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

CHAPTER TEN
Fleeting Treasure

JEMIDON watched the boat bob away and pounded his fist into his palm. It just wasn't fair. If Rosimar succeeded, he would garner all the accolades, and none would be left. Rosimar would be the one who restored the vanished crafts. The power, respect, and riches would all fall to him. Jemidon's own quest would be over; there would be nothing left with which to claim a robe.

Besides, how would Rosimar proceed, once he gained access to the inner chamber of the grotto and climbed onto the ledge above the vault? Probably by whirling the sword over his head like some hero from the sagas and challenging any man to take Augusta from his side. There would be no careful confrontation with Melizar, no appeal to the confused voters to turn away from the stones. The magician was likely as not to fail. And if he did, the arts would remain lost. Trocolar would win the election, and all of Augusta's assets, including Jemidon, would default to him.

Jemidon kicked at some driftwood washed up on the beach. Somehow he must also get to the grotto and be part of the final confrontation, no matter which way it went. Success for Rosimar or a failure-neither augered well, but Jemidon could not wait on the periphery for the result. Even without a clever scheme, he had to pursue his destiny.

He stopped his gestures of frustration and made up his mind. He ran back to the deserted structure and down into the dungeon. Hastily, he grabbed one of the tarpaulins, the rope on the floor, and a halberd and sword. He staggered up the stairs and back outside with the load, dropping it onto the beach. With only the halberd, he sprinted into the forest and began to fell the smallest trees he could find.

Two hours later, he shoved a makeshift raft into the waves and hoisted the tarpaulin on a mast barely as high as his head. Strapped precariously on board were three of the remaining sacks of raw scentstones. Perhaps, if everyone could see what they truly were, the spell could be broken. Paddling with a stubby log, he cleared the island and set a course for the grotto.

Low tide had already been reached, and the water level was on the way up when Jemidon maneuvered into the opening from the sea. He struck his sail and released the guy ropes that held the mast in place, letting the log topple over the side. The portcullis was drawn up and the wall cresset danced with flame.

He cut a square from the tarpaulin, wrapped it around a small branch, and dipped it into the burning oil. Resuming his paddling, he headed for the narrow opening that separated the two large chambers.

His raft was narrow, and he navigated the tunnel with ease. Emerging from the other side, he saw the ledge on the far wa.ll ablaze with light. Dozens of torches cut through the blackness from the opening in the rock. Others bobbed from the flotilla of small boats anchored below, many with oarsmen waiting in them. As Jemidon drew closer, he could see the cut in the cliff jammed with people to the very edge, shirts of mail, embroidered robes, and flowing capes crowding together shoulder to shoulder. The slurred mixture of many excited voices radiated out into the vast-ness of the cavern and echoed faintly from the other walls.

"Take me above," he ordered one of the oarsmen when his raft finally bumped against the cliff. "There is much that I wish to relate." Cautiously he reached for his sword and swung it upward.

"Watch out, it may be a blade like the other." An oarsman stepping from one skiff to the next suddenly stopped.

Jemidon smiled at the rower's words. In his haste, he had not thought about how to get everyone's attention. But perhaps Rosimar's interruption would give him the means. "Fetch these sacks of stone," he replied quickly before any of the others could think. "And watch your backsides. Like that of Rosimar's above, this broadsword slices through mail as if it were gossamer."

The oarsman closest to him jumped, to the side, and Jemidon boldly stepped forward, waving his sword. "The sacks to the landing," he said. "Make haste before my patience is tried. You will be easy targets if you flee."

The oarsmen nodded and cautiously came forward to pick up the bags Jemidon indicated. With repeated glances over their shoulders, they preceded him up the rope ladder to the landing.

"Make room, make room," the rower in front directed as they reached the top. "Another of the devil shafts. Move aside so that he can pass."

