by Lyndon Hardy
"Rosimar!" Jemidon stopped. "Are the two of you still-"
"A child's entanglement, no more enduring than our own." Augusta laughed. She wiggled her shoulders for him to continue.
As simple as that, Jemidon thought as he resumed kneading. Rosimar was dismissed with a few words. And he and Augusta were chatting and sharing pleasures together as if they had never been apart-as if there had been no deep hurt, no searing wound that left him so disillusioned. He pushed his thumbs along her spine and arched her shoulders back, digging for the feelings of what had been.
The frustration, the despair, the helplessness had brought him to tears; he remembered them, yes, but now only as abstractions, mere labels for an event which marked his passage into manhood. The fire, the intensity, the overwhelming flood of emotion that had consumed his thoughts-those were hollow voices that spoke no more. And beneath them, the delicate whispers of his first love and the unfolding of his innermost self to share with another were trampled and torn gossamers hidden away in a box as strong as Benedict's. Could he dare to open it again, to hear the broken murmurs and try to make them whole? Jemidon flexed Augusta's shoulders in larger oscillations, watching her gown fall slack and then pull tight across her breasts. And yes, the passion-could that again be as sweet?
"You were going to tell me of your adventures." Augusta cut through Jemidon's reverie. "What made you decide to seek me out at last?"
Jemidon hesitated. He was on Pluton for a different reason entirely. Seeing Augusta was only a means to an end.
He wrenched his mind back to why he had come. "I need an assay, an assay so that I can barter with a divulgent. I had hoped that you might help me for less than others would charge."
Augusta stiffened. She abruptly stood and turned to face Jemidon. "So practical," she said. "Now, so practical and blunt. You have changed, my dreaming one, you have changed indeed." She looked at him intently. "No matter, do not apologize." She laughed. "My vanity has withstood stronger affronts. Besides, there is no reason to rush. I am in such a position now that I do not need to seize the first opportunity that presents itself."
"About your position," Jemidon said. "The vault in the grotto-what role do you play?"
"I am the vault," Augusta said. "Those who held it previously were foolish where I was wise. Or perhaps it was the luck in speculating in the exchanges. It does not matter. In the end, their choice was to surrender title to me or accompany the mercenaries and their contracting cube. It is not a bad result for one who once thought trailing the robe hem of a master magician would be enough."
"I saw the cube in the courtyard today," Jemidon said quietly. "For what sort of crime would something such as that be used?"
"For debt," Augusta replied. "For inability to pay. On Pluton, tokens and life are the same. Without one you cannot have the other."
"But why the obsession?" Jemidon asked. "On none of the other islands is there so much focus on one's wealth."
"Because here it truly can be measured. There are no ambiguities or changes other than those of your own making."
Jemidon frowned in puzzlement. Augusta smiled and reached for a small bag piled with many others on a cluttered desk. "It is because of the token," she said, flinging him the sack. "You were a neophyte in magic. You know the properties of something created by the craft."
Jemidon nodded as he reached into the pouch and extracted one of the gleaming disks. He held it in his palm and felt the strong tingling that coursed up his arm. Mirror-flat and unblemished by a single scratch, it vibrated with the magical forces that gave it life. The coin was a geometric perfection that would last forever, long after all around it had returned to dust.
"Yes, 'perfection is eternal.' " Augusta watched his eyes as he fondled the cold smoothness. "A token illustrates so well the Maxim of Persistence upon which all magic is based. At first the small guild on the island made them as curiosities, a training ritual for the initiates and nothing more. They were sold as souvenirs to the traders who stopped on their journeys across the sea.
"But the tingle is addictive. Gradually, as more and more people coveted them, the token's true value came to be realized. They are small, lightweight, indestructible, and impossible to counterfeit. The flutter in your palm is unmistakable. Once you have handled a token, nothing else can ever be mistaken for one. And since Pluton saw goods and moneys from many lands, tokens became the standard by which all else was measured. Even more reliable than gold, they are the medium of exchange. With them are balanced the transactions between Arcadia, Procolon, and the other kingdoms."
