Secret Of The Sixth Magic m-2

by Lyndon Hardy

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

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

  Jemidon's foot hit bottom, splashing in a small, stagnant pool. A glow of imp light caught his attention on the right. From bottles fastened to a semicircular wall, the dim, blue glow bathed lumbering complexes of wheels and levers that pushed water up a tube and out of sight. Behind them was an array of chests, neatly ordered in precise rows and columns into a great square. Splashes of soft greens and yellows covered the tops and side plankings. Long tendrils of oozing growth stretched to the wet and rocky floor. The far walls could barely be seen. The volume was larger than the hold of Arcadia's biggest grainship. Jemidon calculated how much he had climbed and descended as he made room for the others following. Yes, bigger than a galleon's hold and three man heights beneath the level of the sea.

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

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

  "Nonetheless, mine will be gone," Trocolar said. Jemidon saw the trader's eyes glisten as a chest lid was flung back and the subtle glow of the tokens added to the imp light. Trocolar turned to Augusta and pulled his jowls into a slight smile.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Jemidon blinked at the sudden tension hiding behind the precisely enunciated words. Evidently Rosimar's feelings for Augusta were still strong. The magician might yet prove to be competition, if he were to succeed with his ritual. Jemidon grimaced as he tried to sort out his thoughts. Augusta and Rosimar. Did that really matter? What of Delia, who still had to be freed? He felt guilty that the image of her golden curls, the sound of her voice, the sense of her brave spirit, all were fading next to the sharpness of Augusta's presence. In the end, which did he want? It was a tangle he could not resolve. Better for now, he decided, to keep the conversation on safer ground.

  "Augusta has mentioned that this time the polling will be in the grotto," Jemidon said. "On the ledge above the vault. Why not have it instead in some neutral place?"

  "No place is neutral on Pluton," Rosimar said. "Each is owned by someone who charges for its use. By tradition, the site is rotated among the leading factions, those strong enough to ensure there is no interruption while the counting is going on."

  The magician looked off into the distance for a moment and then shook his head rapidly from side to side. Exhaling deeply, he turned to direct two initiates entering the ceremonium, tugging at the end of a large, woven hose, "Attach it to the flute at the left," he said. "The rest are already connected to the bellows in the outer chamber."

  Jemidon watched the initiates screw tight the flange that bound the hose to the large, hollowed log running by his feet. The whole end of the room was crowded with giant caricatures of musical instruments, triangles thrice the height of a man, harps with strings like hawsers, and double reeds as thick as tabletops. From each device that was powered by air snaked a hose through a doorway lo the rear.

  "It is a matter of scale." Rosimar followed Jemidon's gaze. "The casual travelers think that the magic guilds must be the focus of Pluton's power, because from them come the tokens upon which all else is based. But they do not know the number of steps it takes to make even a single perfect disk, an intricate ritual requiring months and consuming exotic ingredients besides. And with the competition from all who know the secret, and the many mouths to feed between the steps, the profit is small, barely enough to make the whole effort worthwhile. When considered from the standpoint of outlay and return, the boxes and vaults are far more efficient in producing wealth. It is better to receive tokens already made than to struggle to form more with the painstaking steps of our art."

  "And yet you experiment with the giant apparatus here," Jemidon said, "and have taken Augusta's writ to buy all these hoses, saws, and weapons of war."

  "It is a matter of scale, as I have said," Rosimar repeated. "Why labor to produce a single disk when hundreds can be made with the same steps? Why gong a petite triangle to fill a small volume with sound when the entire hall can resonate from one hundreds of times as large? Instead of cutting each sheet of steel into strips a careful stroke at a time, we will attempt to cleave many at once by firing the plate at the whirling saws and playing the music at a tempo to keep in step.

  "The grinding will be done by the big wheels rather than by hand-held files. And all the rest has been proved. If today the cleaving can be made to proceed in concert with what the ritual demands for perfection, then the entire process will work, without a doubt."

  Jemidon looked down at the whirling row of saw blades and back at the ballista, as the neophytes lined up the sheet of gleaming steel in the carriage that would hurl it forward. "And yet the scale and weights are normal-sized."

  "They control the timing," Rosimar explained. "Now the scale is perfectly balanced with seven weights on either side. When one is removed from the left, the right pan swings to the ground and signals the ritual to start. After the triangle sounds, two are removed from the right, and the scale will move in the opposite direction to pace the next step. Alternately, the balance pans will be unloaded. The rigor of the ritual demands it to be so. And when the last is removed and the scale returns to level, the ballista will be fired. The plate will be ripped into nine strips, each one ready to be stamped with the outline of a row of disks."

  Rosimar looked around the ceremonium and smiled. "In fact, all is in readiness, and we will soon know the result. You there, Grogan, I want you to remove the weights while I and the other masters attend to the bellows in the antechamber."

  The neophyte sprang to his feet and clutched his hands together. "Not me, master," he said. "The whirling blades and creaking wheels give me a fright. My ears ached last night when the flutes were sounded in the seventh step."

  "Your hand is steady," Rosimar said. "It is an opportunity to show what you have learned while all the masters are watching."

  The neophyte extended his hands palms upward. Rosimar scowled at the blur they made with their shaking. "Crandel, then," he said. "You probably can do it as well."

  The second neophyte did not respond. Together, the two of them raced from the hall without looking back.

  "A moment." Rosimar's scowl deepened. "They are young and the task is unexpected. I will have to go to the head master and get permission to use one of the initiates. And if it is not granted, then we will have to wait until tomorrow."

  "But if the process is proven, can we have new tokens today?" Jemidon asked.

  "Within the hour," Rosimar said. "We could use
the very strips produced by the test."

  "I was a neophyte at the inland guild," Jemidon said. "You remember that. I would rather not delay. Tell me what I should do."

  Rosimar looked out through the isinglass to the bay. "I remember your skill, Jemidon," he remarked. "I remember it all too well."

  "I was much younger many years ago," Jemidon said. "And here I have no stake in trying to impress a master." Rosimar looked at the still swinging doors through which the neophytes had run. "Oh, very well," he said. "The task is simple enough. Just remove the weights in the sequence I have indicated. Make each step clean and sure. Watch for my signal. When all else is ready, I will indicate when to begin."

  Without saying more, Rosimar hurried out the doorway. Jemidon watched his departure for a moment and then turned to study the scale more intently. Besides the two pans, each carrying the ornate metal cylinders, he could see an array of springs and switches clustered around the balance arm. From them, ropes, pipes, and pulleys led to other apparatus in the ceremonium. He looked back at Rosimar and saw the magician wave his arm to begin.

  A hush fell onto the big hall. All of the other activity had ceased, except for the whirl of the saws. Jemidon was alone to set the ritual into motion. He took a step toward the scale, extending his arm to grab a weight from the top of the stack.