A space opened up along one wall, and Jemidon crowded by. In the rear of the cavern, next to the hole that led down to the vault, he saw Rosimar standing with his back to the downward-sloping rock and waving the magic sword in jerky arcs. Benedict huddled to one side, his arms intertwined around his chest and his teeth working furiously on his lower lip. On the other side of the magician was Augusta. Her eyes darted back and forth over the group thai surrounded them in a wide semicircle. Some stood with swords drawn, and others waved at the men-at-arms, encouraging them forward. Behind the front row stood Trocolar and other influential voters. Meltzar and Holgon conferred in soft tones near one of the other openings that led further into the interior. At Rosimar's feet, two bodies were piled, one missing a hand and the second the side of his face.

"You are no swordsman, magician, and eventually you must tire," the red-surcoated man Jemidon had seen in the exchange with the shrinking cube called out. The constable's eyes flicked over to Jemidon and then back to the magician. "And even with three of you, you cannot manage to descend the rope to the boats and guard at the same time. Drop the broadsword, Rosimar, and save us all unnecessary grief."

"I am no part of this," Benedict whimpered. "He forced me to row into the grotto against my will. I am a captive, no more free than the rest of you."

"Silence, divulgent." Rosimar gasped for air and waved the sword threateningly to the side. His face glistened with wetness and his eyes had a wild and panicked look. "As for you and your men, constable Nimrod, if I do tire, which of you will rush forward first to engage the cutting edge?"

"Nimrod, do your duty," Trocolar said. "That I will be the winner when this interruption is over there can be little doubt. And the bonuses that I would be inclined to bestow for the previous year's service will be greatly influenced by your actions here and now."

"You have not yet won, Trocolar," someone shouted from the crowd. "The final tally is still to be summed."

"I know very well the number of scentstones that have been sold from my stock these last few days," Trocolar turned and called back. "I have had my clerks keep careful count. Even if every one of you decided on someone else, the total would be less than what I have held for my own. You see the sum that shows for me already on the slate. Now it is just a formality, and we are done."

"But it is unfair," the voice persisted, and several others joined in the chorus. "Forget about the madman. The important thing is how we consider the stones. Of them I have none. My ship docked after the price had become too dear. I possess only a cargo of leather leggings from the mainland and some curious flexible pipes from the southern kingdoms across the sea. I have brought samples of each for assay. The entire lot would have fetched fifty tokens. Surely they still have value against something else."

The hubbub of dissent rose in volume, but Trocolar waved his arms for silence. "We have insufficient time, Luthor. Insufficient time to bicker the proper balance for each commodity. We would be here from one election to the next, trying to redetermine the relative merit of each. But nearly everyone has some stones. I have released enough to make sure of that. In point of fact, they are the new foundation by which all else is judged." The trader paused and looked toward Augusta. "If you have none to assay, then the logic admits of no alternative, Luthor. Your vote is null. Just thank the random factors that you are not a debtor as well."

"Rosimar, the stones," Jemidon interrupted. "Did you explain how they came to be?"

Rosimar turned in Jemidon's direction and his eyes widened. "An impostor," he wheezed, wiping his forehead with his free hand. "I have the sword of power. I have the only one. Take him away. His fate is no concern of mine."

"Stand back," Jemidon replied quickly. "You have no need to put it to the test. Just listen for a moment. What I have to say concerns you all."

"Attack, Nimrod. Do your duty," Trocolar said. "Secure these malcontents before there are any more."

"Do not listen," Rosimar shouted as he moved out from the wall and flailed his weapon through the air. "I am the one who is rescuing the lady. It is me to whom she will belong. I am the master who has forged the sword. He had not enough time. The one he holds can be only common steel and no more."

The men-at-arms at Jemidon's side looked at Rosimar, then to the scowling face of his constable, and finally back to Jemidon. He hesitated a moment, but then drew his own blade partway from its scabbard.

"Back, I say!" Jemidon moved to the wall and held his sword menacingly outward. "I have no quarrel with you. I want only the freedom to have my say."

"Impostor, impostor!" Rosimar shrieked. "If it possesses true magic, have him show what it can do." With a sudden rush, he whirled to the wall and sliced off a knob of rock as if he were cutting cheese. The outcrop crashed to the ground, and the magician attacked it with a two-handed grip, thrashing the stone to jagged slivers and crumbling slices.

