by Lyndon Hardy
Smaller pathways diverged gracefully from the main thoroughfare and led to other structures along the way. Except for the stadium, none was so grand in size as the hall of magicians, but each was worthy of any of Procolon's lords. Off to the left was the house of the wyverns and other exotic animals, a low stack of jutting terraces made as much of glass as of stone, and displaying for all the animate treasures within.
Further back and barely visible stood a cluster of small towers, each topped in unique fashion, some with crenelations and some with gently curving bands of silvery metal meeting at the apex. The space allotted each neophyte was small but still a finer appointment than any Alodar had known before.
To the immediate right was the square block of the initiates, white and windowless, but covered on all four walls with the deep gashes of immense calligraphy. Out of sight behind, lay the quarters of the acolytes, in back of them the cubicles of instruction, and beyond that the stadium of major rituals.
To the left stood the library, a tall slender pyramid covered with a mosaic of fiery red jewels, glowing of their own inner light. Four windows, tiny as viewed from the ground, covered each side near the apex; but for them, the walls were as unbroken as those of the hall of the initiates.
He looked back along the way he had come. The hall of administration covered fully half his view; unlike the beauty of the rest, it was a jumble of towers, blocks, and ramps. Brick butted against marble, graceful columns supported rough hewn beams, tiered archways of metal looked like scaffolding for new construction. The collage showed the haphazard growth of centuries as the Guild expanded and needed more space to provide for the increasing demands for self-sufficiency. Alodar had explored only a small fraction of the passageways inside but he had found a kitchen, a tannery, a carpenter's shop, a soap works, a small bath, and three testing rooms in which one demonstrated his qualifications for advancement in the Guild.
Alodar resumed his deliberate tread on the cobbled arc. These grounds could swallow the likes of Iron Fist a full ten times over, yet no solid wall ran along the periphery to protect what was within. Who would be foolish enough to brave the magical traps and delusions that served in their stead? Who indeed, he thought grimly, as he stood finally before the sealed doors of the hall of the initiates.
The vast grounds were empty and silent as Alodar stood before the portal. He took one breath and firmly pressed the small disk which glowed dully at his left, just as he had seen the initiates do during the day. Soundlessly, the smooth slab before him parted and revealed an alcove not much better lit than the starry sky.
Cautiously, he entered and the door slid shut behind him. Alodar turned as the air rustled with the closure but he saw no second disk to indicate his way back out He faced forward and advanced two small steps. Either side of the alcove was featureless, but the walls radiated away from him so that, some ten feet distant, he faced not one but four more doors.
A simple expedient, Alodar thought. Only one of the doors leads any farther. The other three probably are trapped and three out of four would-be intruders are disposed of without the use of magic.
Alodar approached the one on the far left, hinged and handled with gilt and covered with velvet, tufted with small stones of jet. He listened intently but could hear nothing and advanced to the second.
The next, unlike the first, was made of rough hewn beams, splintery to touch and with fixtures of crudely beaten iron. Alodar placed his ear gingerly against the surface. After a moment of deep concentration, he heard distant voices from the other side.
The third door was of stone, but with a giant blue steel bolt that held it firmly into the frame that contained it.
The last door gleamed of glass, smooth and cold to the touch and dimly reflecting Alodar's figure as he squinted through it. Deep black lay beyond, shadow on shadow, with no form.
He stepped back and pondered his choice. He did not know enough of the ritual and symbology to make the correct guess. Some other clue must guide him. After a moment's thought, he withdrew a small, telescoping rule from the knapsack he had fashioned to hang under his pocketless robe. He carefully laid it at the foot of the first door and ran his fingertips along the stone floor. The masonry lay flat and true, like all of the construction at the Guild, with not a single crack or niche to disturb the gliding motion of his hand.
The area before the wooden door was the same; but in front of the third, a narrow gap at one end of the rule widened to a barely perceptible depression in the middle and then returned to true on the other side. This alcove was originally made with great craftsmanship, but since its construction it had served as the footpath for countless initiates. This was the one that he must take.
He straightened up, secured his rule, and pulled back the blue steel bolt.
Nothing happened immediately in response; to Alodar's gentle touch the thick slab swung gently inward on its hinges. Alodar blinked as he gazed down a small tunnelway into a well-lighted cross passage. He waited a moment to accustom his eyes and saw two white robes stroll leisurely by in the brightness beyond. A third shuffled by in the other direction, arms heavily laden with thick scrolls of cracking parchment.
There, not twenty feet in front of Alodar, unobscured by any visible impediment lay the goal of the night's venture. He smoothed down the spare neophyte's robe he had bleached with the aid of some of Saxton's teachings and slowly began to traverse the narrow passageway. He took a first step and then another, and the lightness grew correspondingly nearer. Suddenly another white robe poked his head into the tunnel and headed in Alodar's direction. Alodar turned sideways and averted his gaze. The newcomer paid him no heed but sped past and on outwards to the promenade.
