by Lyndon Hardy
"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."
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 w
ere 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."