"And yours," Nimrod called out quickly. "Indeed we have not seen you cut nearly so deep."

"I did not come for petty display-" Jemidon began, but his hesitation was enough. The man on his left completed his draw and pushed to attack. Jemidon danced to the side to avoid the downthrust, looking quickly about for something he could use as a shield. He jabbed to his right and the guard there gave ground, not yet sure of the potency of what he faced.

Jemidon slid along the wall, kicked a stool out of the way, and vaulted a small table at its side. A low slash nicked his calf as he flew past. When he landed, his leg buckled in pain. Down on one knee, he looked frantically about and saw that the men-at-arms still gave Rosimar a wide berth. With one leg dragging on the ground, he scrambled toward the magician. If there was an opportunity to grab the magic sword, he would have the means to make them listen.

As Jemidon slowly approached, Rosimar turned and raised the blade up over his head. But when they closed, Benedict bolted from behind Rosimar's back and tumbled over a stack of scrolls to Nimrod's side. "It is the amount of space!" the divulgent shrieked. "The magician can barely cope as it is. Confine him! Restrict him! It is the only weakness, as long as he wields the weapon!"

Nimrod frowned in puzzlement, but Benedict did not wait. "It is information," he said while he ripped off his robe and thrust it into the constable's hands. "Use it. There will be no fee."

Nimrod nodded. While Rosimar tensed for Jemidon to come another foot closer, Nimrod circled behind the magician and flung the robe over the magician's head. Where the material touched the blade, it immediately parted; but enough fell on Rosimar's face to prevent him from seeing. Dropping the sword, he grabbed for the robe with both hands. "Air!" he shouted suddenly. "Air! Give me room. Let me out. I must have more air so that I can breathe."

The sword spun to the ground point first. Silently it slid into the stone halfway to the hilt. Jemidon shuffled forward as Nimrod wrapped his arms around Rosimar and hurled the magician to the ground. The constable quickly disengaged and prepared to lunge for the weapon, but Jemidon waved him away with the tip of his own blade. Then, grasping the guard awkwardly with his left hand, he strained to pull the magic sword from the ground.

The grip was hot; stabs of pain coursed through his palm. Jemidon flinched in surprise but determinedly tightened his fingers, ignoring the biting teeth that seemed to gnaw through his flesh.

He tugged gently and then with greater force, but the sword did not budge. He saw a flick of motion out of the corner of his eye and moved aside, just in time to avoid a thrust from two men-at-arms who converged from the right. Positioning his back toward the wall, he swung his blade in a wide arc to keep all hands away from the sword in the stone. As he saw the guardsmen pause, he decided what he must try. With a blurring motion, he dropped his own blade and placed both hands around the broadsword's grip. Rising from his knees and using all the strength in his back, he strained to pull it free.

But again the sword did not move. Except for a slight quiver of the hilt in response to Jemidon's tugs, it remained frozen in the rock. In desperation, Jemidon jerked to both sides and tried to twist the shaft. For a moment, the men-at-arms stood motionless while he struggled, but at last they saw he would remain unarmed and converged from all sides.

"No!" Jemidon heard Augusta shout from his rear. He turned just in time to see the stool she held descend toward his head. In an explosion of light, he fell forward, his grip on the magic broadsword sliding away.

The scene blurred as if it were viewed through cloudy water. A ringing persisted in Jemidon's ears. His calf throbbed with a dull pain, and his arms were bound tightly behind his back. He was propped against a wall, and Augusta huddled at his side. Near her feet, Rosimar twitched in his bonds and stared vacantly into space.

Nimrod now sat at the small table in the rear of the chamber. Solemnly, he examined the outstretched palm offered by the first in a queue which ran along the wall to the right. Behind his chair stood the cloaked form of Melizar, and next to him, holding the magic sword gingerly at arm's length, was another man-at-arms. In the center of the first row of the encircling throng, Trocolar stroked the bulge of his stomach with a jeweled hand.

"Eight small stones and one twice the size," Nimrod boomed over the buzzing all around. "An equivalent of ten altogether. Very well, Cumbrist, how do you vote?"

"For the head of the council, it cannot matter." Cumbrist looked up at the chalked totals on the slates erected behind the table. "But for the record, let is show that I add my support to the expert trader."

"Trocolar is right," another voice rang out. "There are barely a dozen of us left. And the common street hawkers have less than anyone here. We waste our time for the sake of tradition. Let us declare the trader the leader by acclamation and be done. It is in all our best interests to return to the shoreline quickly to protect what remains from the looters."

Jemidon saw Trocolar smile and bow slightly to the speaker. "I am pleased that others also see the practicalities of the moment. If now no one objects, I am ready to assume the responsibility of restoring order and issue my first edicts."

The murmuring stopped. Everyone present looked to his neighbor to see what he would say. For a full minute, no one spoke, and then Trocoiar strode deliberately to the rear of the cavern where Rosimar had made his stand.

"Constable Nimrod, you are now mine to command," the trader said. "No one voices dissent. And my first instruction is for you to seize the vaultholder Augusta and transfer her writ of personal ownership to me. Her and her remaining assets. She is a debtor, and as senior lien holder, I have first rights to do with her what I will."

"It is the rule for the surrender of the body to come after transfer of the other assets has been duly recorded," Nimrod said. "Three days' grace is given to settle one's personal affairs. That has been the custom for many years."

"My first instruction," Trocoiar repeated. "Carry it out quickly, or a reprimand will be the second."

"Our charter is to enforce an equitable peace." Nimrod's tone hardened. "Not to serve as the instrument for some private intrigue." He waved at Jemidon and Rosimar. "It is for the likes of these that we administer swift justice. The fate of the vaultholder should follow the due course of law."

"The intruders concern me less." Trocoiar said. "They strove to disrupt the orderly transition of power. Every faction here supports the retribution that is its due. All would help to heat the shears and turn the cranks. But Augusta's crime might go unpunished, were I not to exercise my responsibility as leader."

"Some inner desire warps your reason." Nimrod scowled. "The danger of the day is from the two who are bound. Indeed, it is well that the younger was somehow unable to remove the sword from the rocky floor before he was felled. He was no stiff-armed magician. With the blade in his hand, it is uncertain what the outcome would have been."

Jemidon frowned and tried to reason through the implications of what was being said, but his thoughts were slowed. He had been unable to budge the sword, even though he had strained with all his might. Yet now the constable held it free and clear of surrounding rock. Had it lost its magic while he was unaware, or had something else prevented him from wielding it?

"As you say, they are bound." Trocolar paid no attention to Jemidon's puzzlement. "But as yet the vaultholder is not. Seize-"

"Your petty vendettas can be no more than second priority, Trocolar," Melizar suddenly interrupted. "Foremost, you must honor the terms of our agreement that made your victory possible. You now lead the council. My skills put you there. In payment, you are to provide me a year's service of your constabulary to follow my instructions and not your own."

Trocolar scowled. He turned to face Melizar's shadowy hood. "There are riots in the streets," he said. "Warehouses are being plundered. Already two passing ships have refused to anchor. When we made our bargain, you did not hint at the turmoil that would result. As elected leader, I also have the responsibility to see that order is restored."

''Assemble and train a new cadre of warriors," Melizar said. "My need now is greater. The unrest in the wheat fields may not last beyond the season."

"I did not think that your scheme had any merit." Trocolar shook his head. "It appeared a risk-free means of securing five hundred tokens with which to augment my vote. I had no intention of surrendering such a central element of power after I had won."

"Nevertheless, I provided the skills without which you could not have been guaranteed victory," Melizar replied. "We have an agreement. I have honored my part. You must do the same."

"And I had the clerks, the distribution, and the strategic locations for the glamours," Trocolar snapped back. "I exploited the use of your wares as I would any other's. The triumph is of my own making. No other credit is due."

Trocolar paused for breath and then smiled. "You speak of agreements to honor, but what have you truly offered in good faith? Worthless disks of metal, five hundred circles of dull steel. And the stones-they have value of their own creation. Intrinsic worth because demand exceeds the supply, independent of the rituals in the confines of my estate. You have given me nothing, Melizar, and expect a largesse in return." Trocolar licked his lips as if he were savoring the taste of his words. "Nimrod, escort him away," he said. "I hold no writ of indebtedness, but this cold one would be well advised to make Pluton no longer a port of call."

"Another lackey's task," Nimrod mumbled. "Will sweeping the dungeon floor be next?"

"It is the fee that binds you to the island, is it not?" Melizar pushed a slender hand palm outward from his cloak as Nimrod hesitated. The dance of imps above Melizar's head quickened. Their glow of light throbbed from dull red to energetic yellow. "Do you hold the concept of honor the same as your new master?"

"My troop has fulfilled its contract faithfully for over four decades," Nimrod said, "through the tenure of more than a dozen councils. And we expect ample bonuses with our recompense for the year just past, as we have been rewarded many times before."

"For the year past." Jemidon heard Melizar's voice quicken slightly. "Fees rendered after the service is done, rather than before! What perverse logic you use to conduct your affairs! Had I but known, I would not have even bothered with this Trocolar. Name your price for the year to come, warrior, and it shall be yours."

"There is the matter of custom and tradition," Nimrod said. "We have been treated well." He paused to turn a scowl at Trocolar. "Heretofore the leader of the council has been able to judge between private interest and public need."

"Nimrod, to your duty," Trocolar commanded. "Use the sword you pulled from the rock, if you must. It is the cold one's own folly if he does not move aside when you thrust."

"Then is it the sword that gives you such presumption, trader?" Melizar asked. "Without it, how would you regard the bargain then?"

"Indeed, with the sword and the scentstones, I need little more." Trocolar laughed. "I have enough to handle easily a simple peddler with a few tricks such as yours."

"Swords and scentstones." Melizar's own voice lowered until Jemidon could barely hear. "You compare them with the resources of a pilot?" He whirled and motioned to Holgon, who was still standing near the cavern wall. "Forward, magician. Perform the ritual as you have been instructed."

"But that was before the sword was captured and Trocolar's election completed. He is my master, and now I do not see the need."

"The ritual," Melizar repeated. "Think. Where should your allegiances truly be? With a petty island trader without honor or with one who can show you secrets that none of your kind has ever dreamed?"

Holgon looked at Trocolar and then to Meuzar. He stepped backward until he touched the rough wall. He glanced at the wooden box at his feet and shrugged. Stooping down, he dragged the crate to the middle of the floor.

"I will allow no more of your strange games," Trocolar said. "And as for you, Holgon, remember that you are still in my debt."

"If you have so much power, then why do you fear the simplest of your children's toys?" Melizar asked. "Show him, Holgon. The scentstones are one and the sword is the second. From the container, you must bring three."

Holgon grunted and produced a smaller box from the first. With a flourish he removed the lid.

"Dominoes!" Nimrod snorted. "Agame with which my men sometimes wager their rations."

"Here the use is even simpler," Melizar said. "A quaint practice of no utility, but somehow of amusement to your smaller minds. The next is a simple rat trap-and after that, the bladder of a pig."

While Melizar spoke, Holgon quickly stood the dominoes in a row, one after the next. He cocked the trap so it was triggered when the last domino fell, then bound a pin to the metal loop that was flipped shut by the spring.

"Finally the bladder," Melizar directed. "Inflate it quickly and place it so that it will intercept the sharp point as it flies upward."

"Enough, enough!" Trocolar said. "Scoop up this refuse and be away."

"In a moment, it will be done," Melizar said in his soft voice. It projected no strain and only a hint of the need for speed. He drew into a tight ball and huddled to the floor. "The nexus can be no stronger," he said, "and the contradiction is easy enough to make."