Encouraged, Alodar resumed his cautious pacing of the distance to the hallway. He covered fifteen feet more and nothing happened. Then, just as the exit was within tantalizing reach, a brace of bells began ringing rapidly in the recesses of the ceiling. Metal grated loudly against stone, and he looked over his shoulder to see a heavy steel portcullis descend to block the entranceway behind him. He whipped back to look at the ceiling directly ahead and saw a second barrier begin to fall. Without thinking, he sprang forward, hurling himself low into the rapidly diminishing opening, arms out straight and stomach sucked tightly against his spine.
With a swoosh, he slid across the polished stone into the cross passageway, just as the steel shafts jostled his feet out of the way. Alodar stood up and confronted three initiates startled by the sudden appearance and the din of the bells. Alodar took advantage of their hesitation, spun about, and sprinted down the hallway.
"An intruder!" somebody shouted behind him. "Stop the man! He has tripped the watcher in the west entrance." A chorus of footfalls began to echo Alodar's own. As he sped past the openings to cubicles, more inquisitive heads poked out into the passage.
Alodar looked forward and saw the hallway turn to the left some twenty feet ahead. He increased his speed towards the corner, hoping to perform some evasive maneuver while he was momentarily out of sight. As he approached and prepared to dart to the left, the sound of more bells added to the din. Alodar wasted no time in speculation but flattened himself for a second slide.
Another portcullis banged down as he dove, this time catching his robe on its sharp spikes. With a savage effort, he wrenched himself free as his pursuers slammed into the ironwork and thrust their arms through at his retreating form.
Alodar took but three steps before a third set of bells added to the chorus of the others and he saw yet another barrier begin to fall some twenty feet ahead. He looked hurriedly to the left and right and saw that a single side door was his only remaining exit. He ran through the entrance into a small cubicle, furnished simply with a bed and writing desk, but marked by no windows or other openings.
Alodar reached into his knapsack and withdrew a small bag filled with powder. He looked around the room, stacked the chair upon the bedframe, and climbed up the wobbly structure. Outside he could hear the gateworks
being raised and the pursuers yelling out his location to others who came to join in the hunt.
Swaying on the chairbottom, he stretched to full height and chiseled away at the mortar between the corner ceiling tiles. He crammed the bag into the small hole, inserted and lit a fuse, and jumped to the ground as three white-robed figures rushed into the room. Alodar quickly fell to the floor and ducked under the table. The initiates stooped to follow.
"The game is over," one cried as he pulled on one of Alodar's legs. "What great sport. The masters have not had someone to punish publicly in some time. I do hope they choose an entertaining ritual."
The ceiling exploded and Alodar's assailants were hurled to the ground in a tumble of tiles, mortar, and stone. Alodar scrambled out and back up onto the bed. He saw blue sky above; the overlying stone had fallen with the tile. Without pausing, he leaped upwards, arms outstretched, and caught the edge of a block which still remained. Before those below could recover, he pulled himself up and onto the roof.
He ran rapidly to the edge and leaped off to the ground. No one yet was coming to investigate the explosion, nor had an initiate popped out of the hall in pursuit. Alodar waited long enough to regain his sense of direction and then sped back towards the neophytes' quarters.
Just read a few scrolls to find out about magic spheres and be on my way, he thought as he ran. Perhaps something more passive, such as waiting for Lectonil, was not such a bad choice after all.
CHAPTER TEN
Barter and the Beauty
"BUT with all due respect, sage Beliac," the acolyte said, "let not the length of my tenure here color your decision. I have the proficiencies of a man many years my senior. Indeed I can produce a wand of ebony in but a fortnight, one of jet in two. I know by memory the rituals for fourteen talismans. I have mastered not only central, diagonal and symmetric but adjacent orthogonal magic squares as well. Listen and I will tell you of the method for producing a helmet of a thousand blows. First swing a pendulum with a bob of solid gold over the egg of a turtle as it hatches in the noonday sun. Next paint the claw of a roc?"
"Enough of the classroom recitation, Duncan." The magician waved him to cease as Alodar leaned forward to hear the quieter and slower tones. "It takes far more than rote to win the robe of black, as you well know."
Alodar stretched on tiptoes to get his head above the wall and catch the words. Two full weeks had passed since his adventure in the hall of the initiates, but nothing had happened as a consequence.