Jemidon replaced the coin in the sack and tossed it back on the desk. "Brandels or brass," he said, "it is all the same. The cutpurse or the marauder can take away in a trice what a lifetime has carefully built."
"And so it was on Pluton," Augusta agreed, "until the guilds again exercised their arts, building strongholds both large and small, impregnable havens for the coveted tokens that only a true owner could unlock. With a standard that was unimpeachable and a mechanism that made the possession of wealth secure, Pluton blossomed as a trading center. There is none like it anywhere on all the shores of the great sea."
"And the obsession?" Jemidon asked.
"As in any land, wealth is a measure of power." Augusta shrugged. "But, unlike elsewhere, on Pluton there is nothing else. The stacks of coins hidden away in the vaults are true treasures and forever secure. There is no force that can take that basis of power away. The measure of a man is the size of his assay, not the circumference of his bicep."
"And hence the price on everything?"
"And hence the price. We have no hereditary rulers in any of our guilds. All is decided by election, with each one's vote proportional to the tokens he has on account, even for the ruling council. In a few days we will determine who is to lead us for the next three years. And hence everyone strives to increase his assay by whatever means he can. Why, even information brings a fee; the divulgents scramble to accumulate wealth the same as anyone else. And for those already owning treasures, there are the gambles of the exchange by which they trade back and forth their riches."
"I need to find a trader who has come to Pluton," Jemidon said. "How much will it cost?"
"If you must know immediately, prepare to pay a full token," Augusta said. "All divulgents will profess already to know, but they must spend large sums to ferret out the facts."
"A full token," Jemidon repeated. "Why, I know that even a slave girl can be purchased for fifteen. My purse is not flat, but after I paid for my passage from Morgana, neither does it bulge. It would take me quite a while writing scholarly scrolls to amass the value equivalent to a full token."
"That is the rate, nonetheless," Augusta said. "They are skilled in their trade and will learn far quicker than you would yourself. But without a purse that gleams, then from the divulgents you will gain little."
"A full token." Jemidon repeated once more. "And that fee might be the first of many. Perhaps it would be quicker to take a chance with the exchanges."
Augusta paused in thought. She looked at Jemidon and slowly ran her tongue over her lips. Tilting her head to one side, she smiled and casually motioned him to sit again.
"No, Jemidon, not the exchanges or the slow drudgery of the scholar," she said softly. "I can better help you with your needs. The vault will offer you a token in exchange for-for a week's indenture to my service."
Jemidon frowned at the sudden change in her tone. "What tasks would I be called on to perform?"
"You would be an aide, a messenger, whatever I decide needs to be done," Augusta said. "For example, I wish an offer taken to Rosimar's guild. I know that he is close to perfecting a new ritual but does not have the resources to investigate the final steps. He will give a generous share to an investor who provides the wherewithal to see it finished."
"But why a token for a week's labor?" Jemidon asked. "The rate seems far too sweet."
"It is better than you will find anywhere else,"
Augusta agreed. "And as to why-" She shrugged and laughed again. "I spoke earlier of opportunity. It is an opportunity for us both. I now can afford to indulge in dreamers."
"I do not like the idea of the indenture. I have seen enough already of what the consequences could be."
"In one week you will have the means to locate this trader, and I will have ample chance to convince you perhaps to stay for another. If what you seek is so important, you must risk what you have, in any event. Do you not think it better with me than with some other?"
Jemidon scowled at the rush of ideas. His instincts told him to proceed slowly. His quest was to find Drandor, rescue Delia, and restore sorcery to what it was before. The robe of the master was what he sought-the riches and the power. But as he looked at Augusta's smile, he felt the confusion of his old longings. Her offer was attractive. On his own, could he proceed as quickly? And was not his striving because of her as well? Was it not to see the respect in her eyes, finally to be regarded as more than a comfortable dreamer with nimble fingers, and to savor her words when she apologized for the hurt? Jemidon puffed his cheeks and let out a sigh.
"Prepare the papers," he said at last. "And instruct me to the guild which is to receive this offer of your assets."
CHAPTER SEVEN
The Vault in the Grotto
JEMIDON returned to the drab building at the foot of the Street of Vaults. He was satisfied with what he had done. Augusta's offer had been readily accepted by the magician's guild, just as she had said. He was even invited back in four days to monitor the next steps in the experimental ritual. If eventually the whole sequence worked, then tokens could be produced at a fifth the traditional effort. Augusta's investment would be returned twofold. She could expect an additional ten tokens every month thereafter.
"On this evening's tide. Another day I will not wait," a heavy voice boomed from the back room. "And if you do not comply, I will tell the others that you cannot because they are gone."
"I only point out that the hour is already late and the level is rising," Augusta shouted back. "You speak of risk, but choose to ignore true threat for the insignificant."
Jemidon passed through the doorway and saw Augusta scowling at the heavy-set man slumped in the chair. His sagging jowls gave him a bulldog look that the fine tailoring of his cape and collars could not hide. With watery, pale eyes he returned Augusta's stare.
"Tonight," he repeated. "You can have an oarsman light the way. After all, I would have no such trouble with any other vault along the street."
"Any other along the street would charge three times the fee to hold your tokens secure," Augusta said. "Their precious magic boxes do not come cheap." She stopped and looked in Jemidon's direction. "My newly indentured servant," she said. "And this is Trocolar, elected leader of the tradesmen."
"After the next polling, leader of the council as well," Trocolar said. He ran his eyes up and down Jemidon's frame. "Stocky enough, but I doubt he would last more than a day at the oars. No, tokens are my concern, Augusta, not flesh of questionable value. My tokens are what I want, and I want them now."
Jemidon bristled at Trocolar's rude manner, but he said nothing. Instead, he watched Augusta for the key to how he should behave.
Augusta worked her lips for something more to say, but no words came. After a moment, she sighed and slapped her hands to her sides. "Then let us get to the skiff at once. Because of the hour, you will have to pay my rowers double as it is. And you should accompany us, Jemidon. One more will make the loading proceed quicker."
Trocolar stood with majestic slowness, his face drawn in a slight smile. With a perfunctory nod as she passed, he followed Augusta through the front room and out onto the street. Jemidon came last. In a silent single file, they made their way down the hillside to the harbor's edge.
Soon they were gliding across the water in a narrow boat. Oarsmen front and back propelled them toward the smaller of the two islands in the center off the bay, the one of gnarled rock that was seemingly devoid of life.
Jemidon watched the weather-beaten rock loom larger and larger with each stroke. The sun, low in the west, hid most of one side in soft shadow; but even so, he could distinguish the deeper blacks that marked the entrances to the caves. The boat headed unerringly for one opening larger than the rest. Like the mouth of a large serpent, it opened directly on the water, sucking in each lapping wave and expelling it with the next breath.
The oarsmen maneuvered the boat into the entrance and paddled into the dark tunnel. The oars were secured. In an eerie quietness, the skiff coasted forward on the still water.
A long moment passed, and then they halted with a gentle bump. Jemidon heard a fumbling in the bow, the scrape of flint on steel, and finally a gentle whoosh as an oil cresset chiseled into the rock sprang to life. He saw their way barred by a heavy iron grating that protruded from the ceiling above and disappeared into the dark water. Augusta placed her palm on a small box next to the burning light; after it opened, she extracted a large brass key.
"You see, there is magic protecting the vault that resides in the grotto," she said as she worked the lock on the grating. "But only what is necessary to complete the security. For the large containers, we never had to pay."
"Holgon, my magician, would not be impressed by such items," Trocolar said. "And guarding a single entrance does not guarantee that others do not exist."
"Yet you have seen fit to leave a considerable treasure here," Augusta said. She motioned to the oarsmen. The one in front grabbed the protruding handle of a bolt and pulled it free. The other tugged at a circular chain draped nearby. With a rusty creaking, the grating slowly began to rise.
"A considerable treasure," she continued. "And none of your reasons for withdrawal carry much persuasion."
Trocolar grunted, but did not answer. Instead, he pointed to the red horizontal line painted on the wall.
"Yes." Augusta nodded. "In less than an hour, the tide will be too high. I warned you before we came. All your tokens will not save us if we are caught in the passage between the two pools."
The grating clanged against its upper stops. The two oarsmen rushed to get the skiff back into motion, while Augusta lighted a torch from the cresset. In its flickering light, Jemidon and the others glided deeper into the cave.
Immediately behind the grating, the ceiling and walls receded from view. As if traveling on calm seas under a starless night sky, the small boat slid through the water. Jemidon breathed still and fungal air, the only clue to his true surroundings. He tried to pierce the gloom, but saw nothing to aid in orientation. The rhythmic splash of the paddles wove complicated patterns with the rustle of Augusta's smoking flame. No one spoke. The feeling was oppressive.
After several minutes, the pace of the paddling quickened. Jemidon sensed the tenseness in the oarsman behind. He looked around and saw the walls again coming into view. Like a crumpled funnel, they converged on the skiff, defining a narrow passage where there had been none before.
Jemidon watched the undulating surfaces resolve into distinguishable textures, dry swaths with large crystals of pegmatite, glistening walls of fine-grained granite, areas of gas-smoothed slickness, and jagged fissures that trickled with rainwater seeping from above. Closer and closer converged the walls. Jemidon felt himself breathe deeply to stave off the instinctive fear of confinement. A boat length away and then barely two arm lengths apart, the rock pushed in from either side.
Augusta lowered her torch. Jemidon looked ahead to see the ceiling crushing inward like the walls. The oarsman in front ducked to the side to avoid a low-hanging projection, and it whizzed past Jemidon's ear. Augusta set the base of the torch on the keelboard and experimented with huddling low at its side.
"We probably will have to extinguish our light on the way back," she said. "There will be just enough clearance for the skiff itself to squeeze by."
"How high does the tide rise?" Jemidon asked.
"Above the ceiling at the narrowest point,
" Augusta answered. "The vault is shaped like a carnival man's barbell, with this passage the only connection between two large chambers on either end. And for most of the day, the inner chamber is completely sealed off. There is no way to get through. Only at lowest tides, when the water level is under the red line, can one attempt a passage. And even then, the margin of safety is none too great." Jemidon copied the others, hunching over and then squirming even lower when a sharp outcrop skittered across the top of his head. He heard the rower behind give up trying to paddle the water. Instead, the oar was pushed against the side of the passage to propel them along. The skiff scraped and splintered against one wall and then bounced off to rub along the other. Jemidon felt the unyielding rock press him still lower and then heard a sickening grating as both sides of the boat caught at once. For a second they stopped, jammed against the walls, but the oarsmen rocked back and forth, and the inflowing tide pushed them free.
Jemidon tensed, waiting for the next constriction, but he felt instead the pressure on his back gradually lessen and then abruptly fall away. He watched Augusta stretch and extend the torch as she had done before. Once again, the walls receded to provide an easy passage.
"We are in the inner chamber," Augusta said. "And now to the vault itself. It is a small, separate cavity that took some fifteen years to suck dry, even with pumps of magic. The ledge above it does not provide enough space for the treasures."
As she pointed out the direction, the skiff sailed across the bowl of water. When they reached the wall, one oarsman secured the boat to some iron rings. The second rower sprang onto a rope ladder suspended from above. Jemidon and the others followed. In a moment, they climbed onto a wide ledge twice the height of a man above the level of the water. Augusta's torch lighted several cressets, and Jemidon blinked at the sudden increase in light.
The shelf cut back into the overhanging rock for a sizable distance, creating a pocket far larger than the size of Augusta's rooms back on shore. Sand and planking made the irregular floor more or less level. A single table supported heavy ledgers, and a collection of scrolls was crammed into the cracks and crevices in the walls. Blooms of mold followed the trickle of water down the sloping surfaces, and Jemidon saw splotches of growth peppering the more exposed parchments. Billowed soot covered one portion of the low-hanging roof where a fire evidently had been tried long ago. Charred stumps mingled with small bones and discarded refuse on the floor. Two spots of blackness led off further into the interior, A heavy cauldron lid covered a jagged hole in the rear from which dank smells rose to taint the air.