Jemidon struggled erect to see better what was happening, but his vision suddenly swam when he moved his head. A wave of disorientation swept over him as he collapsed weakly back to the floor, He closed his eyes to steady himself, but the feeling cut deep, down to his core. It was more than a loss of physical balance; his whole being was adrift. The sensation was like what he had felt when Holgon performed his ritual with the dove, but with much greater intensity. Trivial facts, flashes of memory, subtle concepts, intuitive insights, and all his thoughts mixed in a jumble. There was no framework to sort one from the next. Childhood delights blended with logical deductions. Intense passions blurred slender shafts of subtle reason. Simple hunger engulfed algorithms that solved complex puzzles. In a swirling sea of abstractions, he floated away from a sharp focus.

"Rest, Jemidon. Do not give them cause." A gentle touch ran across his forehead.

Looking up through glazed eyes, Jemidon saw Augusta kneeling beside him.

"I am sorry for the blow," she said, "but I did not know what else to do. Surely if you resisted further, you would have been slain."

"But the election," Jemidon managed to say. "Without an explanation, it is all over. Trocolar has won. Our fate has only been postponed while his attention is elsewhere."

"I said I am sorry," Augusta repeated. "But forgive me the one last weakness in wanting to have someone at my side when the trader finally forces his way."

"And thus it is done." Melizar's voice cut through the ringing in Jemidon's ears. "The domino, Holgon. With the softest touch you can manage."

Through the haze, Jemidon saw Melizar return to standing. He watched the magician strike the first wooden block in line. One after another, the rest tumbled in order across the rough floor. The last hit the trigger on the trap, flipping it into the air and hurling the pin into the inflated bladder, which exploded with a loud pop.

"And now you will be gone," Trocolar said when the action had stopped.

"Two more simple demonstrations," Melizar insisted, waving off the man-at-arms who moved forward to grab his shoulder. He huddled a second time for a brief moment and then rose again with majestic slowness. "Two more and then I will depart."

Jemidon breathed deeply. He had to regain control. With determination, he held himself perfectly still and concentrated on Holgon's apparatus. Item by item, he willed that he should see. For a long moment, nothing happened; but then, gradually, the swirl started to subside. Dominoes became distinct in the blur, then the sprung trap. Finally the entire cavern returned to focus. The pain in his calf sorted itself from the rest as the disorientation ebbed away. His thoughts resumed their order and wispy phantoms disappeared.

"Holgon, clap your hands in the rhythm of the Adagio for Perpetual Lights, but as softly as you can muster." Melizar's voice cut through Jemidon's concentration.

Holgon's face registered confusion, but the magician began to push his palms together, so that Jemidon could just barely recognize the familiar cadence of a neophyte's training. On the final stroke, the ground rumbled. A spout of water coursed up the hole that led to the vault. A great spray of cold and slimy wetness struck the fow ceiling and showered down on those nearby. The ground trembled slightly, and Jemidon thought he heard the grinding of great masses of rock.

"The vault! It's flooded! The weak walls have given way!" one of the men-at-arms shouted as he peered down the hole to see what had happened.

"And now the Stomp of the Forging Presses." Melizar did not pause. "And then a taste of other forms of power."

Holgon complied. Beginning with his third step, the ground shook, this time not in slight trembles, but in great jerks that tumbled Trocolar and those around him to the floor. The basin of water below the landing began to slosh. With creaks and groans, the moored boats crashed into one another.

"Stop them, Nimrod!" the trader shouted. "Stop them before they collapse this cavern as well!"

"The Maxim of Perturbations." Melizar's voice competed with the shriek of tearing rock. "With it my minions can shake the earth or skim carpets across the ground. And beyond that, there are other maxims as well. Those of perspective, of penetration, persuasion, and pomp. You speak of power, insignificant mite, but know not one hundredth of all it entails."

"The sword," Trocolar demanded. "Nimrod, use the sword."

The constable snapped shut his gaping mouth and sprang into action. He ripped the blade from the man who held it and slashed at Holgon's legs. The magician's support buckled, and he tumbled to the ground. With eyes wide in fear, he threw his hands across his face, awaiting the next blow.

But the rumbling instantly stopped, and Nimrod hesitated before continuing the attack. He grunted as he saw a crimson stain begin to glisten in the hem of Holgon's robe and turned his attention back to Melizar.

"Yes, the sword." Melizar stepped forward to meet his assailant. "The sword that once sliced through rock. Until a moment ago, it held great power. But now, did it really feel all that different from any other when you tried it on the magician's flesh?"

Nimrod paused in mid-strike and turned the blade aside. It plunged toward the ground at Melizar's feet. With a shriek, it skittered across the rough stone and suddenly snapped near the hilt.

"And the scentstones." Melizar glided to the three bags that Jemidon had brought to the grotto. "Holgon's stompings have done more than rearrange the structures of the caverns. See also what they have done to crystal impurities."

With a surprising grace, he dumped the sacks to the floor, one after another.

"Cloudy!" someone exclaimed as the stones poured over his feet. "Not even citrine or amethyst. Milky quartz and no more!"

"Look closely, Nimrod," Melizar continued over the din that arose as everyone present began to examine his own collection of stones. "It is with this simple rock that you will be paid for your labor and the past year. Who knows what it will be for the next? Come with me to the wheat fields of the mainland, and there will be plunder enough for all."

The wave of white pebbles spilling onto the floor acted like a catalyst. The voices competing with Melizar's rose in volume. First had come the shock of the ruined tokens and now of their glittering, worthless replacements-financial ruin twice within a week. Traders and vaultholders began to push between the men-at-arms to side with trusted comrades. Swords rattled with anger in their scabbards.

"The stones are nothing!" one of the men-at-arms shouted. "And I am in debt! I depended on my fee to settle free and clear."

"Then to the mainland with the cold one," the guard next to him said. "Enough of dull sentries and shrinking cubes."

"Trocolar is the one at fault," a trader cried. "Without his tampering, this election would have proceeded as all those before."

"To your positions," Nimrod ordered. "We have an obligation still to discharge."

"For what?" one of his men shouted back. "For ballast, good enough only to weight a ship's keel?"

"Divulgents, to your guildsmen. Protect one another until we are safely away."

"Trocolar is not a winner. His clouded gems can be worth no more than mine. Now is the opportunity, vaultholders! Seize the records. Once again, the island can be ours."

"Those for the mainland, to my side," Melizar said. "Do not let them dishonor you more."

"Death to the schemer!" Luthor pushed his way through the crowd and headed for Trocolar, waving a small dagger over his head.

Another trader crumpled as he was hit from behind. A torch went sailing overhead to crash into the throng. Someone screamed, and then one guardsman tried to prevent another from reaching Nimrod's side. In a moment, the scene swirled into a chaos of motion, flashing blades, and flowing blood. The shouts and cries of pain mingled with the echoes reverberating from the walls. Torches were ripped from their sconces. In growing dimness, fists, daggers, and swords flailed at whatever was closest at hand.

A richly robed merchant dropped at Jemidon's feet, clutching his stomach, with spurts of gore pulsing between his fingertips.

"His dagger!" Jemidon shouted. "Quickly, Augusta, cut my bonds so we can be away."

Augusta grabbed the blade just before another body fell. She severed Jemidon's bonds with quick slashes. In an instant, he was on his feet and testing his leg, "Into the passage." He pointed at one of the tunnels leading from the cavern. "On the way, you can tell me where it leads."

Limping as rapidly as he could, he pulled her into the opening and away from the fighting.

"It dead-ends after a twist a hundred paces farther along," Augusta said as Jemidon hobbled after. "There is no other way out, except back the way we came."

"A place of defense, then." Jemidon grimaced. "And time to tell me of what you saw happening through clearer eyes." He stopped a second and thought back over what he had seen. "From what Melizar had said, the sword still held power when I tried to withdraw it from the rock. And then, almost without effort, the laws have changed again. Another node in the lattice-and Melizar selected exactly which one it would be."