Still, another frontal assault might be suicidal without more data. Eavesdropping certainly was not the way of the sagas, but for the moment it was the only path open. Beliac and his acolyte had met in this grove often at this hour. The piece of eggshell placed in the grass behind them had the right shape to focus the sound, and the alchemical coating made the reflectivity nearly perfect. With the spellbinding of thaumaturgy, nearly all of what they said came his way, even though the grove was some fifty feet distant.
The small stand of trees was between the library and the hall of the acolytes, and the maze of open study cubicles nearby was ideal cover. From his hiding place, Alodar squinted at the magician and tried to catch his facial expression as he spoke. His hair was jet black and combed in long, straight strokes back from his forehead. Deep-set eyes and a narrow nose seemed buried in a forest of heavy eyebrows, thick moustache, and long curly beard. The effect was intended to convey the dignity of age, but the smooth, wrinkle-less skin betrayed Beliac to be one of the youngest masters of the Guild.
Duncan was younger still, perhaps five years older than Alodar, but with a hairline already receding to the top of his head. His eyes were close set, and his face carried a pained look, as if life were always treating him unfairly. His gray robe hung askew on his shoulders, dipping to one side and twisted into disarray.
"But most gracious sage," the acolyte continued, "I have studied the record of investiture of Valeron when he secured the silver ring for his own. There is no question of his that I cannot now answer. The apex of the library should not be denied me just because I have been an initiate only three years and an acolyte but two."
"The key ring to the apex is not lightly granted, Duncan," Beliac said. "We must have sufficient judgment and wisdom to use properly the rituals and theorems that are enscrolled there. It would not do for one unseasoned to have access to such power. And why the rush? Look at the pace of the neophytes. Some linger on for decades before even attempting the examination for initiates. Indeed, some are content with the simpler tasks and never strive for what is beyond their immediate grasp. We have some two score acolytes in the Guild at present; yet only a dozen or so have the potential to be magicians. Only the best will don the robe of black, when we deem them truly ready."
"But I am ready, venerable sage," Duncan said. "There is no new ritual that I could master were I to wait even a fortnight more. Time would only be a burden."
"Would it now, my acolyte? Then ponder the solution to the following proposition. A coven of ice demons appears from the black rocks in the valley below. They flash through the air to our very gates and, though the air shimmers and distorts as always, they slide through in a heartbeat. With convulsive power they begin to thunder our buildings down in mighty ruin. What defense do you propose?"
"Most surely my sage, I would make ready our supply of djinn bottles and lamps and instruct all at the level of acolyte or greater to fashion more as quickly as they are able."
"A divergence of djinn bottles," Beliac shouted. "I said ice demons. The like that confines an imp or figenella would not secure the devils of which I speak. Such an answer is insufficient. What else could you suggest?"
Duncan was silent for a long moment before answering. "Nothing more is in my learning, sage, but then I assert that no answer need be given. You propose what cannot come to pass, as if to ask how to move the stone of infinite weight. Except for a stray gremlin here and there, demons of power spark through our world no more. Common flame is insufficient to bridge the gap so that they can appear of their own volition. Contact with the demon world is mediated by fire. Without something exotic burning, the barrier is too great for the powerful to overcome. Small wonder that I do not recall an answer to such a problem in the recital of those who have preceded me."
"You wriggle out of the proposition too easily, Duncan," Beliac said. "I seek to see how you respond when the answer is not in the recitals you have so carefully memorized. But there is some truth in what you say. There are few wizards of note in Procolon, and the ones to the south act most reclusive of late, though it is the time of year they usually stage the battle for the kings. But this year they have announced no such display. Perhaps they are too engrossed in what happens in the west with two barons themselves possessed."
"Two? I have heard of Bandor and no other."
"Another peer to his north was somehow seized as well, or so say the lesser sorcerers. Kelric has not confirmed it, but I wonder if his power has not slipped to such an extent that he refuses even to try."
"But if there are indeed two, then the fair lady's problem is solved," Duncan said. "The demons will turn their puppets against one another in the same fashion as the wizards direct their slaves in the south. Either both will be destroyed or the devils will tire of their game and retire whence they came."
"Such has not yet happened," Beliac replied. "The west of Procolon rises in coherent revolt as before, and with a unity of purpose they struggle against the queen who now besieges them. Indeed, Vendora has called throughout the kingdoms for a wizard brave enough to attempt an exorcism to come forward. Clearly she must defeat not only the discontents of the west but the devils which propel them as well."
"Among the acolytes, we hear much talk from the south that the several kingdoms view Vendora's trouble as an opportunity," Duncan said. "If they were also to act now in concert, there is little resource left that she can call to her aid."
"Perhaps only Arcadia across the sea or even the barbaric tribes
to the north, if they could be convinced to fight," Beliac agreed. "All else is pressed into the struggle to the west. But such mundane happenings should not concern us. