emerged and trying to guess what the next might be. Silver, he thought, fingering the lever for the leftmost column. Silver again; he smiled when his choice proved correct. “And again,” he muttered half aloud when he was right a second time. “Perhaps, even without magic, the box can still sort, if given enough tries.”

  Five silver coins in a row fell from the column before a brass dranbot ended the string. “An interesting puzzle,” Jemidon mused, putting the device aside as he tried to visualize what the internal mechanism must be. After a moment’s thought, he lifted the changer again. With a rapid series of motions, he emptied the entire contents of coins onto the ground. Then he selected one copper and inserted it in the slit. Trying the dispensing levers one by one, he found that the third column had received the coin.

  Two coppers in sequence were partitioned into columns three and four. And if they followed a silver, they went instead to two and five. In a rapid series of experiments, Jemidon used longer sequences of coins, trying to deduce the rule by which they were distributed. He inserted runs of all one coin and then two types, interleaved in pairs. Cycles of four, mixed triplets, groups of seven—the various combinations filled his thoughts as he struggled to assemble all the results into a coherent whole.

  The sky dimmed into night, and then the first stars twinkled into view. The moon streaked pale shadows of the cage bars onto the ground, but Jemidon continued on unheedingly. He divided the coins into distinct piles that he could locate by feel in the darkness. “Suppose we limit the problem to five of each type,” he muttered. “And the challenge is to choose the order so that in the end they all will be sorted. Yes, I will call it Benedict’s problem. The path each one takes from the slit depends not only on its type but on what the columns already contain as well. It cannot be done in one pass. When four coppers are in column one, unless a silver is in both two and three, the last will go to five instead. So one must carefully remove some from the bottom and intermix them with those remaining to be added at the top. Only then can there be a chance.”

  “With the setting of the moon! Pass it along.” A whispered voice broke Jemidon’s concentration sometime later. He had not noticed that another of the harvest cages had moved to barely ten feet away.

  “With the setting of the moon. Do not sleep. Pass it along,” the voice repeated. “The message comes from one of the Pelinad’s band. Kenton expects him only to touch the fields on the east, if at all. But it will be tonight. Here. They will make the attempt.”

  Jemidon shook himself alert. He frowned at the scatter of metal disks that lay in front of him. He looked at the sky, now quite different from when he had last noticed it. “What have I been doing?” he gasped aloud. “Frittering away time on a meaningless puzzle, and one of my own making at that. I must be more tired than I thought.” Disgustedly he scooped up all the coins and inserted them in the changer. He shook his head, confused about his actions, and thrust the device away. The visions of sliding mechanisms and clinking coins began to fade. He wrinkled his brow and forced his thoughts back to his immediate plight.

  “Wait,” he said to the occupant of the other cage. “The setting of the moon. Pelinad’s messenger. What do you mean?”

  “The reward justifies the risk. With common laborers too tired to lift a sword, there was no reason for taking the chance. But two new ones were added to the cages today—and one is a sorcerer from Morgana.”

  “I am no sorcerer,” Jemidon said. “I was only on a visit to the island to learn the craft.”

  “Not you, dolt. The big man farther down the line. Now pass it on, before the guardsmen hear your chatter and come to investigate.”

  Jemidon started to ask more, but the other cage began to move away. Silently, he cursed himself for not noticing sooner that the message was close at hand. Sorcerers and Pelinad’s rebels, he thought. They were far more important than the tinkle of a few pieces of metal. Determined, he made up his mind to recover the time he had lost. He checked the ground to ensure that all the coins had been retrieved and then began to push his cage in the direction of the next in line.

  And at the next, rather than returning to his own position, he offered to carry the message farther down the row. At each stop, as he whispered the words, he stared into the darkness, trying to recognize a familiar face. The practice of sorcery in Arcadia had been confined to Morgana. A master sorcerer would have to come from there. But it would not be tradition-bound Farnel and certainly not Gerilac. And why would any of the other masters journey to the wheatlands?

  A dozen stops produced nothing, and Jemidon felt his fatigued legs begin to tremble from the effort of pushing over the ruts that ran alongside the lines of wheat. But the memory of his mental lapse goaded him on, and he continued to the next. He lost track of how many cages he visited. The end of the line finally came within sight.

&nb
sp; As he approached the fourth from the last, a sudden scream jerked him alert. A drum sounded to the left, and the guard fires sprang back to life. Shouts of alarm came from all along the line. Steel clanged against steel three cages away. In a matter of moments, Jemidon saw dark figures running from cell to cell and keying open the doors. He heard the jangle of freedom in the back of his own cage and tugged with an energy he was surprised he still had to free himself of the metal belt.

  He bolted so quickly to the outside that he nearly knocked down the man racing from the adjacent cell. Together, they flailed to regain their balance in the dimness. As they spun about, the moon on the horizon caught the other man’s features. Jemidon’s mouth dropped open in sudden recognition.

  “Canthor!” he exclaimed. “Canthor, the bailiff of Morgana Island. Why are you here? You are no more a sorcerer than I!”

  Jemidon looked around the campfire in the small bowl framed by the rising hills. He tried to stretch himself into a more comfortable position. His linen tunic was now bunched in thick creases beneath a vest of stiff leather. The equally fine leggings hung in tatters beneath his knees. There had been no pursuit for over two days. And now Pelinad’s band was high enough in the foothills so that the lookouts would be able to spot any activity out of Kenton’s castle on the plain below. The slopes rapidly merged into the higher mountains in the east, and escape was possible in a dozen ways. Not that flight was the only option. Before the attack, Pelinad’s brigands had numbered about sixty. Now they were three times the number. Not a single one of the bondsmen or freetoilers had elected to stay. Even the troop from Searoyal would find the rebels more than a mere nuisance.

  In small groups of three and four, they huddled around the sprinkling of morning fires. Some sprawled exhausted, still asleep despite the cold and rocky ground. Others talked with loud animation, slapping the arms of old acquaintances and testing the feel of the newly supplied hide-covered shields. Behind them, the silhouettes of craggy spires were just barely discernible in the brightening sky. Slightly north of where the sun would rise, Jemidon saw the dark crestline dip into the deep notch that was Plowblade Pass.

  Jemidon watched Canthor return from a huddled conference with Pelinad and his lieutenants around one of the fires to the left. The bailiff squinted off into the distance, then looked at Jemidon and smiled.

  “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.”