"Secret Of The Sixth Magic" - читать интересную книгу автора (Hardy Lyndon)

CHAPTER NINE
The Shadow in the Keep

IN the moonlight filtering through the trees, Jemidon shifted position to get a better view. He looked down to the shoreline where their small skiff could be seen bobbing on the gentle waves. Farther back across the water were the lights of Pluton, some mere pinpoints, but others the flickering brightness of fires out of control.

Jemidon looked back at the rising slope of the island. The trees blanketed the hillside toward the crest, except on the right, where they had been cleared away for the garishly decorated structure of stone and iron. Behind the crest and out of sight was the other island in the bay, the one that contained Augusta's vault. Jemidon had not guessed that the larger of the two islands in the bay was owned by Trocolar. The leader of the tradesmen had indicated nothing when Augusta ferried him to her vault three days before.

But Benedict had been insistent. The island and the estate were indeed Trocolar's. The divulgent had said that, if there was more to be learned, it would most likely be there. And so, under the cover of nightfall, he, Jemidon, and Rosimar had rowed across the bay and landed unobserved where the green canopy came nearly to the shore.

"I will have the correct amounts in a moment," Benedict whispered above the soft jingle of coins. "My sorting device barely functions; the output from a single column is more often a scramble than not."

"Why not carry a pouch the way everyone else does and dip into it, once the price has been settled?" Rosimar growled in irritation. "The guards on the wall or some patrol will soon find us if you continue to fumble."

"A full purse is no way to bargain for several favors," Benedict said. "You will empty it for the first and get no other. I acknowledge your mastery of your craft, Rosimar; respect my skill in mine. A divulgent prepares his cape with many pockets, each with but one coin or two."

Benedict moved slightly, and Jemidon saw the glint of the coinchanger at the divulgent's waist. He watched as Benedict fingered the levers and scowled at the results in his palm. The divulgent selected a single coin from the pile to put in a pocket and returned the rest to the top of the device.

"I am ready at last," Benedict said as the jingle stopped. "The guard at the postern gate has told me much before, but never have I convinced him to let me enter. What we learn in Trocolar's private estate had better be of supreme value to justify our risk."

"Then perhaps I should proceed alone," Rosimar said. "I would have expected something more from this skill of yours than a simple bribe."

"A secret passage, perhaps," Benedict snapped back. "Or maybe a ring that levitates the bearer over walls. You are the magician. What do you bring to our agreement in addition to your razor-edged tongue?"

"Enough!" Jemidon waved his arms for silence. The muscles in his neck were knotted from anticipation. Keeping the other two from bickering was an added irritant that he could well do without. "Enough. Just get us inside. The rest does not matter."

"You are the least qualified to speak," Rosimar said. "Except in stealth, you cannot move about on Pluton at all. The mercenaries will make sure all frozen assets are properly impounded; their annual fee depends on how well they perform."

"Our goal is to learn how the laws of magic and sorcery have been turned off," Jemidon said. "And, if the random factors align, how to reactivate them as well. With the tokens in Augusta's vault once more a well-regarded tender, she will be no debtor, and I can act as I choose."

"But if not within two days, the election will be over and Trocolar will prevail," Rosimar said. "After that, it will not matter for you whether the craft is again operative or not."

"If you see all outcomes so bleak, then why continue?" Jemidon asked. "Return to your guild and wait out the storm. From the safety of your surrounding walls, try to convince Augusta of your aid in her behalf."

Rosimar glared at Jemidon, then at Benedict. Finally he shrugged and folded his arms inside his robe. Benedict hesilated a moment, but no one said more. The divulgent nibbled on his lip and started to move farther into the shadows.

They traveled the rest of the way to the estate in silence, filtering among the trees. While Jemidon and Rosimar waited on the edge of the clearing, Benedict darted across to confer with the guard.

The moon was bright in a cloudless sky. Strong shadows of the roofline traced a jagged pattern across the naked landscape surrounding the keep. The structure was not large-two storeys with perhaps a half-dozen rooms in each-but the face work resembled that of a large castle from the mainland of Arcadia or even Procolon across the sea. Miniature bartizans budded from crenellated walls. Tiny loopholes dotted shallow bastions. Each row of square-cut stone was slightly smaller than the one upon which it rested, giving the illusion of greater height as one scanned upward.

While Jemidon watched, Benedict appeared out of the gloom of the small gatehouse, beckoning him and Rosimar to come forward. In a moment all three were inside, examining the dim walls and a grim-faced guard still clutching a fist full of coins.

"He says that they all are at their evening meal," Benedict whispered. "Including Trocolar's new partner, who spends most of his time in the dampness below."

"Then to the dungeon," Jemidon said softly. "We may learn everything we need before they have finished their wine."

"The stair is on the south wall." Benedict motioned with his head. "But the guard will not escort us down. And the entry is barred and locked, besides."

"A simple lock will not stop us." Jemidon felt his excitemment begin to rise. "Come along. I will show you how it is done."

Without waiting to see if the others would follow, Jemidon turned and ran down the steps. It felt good to move quickly after all the cautious stealth. The passage was narrow, dirty, and hung with cobwebs. Just enough light to guide his feet flickered down from torches set high in the wall.

On the landing below, Jemidon paused a moment for his eyes to adjust to the gloom. He saw a single short passage leading to heavy wooden doors barred by a single beam chained in place. From his cape, he pulled a finger-length shaft of metal with a narrow flange on one end and inserted it in the lock. After a few experimental probes, he rotated it a quarter turn to the left, and the hasp snapped open. Just as Rosimar and Benedict came up behind, he carefully pushed the bar aside and motioned them to enter.

The doors opened onto one vast room, the view interrupted only by stout posts that supported the beams and planking of the ceiling above. In each corner, small alcoves projected off at odd angles, their entrances barred by grates of iron. Each was filled to overflowing with sacks, barrels, and wooden boxes. Stuffed in crannies were heaps of chain, shafts of steel, shields, pikes, and bowls of polished copper. More goods cluttered the main floor-piles of linen, bins of grain, huge leather volumes bound in groups of six, and rough tarpaulins covering stacked crates and lumpy mounds. In the very center, barely separate from the piles which pushed in from all sides, was a small anthanor with its coals still smoldering. Next to it was an array of large sacks, one tipped to the side, spilling hundreds of small, translucent stones on the floor. The smell of cinnamon mingled with the musty and humid air. Pokers and tongs lay scattered about, and pushed to one side was a large lattice of wires and beads.

"Drandor!" Jemidon exclaimed, forgetting the hushed tones he had used before, "I knew I would track him down. And this time we will examine his wares with far more care to learn what secrets they possess."

Jemidon eagerly moved across the room toward the lattice. He looked up at one of the supporting beams and saw the familiar form of the guarding imp asleep in its bottle. Staying far enough away not to excite the sprite, he slowly began to examine the structure, looking for any differences since he had seen it last.

"Why is it so important?" he muttered aloud. "So important to Drandor that Delia took it rather than anything else when she fled? If only she-"

Jemidon stopped and looked around the room. Except for Benedict peering curiously into one of the alcoves and Rosimar standing in the entrance, there was no one else there.

Jemidon grimaced in disappointment. Although he had never expressed it consciously, he had evidently envisioned Delia to be with the rest-a daring confrontation and a final rescue. But what if he could find the secret of how the trader suspended the laws of sorcery and magic and be away before anyone returned? He would have all that he needed to obtain the robe of the master. Why then track down Drandor to ask what he had done with a slave girl? Jemidon's scowl deepened with his hesitancy. He tried to force himself to examine the lattice, to focus on what was most important before being distracted by anything else.

Tentatively, he took another step closer to the structure, but stopped in midstep as a chorus of footfalls echoed down the passageway leading above. Benedict dropped the book he was examining, flung open the grating in front of him, and squirmed into the alcove behind. Jemidon looked back at Rosimar and saw the master standing rigidly erect, making no attempt to hide himself.

Jemidon ran back across the room. "Quickly," he said. "Into one of the side rooms. Apparently the iron gates are unlocked."

"Too small," Rosimar moaned feebly. k'Too small. The gloom, the musty walls. I cannot. The room, it confines. I must be away."

Jemidon looked into the sweating face and dazed eyes. He had seen the same expression when Rosimar had ventured into the grotto. The noises outside became louder. Jemidon stepped to the doors and pulled them shut. He turned back to Rosimar and grabbed him about the shoulders. "This way," he commanded. "Control your feelings. We must hide without delay."

Rosimar opened his mouth to protest as Jemidon herded him toward one of the alcoves, but Jemidon clamped his free hand over the magician's mouth. He hooked the grating with his foot, swung it open, and pushed Rosimar inside. With a final swirl, he looped his foot behind the iron bars and pulled them shut. Just as the wooden doors to the room creaked open, he shoved Rosimar behind a crate and tumbled on top of him.

"Strange, I was sure we secured the entrance as Trocolar had directed when we left." Jemidon heard a voice he recognized as that of Holgon the magician. "But it is no wonder. Nine passes with the dove were boring enough. Today's tedium dulls even the brightest mind."

"Continue as you have been told, and you will be rewarded well," another voice answered. "The Maxim of Perseverance, 'repetition unto success,' may not be as precise as the one before, but the results are nearly the same."

Jemidon strained to hear the second speaker and frowned. The voice was not unfamiliar, but he could not place it for certain. He looked down at Rosimar and saw the magician's knuckles pressed to his teeth. Cautiously, Jemidon released his grip and waited for a reaction. Rosimar remained still, rigidly stiff and unmoving. Jemidon paused a moment more and then, indicating silence, slowly rose to peer through a crack between the stacked crates.

He looked out to see Holgon, tightly bundled in a heavy cloak and wearing woolen gloves. The magician huddled over the furnace and was talking to someone just outside Jemidon's view. Two guardsmen with bored expressions lounged against supporting posts, ignoring the conversation. From the metallic rustle of mail, Jemidon could tell that there were more men-at-arms in the room as well.

"It will take nearly a hundred times," the soft voice continued. There was a hint of some accent about it and a breathless quality, as if each word would be the last before a massive gulp of air. "But with each repetition of the ritual, the effect becomes more likely to happen. You rushed the first stones to the marketplace, Holgon, with barely a dozen complete enactments. Some of the purchasers were able to shake the illusion that compelled them to buy and saw what the pebbles truly were. Only when you increased the repetition for the next batch did the images hold firm beyond the first hour. And without the subsequent trades, an increase in value would never have happened."

Jemidon nodded in his hiding place. That explained why there had been no outcry about worthless stones as there was for the tokens. Except for himself, Benedict, and a few others, the illusion had held. After the glamour that compelled him had faded, something else convinced the owner that they were still very special. With growing excitement about what he was learning, Jemidon strained forward to catch more.

He saw Holgon sigh and then dip into the sack for one of the small stones. The magician gripped it with tongs, inserted it into the furnace, and began to stomp his feet. The guard on the left unbuckled his sword and lowered it to the ground. He then joined Holgon's beat, clapping his hands to the rhythm while simultaneously banging together two cymbals strapped to the insides of his forearms. The other guard scooped some pieces of rope from the floor and tied them together in a series of intricate knots, while puffing his cheeks with air and then swallowing in noisy gulps.

"The Rhythm of Refraction," Jemidon muttered to himseif. "Except for the use of cymbals instead of drums, it is the magic ritual for making a lens that focuses all of the colors the same."

"Enough," the soft voice commanded abruptly. "It is the number of repetitions that count, not the perfection of each step as it is performed."

Holgon grunted and extracted the stone from the furnace. With his free hand, he flicked open a small vent above the coals. A brilliant yellow shaft of light shot out into the room. Holgon held the stone to intercept the beam, and one of the guards scurried to hold a scrap of cloth on the other side.

"Nothing," Holgon said after a moment. "It is no different from all the times before."

"Patience," the soft voice commanded. "I suffer without comment the small air volume of this room. Repeat the ritual as you have been told."

Holgon shrugged and began to move the stone slowly back and forth across the beam, momentarily blotting it out and creating bursts of light that hit the cloth. Another guard extracted a poker from the coals; with each pulse of light, he gently dabbed the cloth with the tip.

"And again enough," the voice said. "After a dozen passes, the burning point grows too cold. Start from the beginning and proceed as before."

Everyone returned to his former position, and the sequence was reinitiated. Holgon heated the rock in the furnace and stamped the dust, while the others executed their parts of the ritual in step with the cadence.

"Eventually there will be transparency," the voice continued. "Never as fine as the most exacting lens, but with each heating, each bathing in the flow of the flame, each burning of the cloth, the barrier to the light weakens. Eventually it will suddenly shine through."

"But why not have the glamour carry it all?" Holgon asked. "If the owner believes, it does not matter whether the scentstone truly is flawed or not."

"As I have already explained, the glamour can do no more. It is the Rule of the Threshold, or 'fleeting in sight, fixed in mind.' The subtle messages that flash on the screen with the animations cannot be too short, or they never would be noticed. But if they are presented too long, the mind becomes aware that they are there, and their power is lost. The glamours in the marketplace strain to the limit. They can convince no more than they do now."

"It still sounds better than this excuse for magic." Holgon extracted the tongs for a second time. "Perhaps I should become like the archmage and learn more than one art."

"Your archmage!" The voice tinkled in what Jemidon took to be a laugh. "Soon his skills will be no more. The imps twitter that he has heard of the strange failures of sorcery all around this globe and that he finds no explanation at home and plans even to strike across the seas in search for the cause. But by the time he gets to Arcadia, Trocolar's payment to me of Pluton's mercenary constabulary will have long since passed. And then for the rest, it will be too late."

Jemidon strained against the crates which defined his hiding place, trying to ferret out the true meaning of all the words. He shifted his position slightly and then felt a sudden kick from Rosimar's legs. He looked back to the ground just in time to see the magician explode in a frenzy of motion, his eyes twitching in a wild panic,

"Air, clear air! I can withstand no more!" the magician screamed. He bolted upright and shouldered against the crates in front, sending them in a crash to the floor and knocking open the grating to the larger room. Instinctively, Jemidon pulled at Rosimar's robe, but grasped only emptiness. Together, they clattered out onto the dusty stonework for all to see.

"Seize them," the voice commanded as the men-at-arms sprang to life. "This is not according to my plan."

Jemidon turned for the doorway, but managed only half a step through the clutter before he was hit from the side and hurled to the ground. He rose to one knee, but two more guards joined the first, pushing him to the stones. He looked quickly about to see another slap the flat side of his sword against Rosimar's head, crumpling the magician in a heap. Benedict bolted from his hiding place and tried to rush past Holgon, but the master thrust his glowing poker between the divulgent's legs as he dashed by, crashing him to the ground, where he lay gasping in pain.

"Trocolar advised me well to keep his dungeon secured," the voice said with the same soft cadence that had come before. "When these are fettered, search the other alcoves. There may be more."

Jemidon struggled to look in the direction of the anthanor and, for the first time, saw Holgon's companion. The figure was thin and tall, easily a head taller than even Canthor, the bailiff on Morgana. He was totally covered from head to toe with a dark brown greatcloak and deep hood that shielded his face entirely in shadow. The cloth hung heavy and limp, water glistening among the coarse threads. A small pool had formed from what dripped from the low hem to the floor. A belt of gold braid cinched in a narrow waist, and a multicolored cube hung from the clasp. Jemidon saw a tiny circle of imp light dancing around the hood and heard the hiss of gently moving air behind the soft tones of the accented voice.

The guards dragged Jemidon to his feet and, with his arms held tightly behind, pushed him toward the stranger. As he drew closer, Jemidon caught his breath. Cold air rolled around his knees and swirled up to his chest. As if stepping out onto an arctic meadow from a well insulated hut, he found himself shuddering and tried to turn away.

But as he did, he suddenly remembered the suggestion of coldness in Drandor's tent and the wisp of icy air behind the latched door in the presentation hall. They had been only hints before; but now, in the almost overpowering numbness, he was sure they were the same.

"Delia," he blurted. "What has become of her? Your presence is tied closely with that of the smiling trader; I can sense it. You must know where they are. Where is Drandor and how did he cause the changes to come to pass?"

"Drandor?" the voice asked. "Drandor, the cause of the changes?" The soft burble of laughter continued for more than a minute. "He has served his purpose well and now he sleeps with my manipulants."

A long, thin finger with smooth, unwrinkled skin poked out from one of the draping sleeves and touched Jemidon's chest with an icy coldness. "Know Drandor for what he is. A minion. A minion like Holgon here and no more. A minion who has traded his talents for what he might have when I am done."

The finger retracted and touched the center of the greatcloak. "It is I, Melizar, who is the master. Melizar, the first among the pilots."

Jemidon peered into the inky blackness of the hood, but only a hint of the dark features could be discerned. He tested the grip of the guard behind; the man was well trained and held him firm. "But what of Delia?" he insisted. Somehow he felt he wanted to know that the most of all. "What has been done with her?"

"Drandor does not always show good judgment in the treatment of his property," Melizar said. "Especially when it is jointly owned. I have done what is necessary in her regard."

Jemidon's thoughts raced to frame another question; but before he could speak again, more footfalls sounded on the stone passageway outside the room. All turned to look. In a moment, three more of Trocolar's men raced through the doors.

"The stones, the scentstones! The trader needs another chestful of them now."

"They are not ready," Melizar said. "We barely will have a gross of them finsihed by the eve of the election. As they are endowed now, too many purchasers can break out of their spell."

"The spell does not matter," the first of the newcomers said. "It is enough that they can be distinguished from the opaque pebbles on the beach. The demand exceeds the supply. Already a woman is the price for the smallest. Not even a fine team of horses will serve for one bigger than a pecan. Who cares about scents that eventually decay away? With the collapse of the token, it is the new fever of the hour. No one bothers to trade in anything else. Everyone scrambles to recover in a day the fortunes that have vanished.

"And the prescription is so simple. Buy in the morning and sell at noon for a return that nets you tenfold. One cannot fail. Why, Trocolar is the richest man on the island. He has been offered an estate on the crestline for a chestful. Make haste with the whole sack. We are all to come as guards, the entire household. The mercenaries cannot keep order everywhere at once. He has promised us each a handful if we are prompt."

"It proceeds too quickly," Melizar said. "It is not according to my plan. The crowds may prove fickle without the full use of the arts."

"Our orders are to transport them now. Stand aside. Our own fortunes are at stake with the rest."

"It does not follow the dictates of my plan," Melizar repeated, "The stones are not properly prepared."

"All of us here serve Trocolar the trader first." The speaker's voice grew threatening. "The wishes of his partners, no matter how well reasoned, must come later."

"Wait!" Melizar suddenly waved his cloaked arm over his head. "Wait until I have calculated the consequences. Do not show such haste."

Jemidon heard the gentle hiss about Melizar's head abruptly increase to a roar. The imp light intensified into painful stabs of light. Frost began to form over Melizar's cloak as he drew his arms to his chest and slumped into a ball. The cold air billowed down his sides, and a wet fog rolled across the floor. Trocolar's men hesitated, stepping back from the dense air as it encircled their boots.

They looked from one to another, trying to see who would take the lead on what to do next.

For several minutes, no one moved. The air in the room grew chillingly cold. Jemidon could tell which held their breath by the absence of cloudlets about their faces. Then, as quickly as they had started, the noise and lights began to fade. Melizar stood erect and unfolded his arms. Small shards of ice tinkled to the floor.

"Enough." Melizar waved his arms again. "Enough. I have thought through the pattern of events." The imp light dimmed to almost nothing. The whistling sound receded to the distant murmur it had been before. "I will do as the trader suggests and let you transport the stones now. It is as Holgon says. If the beholder perceives value, then intrinsic worth does not matter. But I must go along to ensure that Trocolar does not act too precipitously or even forget all the conditions of our bargain."

The deep shadow turned back to face Jemidon, "And as for these, place them in one of the side rooms. They perhaps are the minions of a disgruntled vaultholder. Or maybe even his assets. Yes, it will save Trocolar the trouble of searching. For their capture, I will ask an additional fee."

Jemidon watched sullenly as he and the other two were thrust into one of the alcoves and the lock snapped shut. He saw Holgon remove a crucible of molten metal from the anthanor and pour it into the keyhole as the rest of Trocoiar's men prepared to leave.

"A more difficult challenge than the outer lock," the magician said. "I am sure that Trocolar would want you here when we return."

Melizar exited with the last, pausing as he left to examine the lattice beside the furnace. Slowly he ran his slender hands along the wires and fondled the beads with his fingertips.

"So close and yet so different," he said, touching one of the vertices and tapping it gently. "So unlike where we almost succeeded before."

He ran his finger down one of the wires to an adjacent vertex and then at right angles up to a third. "And yet, two steps already taken. The basis is set for one more. And three should be enough. Three changes to the unfamiliar, and none here will be able to cope. The remaining four shifts will come with ease. And then I can traverse at will, move back and forth between what I know and the unexplored, and add new vertices with no threat of dissent."

Melizar sighted down one of the slender tendrils that arched from the dense central maze. "I shall discover what lurks beyond the last node in the thaumaturgy line. Yes, the satisfaction will be great indeed."

He turned back to look a final time into the cell that confined Jemidon. "Drandor the causes of changes, indeed! Not in this place and time."

As the last footfalls of Melizar's departure faded, Jemidon shook the bars in frustration. He had learned much, but was no closer to his goal than before. He had to escape soon, before the trail once again grew as cold as Melizar's cloak. He looked at the broken sword blades on the floor. Trying to pry back the bolt had served only to snap the finely wrought steel. The rest of the crates contained nothing of value to aid in their escape.

Benedict huddled on a small keg in the corner, wringing his hands and moaning softly about the burns on his legs. "I should not have been swayed by the value," the divulgent muttered. "The risk, the risk, it was too great."

A loud groan cut off Benedict's whispering as Rosimar flailed his arms through the air and pulled himself to sitting. The trickle of blood from his scalp had clotted in a stringy cake that ran over one eye and down his cheek. "Air," the magician croaked hoarsely. "I must get out to the fresh air."

Jemidon looked from one to the other and sighed. He moved to allow Rosimar to stumble forward and rattle the grating.

"Air!" Rosimar shrieked again. "I cannot withstand it. Give me air."

"The magician awakes." Benedict rose to his feet. "It is his magic that is our hope." He climbed over the intervening boxes and grabbed the front of Rosimar's robe, twisting him around. "You boasted of your worth. Now is the time to prove your mettle. You must get us out before that cold one returns."

"Magic." Rosimar shook his head vacantly. "Magic, magic swords and rings of power. Magic to give me air. If I had but one such object, I could barter my way to freedom." He turned and stared at Jemidon, squinting ihrough the clotted blood. "But this one says that magic is no more. All my craft is gone, vanished like a demon's wind." He sagged to the floor. "And in truth, none of my rituals work as they should. Empty forms that might as well be abstract dances for entertaining a prince! My magic is gone and I cannot get my air."

Rosimar started to say more, but stopped and turned to the grating. He gripped the bars and tried to thrust his face between them, gasping for breath.

Benedict watched for a moment and then placed his hand tentatively on Rosimar's shoulder. The magician did not respond, but continued to stare out into the storeroom, eyes bulging and forehead glistening with sweat. The divulgent nibbled at his lip and darted his eyes about the alcove. With a long sigh, he slumped his shoulders and resumed wringing his hands.

"They left the equipment here untouched." Jemidon grabbed at Benedict as the divulgent started back for the corner. "Look about, man. Maybe there is something we still can learn by keen observation or something that Melizar said that can yet key a discovery."

"So close and yet so different," Benedict replied absently. "So unlike where we almost succeeded before."

"Yes, that is the idea," Jemidon said. "Melizar's words when he touched the lattice. You remember them well."

"Those are his exact words. A divulgent must retain what he is told with no repetition, else he will find he has paid for nothing."

"You remember all the conversation?" Jemidon asked. "Everything?"

"Strange, I was sure we secured the entrance-" Benedict nodded and began again, but Jemidon excitedly waved him to stop.

"Never mind about Holgon. Concentrate on Melizar. What did he say when they were heating the stones?"

"Eventually they will be sufficiently transparent. Never as fine-"

"No, after that."

"The Rule of the Threshold, or 'fleeting in sight, fixed in mind.'"

"And the Maxim of Perseverance," Jemidon added. He began to pace within the small confines of their cell, nervously fingering the old coin around his neck. He squeezed between two open crates and flexed his palm around the grip of one of the unbroken swords.

" 'Repetition unto success.' Melizar spoke of laws. As if they guided his efforts like those that apply to the crafts-"

Jemidon paused as his thoughts suddenly exploded. "The glamours of the marketplace," he said after a moment. "And a ritual almost the same as the Rhythm of Refraction. Sorcery is governed by the Rule of Three, and Melizar spoke of a Rule of the Threshold. Magic obeys the Maxim of Persistence, and he talked of perseverance instead."

Jemidon's eyes widened and he slapped his thigh. "That's it, Benedict, don't you see? Sorcery and magic are not merely inoperative. There are still seven laws, just as there were before. The laws have not simply vanished. They have been replaced, substituted by ones similar but not quite the same. Seven laws. Seven before and still seven after the transformation."

Jemidon stopped a second time and looked out into the storeroom. The leap of intuition was based on nothing substantial, but somehow he knew he was right. He grabbed a piece of debris and threw it through the bars to strike the imp bottle attached to the overhead beam.

"The Postulate of Invariance." The imp fluttered to life. "Seven exactly; there can be no more. The lattice, it is my master's master's. You cannot touch."

"Yes, the Postulate of Invariance!" Jemidon yelled, grabbing Benedict by the shoulders and shaking him back and forth. "Invariance. A constant. Seven laws. There can be no more or no less. Whenever one is turned off, another must take its place.

"It is a new law of the arts, Benedict! We have found another law! No, wait, not a law but a metalaw. A law about the laws. A statement that there are many, but that only seven can be in effect at any one time. Different arts, many principles that guide them.

"And no one even suspected. Not even the archmage. It has been the same throughout history, from the very first sagas. The seven that we know so well were painstakingly discovered, and then no more were found. For at least a thousand years and, who knows, maybe back to the beginning of time, there have been seven constant laws and no reason to suspect that there could be more."

"You gibber too fast for even a divulgent," Benedict said. "Laws or metalaws, such abstractions make little difference. There is more to be gleaned from the tangible. What of this lattice of which the imp speaks?"

"The lattice is the proof," Jemidon said. "It is the-the road map by which one navigates through the realm of the laws. The first vertex Melizar touched represented the seven laws as we know them. Move one node to the right and the Rule of Three was replaced by the Rule of the Threshold. Continuing in that direction would change sorcery to something more exotic still. Instead, the next change was in a different direction, changing the Maxim of Persistence to the Maxim of Perseverance. The lattice has seven distinct axes-seven directions, one for each of the laws and the many possibilities along each one."

"I see no sevenfold mapping throughout that structure." Benedict squinted at the framework, "Only in small sections and there for a few nodes at most."

"It represents only what Melizar has explored," Jemidon said. "It is how he keeps track of where he has been. Yes, that is it. Melizar cannot turn off a law; he cannot create one. He can only replace it by the next in line. At the edges, if he moves in a direction for which there is no node, a new law is invoked that must be found through experimentation, one that he does not know."

"Your thoughts gallop too fast for me to judge their significance," Benedict protested. "And they seem to infer too much from the small hints we have heard tonight. How can you construct such fanciful structures from so meager a basis?"

"I-I do not know." Jemidon slowed his patter. "It-it just came to me in a rush. I have always been good at seeing the whole from the parts. Perhaps it is because I have had other hints along the way."

Jemidon stepped back from the grating and took a deep breath. His present danger, his link to Augusta's fate, even if he could escape, and his longing for the robe of a master all faded away in the seductive rush of a new discovery. He felt the exhilaration of finally solving a complex puzzle after many abortive attempts-a last turn that removed a ring from a string or the final piece that made a picture complete.

"In any event, the knowledge is of little value." Benedict jarred Jemidon's thoughts back to their plight. "Knowing all the secrets of the universe is of no help if we still must remain here to receive Trocolar's displeasure. If he is indeed elected head of the council, he can make the penalty for trespassing what he will." The divulgent lowered his eyes. "Although I doubt it will be as severe as what he would do with an impounded asset."

"But there are still sorcery and magic," Jemidon said, "or at least something very close to them. We can use them to find our way out. As for this new sorcery, or whatever it is called, it involves animations on screens and messages flashed in the blink of an eye. There is nothing here that will aid us to construct a glamour.

"But the new magic gives us the Maxim of Perseverance," Jemidon continued, picking up the sword from the crate in front of him. "Perhaps we can use it to enhance this blade and make it strong enough to pick out the mortar between the bricks."

"A magic sword," Benedict scoffed. "You have read too many of the sagas. If indeed there could be such a thing, the guild that could make it would charge two kingdoms' ransom. Producing such an object would require many lifetimes and the labor of hundreds."

"The Maxim of Persistence is no more," Jemidon said. '"I am not talking about a blade that forever retains its sharpness. We are dealing now with perseverance instead." He looked down to the magician at his feet. "Rosimar, my thoughts still churn too quickly and I cannot remember. What is the ritual for the hardening of the steel that was used in the manufacture of the tokens?"

"The Aura of Adamance," Rosimar mumbled without looking up. "It is one that must be mastered before the robe of the inititate is received."

"And the equipment?" Jemidon asked. "What is needed to act out the steps?"

"Bells and candles," Rosimar said, "magic hexagons drawn on the floor, chalk and pearl dust, and a bottle of ten-year-old wine."

"We will improvise the best we can." Jemidon began looking into the storage crates with a fresh perspective. "Explain the details so that we can begin."

"No, I am the master," Rosimar said weakly. "All credit for magic will be mine."

"You are indisposed. Rest. Benedict and I can do as you direct."

"No!" Rosimar struggled to his feet. "Magic may no longer work, but all rituals will be mine. You stand aside while I perform. I will get the credit. There will be no mistake about who performs with skill."

Jemidon looked at Rosimar's glistening forehead, the whitened knuckles that gripped the bars, and the eyes that twitched in erratic patterns. "It is not that important, Rosimar," he said. "You perform the ritual if you wish, and I will watch. But be warned, it will not be a single time that we must see it through."

Rosimar stared at Jemidon for a moment; then, with a snarl, he staggered to look into the crates stacked against the wall. "Tin cups," he muttered, "and metal spoons. They will have to serve for the pealing of the bells."

All three turned to rummaging through the stored goods and shortly had assembled the required equipment as best they could. Rosimar directed Benedict in the striking of the bells and the drawing of the hexagon on the alcove floor. He selected the longest sword of the lot and placed it within the pattern. With trembling hands, the magician decanted vinegar over a sack of flour while stomping a complicated rhythm with his feet.

When he was done, Rosimar picked up the sword and pressed it against the wall. With a grating sound, it skittered along the stone, leaving a faint trail where it had scratched the rock.

"And so much for this nonsense." The magician slumped back to the ground. "Magic is no more. We will not free ourselves by such misplaced cunning, regardless of your theories of lattices and hopping between vertices in some realm that cannot be seen."

"Again," Jemidon said, pulling Rosimar back to his feet. "The Maxim of Perseverance works on repetition. We must try the ritual again."

"And if I do not?" Rosimar asked.

"Then I will continue with Benedict as I had originally planned."

Rosimar grumbled and reached for the.bottle of vinegar. "It distracts my mind from the closeness of the walls, at the least," he said. "One more time probably will do no harm."

Jemidon clutched his hand to his stomach to stop the growling. He ran his tongue over the dry walls of his mouth and eyed what was left of the vinegar. Benedict slumped against the far wall, the makeshift string of bells dangling at his side, mouth open and eyes drooping with fatigue. Rosimar sat on one of the remaining unopened kegs, head bowed and shoulders slumped.

"Enough of a rest," Jemidon said. "We must keep trying until there is a change in the sword."

"Enough, indeed," Rosimar growled. "It is an insanity. We are like children repeating a mindless game. There is no magic. It is gone. How can a few words by a stranger make you so sure?" The magician rose and lumbered to the wall. With the remains of the chalk, he added another stroke to the ones already there. "Five hundred and seventy-two times," he said. "Over five hundred Auras of Adamance. More than what is performed in a guild in a year."

"Once more," Jemidon insisted. "Once more and then we will reconsider what we must do."

"You said that the last time," Benedict whined. "For over two days, we have stomped and chanted to no avail. In a few hours at most, the election will be over and Trocolar will return in triumph. We will not escape. To continue wasting his wares will only increase his displeasure."

"Once more," Jemidon repeated. "What other plan do you have to offer in its stead?"

Rostmar grumbled and kicked at the sword that lay in the center of the hexagon on the floor. Both edges of the blade were dull. Dozens of knicks and gouges marred the sides. He stooped to thrust it out of the way and then stopped, his eyes opening wide through his fatigue.

"It feels different," he said softly. "Not the tingle of magic, but somehow different all the same." Holding his breath, he clasped the hilt tighter and experimentally touched the blade tip to the wall. He started to scratch the dull point across in a great arc to match the other scars which crisscrossed the stone.

"There is resistance," he muttered. "It seems to take a great deal of strength to move it to the side." Tentatively, he increased the pressure on the guard and then staggered forward, mouth agape. The blade had quietly slid a finger's length into the stone.

"A guild's endowing fortune," Rosimar said in wonder as Jemidon and Benedict sprang forward. "A stone-cutting sword as true as any in the sagas."

"Let us begone." Benedict tugged at Rosimar's sleeve. "Save the marveling for when we are free. Try the iron bars and see if it performs there as well."

Rosimar grunted and slowly extracted the blade from the wall. He slashed across the grating with two swift strokes. Instantly, the central portion of the bars fell away.

Rosimar blinked in disbelief at what he had so effortlessly done. Jemidon gently touched the freshly cleaved surfaces and felt a polish as smooth as if they had been ground. While Rosimar stood staring at the sword in his hand, Benedict pushed him aside and scrambled for the opening. He ran across the storeroom and cautiously tried the heavy wooden door. It swung open easily. There was no sound from above. Apparently the keep was deserted. Everyone had gone to the harbor with the scentstones.

"I will not wait at the skiff," Benedict called back as he ran for the stairs. "I have gathered enough information to last me a goodly while."

"But the lattice," Jemidon said. "It will do no good unless we learn how to restore things to the way they were."

"I doubt that you can add to your theories without more hints from this Melizar." Rosimar climbed through the hole and headed after Benedict. "And he no doubt will be with Trocolar in the grotto. It is there that I am headed, to help Augusta before it is too late."

Jemidon hesitated for a moment and then scrambled after. As he ran past, he cast a last reluctant glance at the lattice.

A few minutes later, they were in the forest and running for the small boat that had brought them to the island.

"If this Melizar is in the grotto, we should head for the city instead," Benedict shouted as they reached the shore. "With what I know now, I see it is folly for the three of us to proceed unaided."

"The mercenaries will be in the grotto to preserve order for the final vote," Rosimar said, scrambling on board the skiff. "I will speak to them there. But with this blade, I will need little else. Benedict, you can row," he commanded as the divulgent sat down in the bow. "No wavering when it is time to press advantage. Direct to the grotto. The voting should soon begin, but I judge by the tide that there is still some time.

"And as for you," the magician continued, turning his attention to Jemidon, "not another step. You can stay here until Trocolar's men find you upon their return."

"Put away the sword," Jemidon said in annoyance, stepping forward. "We are all in this together, and I have contributed my share. Without my insistence, the blade would not have been made."

"Your proper share is not of importance," Rosimar snarled. "I have what I need, and that is enough. Back from the skiff, or we will see how well I can cut through soft flesh."

Jemidon hesitated and then lunged to the left. But Rosimar rapidly swung the sword in a flat arc to cut off the advance.

"Be off, I say," the magician ordered Benedict, and the divulgent pushed against the beach with the oars. The skiff bounded away on a receding wave, while Jemidon stood helplessly watching the retreat.

"I may change nothing," Rosimar called back, "but at least Augusta will know who tried at the last."