by Lyndon Hardy
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.
