by Lyndon Hardy
"Check the others if you want," Jemidon said, "but, like the pumps, they pulse with magic no more."
"I do not know what you mean," Rosimar said. "Magic items last for eternity. They are perfect. There can be no other way."
"Augusta!" Jemidon ignored the puzzled tone. "Don't you see? She must be warned. Quickly, Rosimar, let us speed to her aid."
"But the pumps! And the rest of the tokens! Yes, we should carefully examine them all and see how many are bad."
"There will be no time," Jemidon insisted. "To the skiff. I will explain as we go."
Jemidon watched Rosimar disappear in the other direction through the waterfront crowd. He sensed that there was no time for further persuasion. Already shouts about worthless counterfeits rang from a stall down the way. The magician would be convinced soon enough, after he had tried some simple rituals with his guild. First sorcery and now magic had been struck down. Somehow the quest was more tightly entangled with Trocolar and Augusta than he had imagined.
Jemidon raced across the shoreline road and up onto the higher streets. He threaded his way though the adobes and past the iron and brick court where he had met Benedict. He breathed deeply as the slope steepened pushing harder to maintain his pace.
A flash of motion to the left caught his eye. A spicy odor filled his lungs. He looked to the side and saw a sheet of white linen stretched taut over a frame in front of a trader's stall. Painted on the cloth in lush reds and browns was a richly decorated leather sack. Small, translucent stones spilled out to sparkle in outstretched palms. No, it was not a painting, Jemidon decided as he stopped to look closer. The scene flickered. The hands seemed to move and clutch the pebbles in a sequence that repeated over and over.
Jemidon breathed the spicy aroma and felt a rush of pleasure fill his lungs. What did the sign say? Only two coppers for a small stone, three for a larger one. He blinked in surprise at the direction of his thoughts and turned back to the street. He had no time for such distraction. Too much of importance was at stake.
He ran some fifty paces and then saw another flickering sign on the right. It was a huge arrow in a cool blue, pointing in the opposite direction. As Jemidon watched, it grew even larger, from a short stub to an elongated shaft vibrating with energy and somehow promising excitement back down the path.
Jemidon sucked in his breath, reaching to savor the hint of spice thai still remained in the air. He took a reluctant step back toward the stall. Two others rushed past to join a line rapidly forming down the way. He shrugged and sprinted to jostle shoulders for a place.
Crammed stomach to back in a single file, Jemidon waited his turn, his mouth watering. With a hand damp with anticipation, he fumbled in his pouch to see what coins were there. Up in front, the flickering scene took on more and more animation. He saw the stones pour in a rushing stream from the sack, The hands clutched backward against a woman's thinly veiled chest. Pale eyes under silky, raven-black hair seemed to look directly at him. Pouting lips beckoned with promises of more delights to come.
When he reached the counter, Jemidon emptied his pouch. "As many as this will buy," he said. "I have no tokens, else I would take even more."
"Your metal is good," the man behind the partition said as he scooped the coins into a large sack. "Or even items in trade. Collecting tokens is not my master's desire. And you are fortunate. These are the first scentstones to go on sale."
Jemidon waved aside the words as a half-dozen small, smooth stones were placed in his outstretched hand. He spun around and shouldered his way back toward the street, carefully clasping his purchase. With a glimmer of recognition, he saw that the divulgent, Benedict, was in the queue, eagerly pressing forward with the rest. But Jemidon had no time for such irrelevancies now. He ran out onto the street and then into the first connecting passage on the right. Hands clutched together, he traced a zigzag path through the alleys and lanes of Pluton, making it impossible for any would-be thief to follow, searching for the perfect hiding place in which to examine his treasure.
Finally, almost an hour later, his energy spent, he ducked into a dim alleyway and pulled to a halt. He brought his fist to his face and cautiously cracked open his grip to savor again the encompassing euphoria. With the first whiff, his fingers relaxed. Slipping into a daze, he contemplated the pebbles in his palm.
"I must withdraw my vaultholdings!" a voice shouted behind his back. "The rumors grow more persistent, and I must make sure!"
Vaultholdings, Jemidon thought dimly as he inhaled. Augusta and the grotto. There is something that I should tell her, something about the-
Suddenly two merchants bumped past, knocking Jemidon to the wall and scattering the scentstones to the ground. A flash of anger burned away his inattention and he swung instinctively at a flowing robe as it raced by. He took one step after, but then halted and dropped to his knees. With a frantic pawing, he ran his hands over the rock-strewn path, searching for his treasure. A hint of purple translucence caught his eye and then a small sparkle of orange.
Hastily, he scooped up two stones and ran back onto the wider street. In the full glare of the sun, he opened his fist to verify that he had recovered what had been dropped. But as he looked in disbelief, he saw that he held only smoky quartz weakly tinted with color. A hint of cinnamon drifted upward. The exotic aroma was no more.
Jemidon scrambled back to the alleyway to search the ground more methodically, but after several minutes he found no pebbles more precious than the ones he held in his hand. He examined them again, but the compulsion was totally gone.
He shook his head at what he had done. He held common rock, inexpertly sprayed with a cheap scent. If they were more clear, the stones might pass for semiprecious citrine and amethyst, rare enough in the islands. But as they were, they should have been no more than an idle curiosity, not worth his time. What gave them such an allure? How could such commonplace trinkets evoke such a desire?
Another mystery! Jemidon grimaced in annoyance.
Enough! Developments were piling up too fast. Sorcery, magic, casting adrift, and now plain pebbles with an almost irresistible attraction that had vanished after an hour'. There was no time to think of it further. First he must help Augusta and secure his own freedom before investigating additional puzzles. He had spent all his money and had to depend upon her now. With determination, he thrust the stones away. Locking his eyes straight down the path, he ran the rest of the way to the street of the vaultholders.
When he arrived, he saw that the hint of something amiss had already begun to spread. Every office was busy with at least two or three customers. A long queue snaked out of one doorway and down the street. Ignoring the angry glances, he pushed his way through the gathering crowd and into Augusta's anteroom.
"I am not making a formal withdrawal." One of two heavy-set men pressing against the partition waved his arms at the clerk. "I still intend to pay full fee. I merely wish to examine my cache of tokens to ensure that all is well. They will be returned within the hour."
"We keep only a small quantity here to handle the usual transactions," the clerk said. "Your deposit is too large, and we must wait for the next tide to bring back more from the grotto."
"The agreement is for full surrender on demand for any sum less than forty tokens," the second customer said. "Any other vault on the street would not try to delay."
"Our service is as good as any other." Augusta pushed open the door from the back. "It is just that you are the fifth in a row to ask for a large withdrawal with only one depositing in between." She handed a writ to the clerk and then forced a smile back to the customer. "And with a moment's patience, your treasure will be secure. My girl will find a vault that temporarily overflows. I will arrange a loan for the rest of the day and then repay it when the fluctuations balance out."
The clerk ducked under the table and headed for the street, squeezing between three more customers who had entered and crowded behind the two in front.
"Any more withdrawals?"
Augusta asked. "Step forward. Sums less than-less than three tokens can be honored immediately. Larger treasures will take a few minutes more. And, of course, deposits of all sizes are readily accepted. There is still time to get them recorded so that your vote in the election will be more."
Before anyone could reply, agitated voices suddenly erupted in the street. Five or six more men surged into the anteroom, jamming the doorway. Through the window, Jemidon saw a large crowd gathering.
"Ah, trader Andor," Augusta said over the noise. "You were here but minutes ago with your withdrawal of twenty-five. No doubt all is well, and you wish to return your deposit to the vault's safekeeping."
"I want my wealth!" the short, balding man in front of the new arrivals shouted back. "This time, tokens of magic, not simple disks of cold steel!"
The crowd strained forward in a chorus of apprehension, pushing Jemidon to the wall and completely filling the small room. Augusta looked about worriedly and ran her tongue over her lips.
"But they are true tokens," she said. "Yesterday evening I counted them into the very sack you hold in your hand. Twenty-five exactly, there is no doubt."
"Twenty-five indeed," Andor snarled. "Twenty-five pieces of worthless metal!" He flipped the sack open and hurled a handful of coins to spatter against the wall at Augusta's back.
''They are no different from the ones securely held in the grotto," Augusta persisted. "One magic token is the same as another."
"Then the ones in the vault are worthless as well!" someone else shouted. "We have been swindled. Our fortunes are gone!"
"Gold or silver," another said. "If she cannot pay in tokens, let it be their equivalent, and we can exchange them elsewhere."
"If you desire another metal," Augusta said hurriedly, "I will do what I can. But, like the tokens, my holdings here are small. The first in line and perhaps one or two more."
"The vault has no more tokens! Only gold for some in the back room. Get what you can! The rest she cannot pay."
With a sudden push, the men in front slammed aside the table and poured through the opening. They knocked Augusta to the floor and pounded into the other room. With raised fists and incoherent shouts, the rest of the crowd cascaded after.
Jemidon pushed forward with the others. He reached Augusta where she had crumpled and elbowed one of the depositors away. A fist slammed into Jemidon's back, staggering him to his knees. He twisted to the side and winced in pain as heavy boots trampled the backs of his legs. Scooping his arms around Augusta, he rolled to the left under the table, which had been banged against the outer wall. He reached out between the impatient feet that were stomping and kicking to get ahead and pulled in her legs. Together, they huddled in a tight ball.
The press of the crowd funneling through the doorway strained against their shelter. Someone fell next to the table and then another went down. Like building blocks toppled by a single swat of the hand, a whole row staggered to its knees. The ones behind pushed these closer to the floor and scrambled over their backs. The doorway jammed in a squirming mass of entangled arms and legs. Cries of pain and panic began to mingle with the shouts of anger.
The table planking groaned from the pressure, and then suddenly one pair of legs collapsed, confining Jemidon and Augusta to a small triangle. Jemidon looked quickly about. The table would not long withstand the load. They had to get out before they were trampled. He examined the wall planking-long vertical boards, each secured to a crossbeam at his feet. He decided what he must try.
Slowly he maneuvered his back to block the growing press of bodies threatening to squeeze into their shelter from the side. Then, still coiled in a ball, he raised his feet from the floor and centered them on one of the planks.
With a deep grunt, he strained to straighten himself against the unyielding constraints on both sides.
The board shook. Then, with a high-pitched grating, it moved a fraction of an inch. Still firmly secured near the ceiling, it curved in a gentle bow. Jemidon relaxed, breathed deeply, and renewed his efforts. With each thrust, the force required was greater as the plank curved more and more from a plane.
After half a dozen attempts, his leg muscles began to tremble. Beads of sweat broke out on his forehead, and blood vessels throbbed in his neck. Another body crashed against his back; flailing arms boxed his neck and ears. Across the room, an ear-piercing scream rose to a crescendo, then abruptly stopped. With a final gasp, Jemidon ignored the pain of protesting tendons and thrust with his last reserve of strength.
The plank vibrated with resistance, then abruptly swung free, creaking about the nails which still held it to the upper crossbeam. "Out," Jemidon said without pausing for another breath. "Squeeze through the hole while there is still time."
Augusta disengaged from Jemidon and snaked through the narrow opening, ripping her gown in a dozen places where it caught on the rough, splintery wood. Jemidon ducked to follow; but as he did, the mass of bodies behind him suddenly heaved and buckled. Two tumbled into the small shelter over the backs of the ones struggling below. Jemidon was dashed to the floor and pinned under the writhing mass.
He reached for the opening with both hands and tried to squirm loose, but found he could barely move. He heard the table creak and then a sharp crack as the other, legs gave way. Desperately, Jemidon pulled against the wall, thrusting his head out into the afternoon light. Gripping the walls as an anchor, he brought one leg slowly up along his side. The weight above pressed relentlessly, and his hip ached from the strain. When he could push his knee no higher, he muscled his foot outward in a slow arc until it butted against something soft yet unyielding.
Jemidon tensed the muscles in his back and arms for one final shove. He filled his lungs as best he could. With a shout, he kicked savagely and grated across the floor. Gathering momentum, he crashed through the opening and skidded across the rough ground outside.
Jemidon scrambled to his feet, not bothering to notice the scrapes and splinters on his face and arms. "Safe," he exclaimed. "I did not reach you any too soon. A run on the vaults was the logical consequence, once it was learned that tokens no longer hold special value."
He looked at Augusta, expecting her to reply, but found her staring at the street and the vault offices across the way. Everywhere the scene was the same. Crazed crowds carried out what small stores of wealth they could find. In frenzied fighting, they squabbled over what little there was.
"Safe," she echoed vacantly. "Safe. What has happened, Jemidon? I do not understand."
"It is the same for all the vaults, Augusta. All across the island, Arcadia, and Procolon. Magic is no more."
"All the vaults?" Augusta asked, shaking herself out of a daze. "Then none of the holders will have a basis for any votes. Those who have deposited will all demand their due. We are debtors one and all."
She looked at Jemidon, her eyes growing wide. "Yes, we are safe-safe until the election. Until Trocolar has his way."
"Misfortune is based the same as yours," Jemidon said. "And so is that of everyone else. It is unclear who will be judged the richest, if tokens no longer matter."
"Not all his wealth is in the vaults," Augusta said. "He owns ships, men, and warehouses full of goods. Bolts of silk, barrel staves, links of heavy chain, seedcorn, and flour, A thousand items that he can barter for advantage. He is well prepared to make profit on whatever strikes the speculator's fancy. Why, on the way back from the grotto, he bragged that he even had acquired a boatload of citrine and amethyst to add to his holdings."
"But at least his threat cannot be the shrinking cube," Jemidon said. "That device now functions no better than the rest."
"Then chains and hot needles." Augusta shrugged. "He will think of something else to-"
"Citrine and amethyst," Jemidon interrupted. "You say that Trocolar is the one with the gems?"
"They cannot matter," Augusta said. "Trocolar showed me some samples. At most, they can be made into inexpensive baubles for the wide-eyed visitors from the mai
nland. He would need a powerful glamour to entice one with any knowledge to pay more than a copper for a barrelful."
"But, like magic, sorcery is no more. No one can mouth a working cantrip. The words have no resistance." Jemidon paused while his thoughts raced. "And yet, if not an enchantment, what compelled me on the way here? Yes, now that I think on it, the displays on the street were like the projections in the storm and the presentation hall-moving images on a screen that somehow shaped one's thoughts. Drandor! His strange animations. The smiling trader and Trocolar. There is a connection. It is too great a puzzle, and the solution can wait no longer. I must find out, Augusta, regardless of the fee."
"Wait, where are you going?" Augusta called out as Jemidon bolted for the street.
"Come. I will take you to Rosimar's guild for safety," he called back as thoughts of Delia formed with a renewed intensity in his mind. "Then I will see Benedict, the divulgent, to ask him how he fared with his purchase of the stones. And this time I will not leave until I have negotiated the exchange of information."
"My blade is small, but I warn you, it bites deep, nonetheless."
"As before, I am here to trade." Jemidon looked at Benedict, who was huddled in the far corner of his cubicle, clutching his strongbox with both arms to his chest. Jemidon's sense of urgency had been growing ever since Augusta had been left at the guild. The cries in the street made it clear that little time remained before a complete collapse of order. But the divulgent could prove to be of value. Jemidon willed himself into the appearance of non- chalant calm and slowly motioned Rosimar to enter behind him as he sat on one of the stools.
"A copper," Benedict said. "And two more for a guest."
"What I have for you is worth far more than three coppers," Jemidon replied. "Even more than the tokens you would charge for the contents of that now-worthless box."
" 'Perfection is eternal' indeed!" Benedict spat. "A stronghold impervious to the dent of the mightiest hammer, so I was told. Look at it now. No more than a tray with a well-hinged lid. And no hasp for an ordinary lock, at that. Even a child could flip it open and seize the contents if I did not stand on guard. It is as worthless as the tokens that you offer to pay."
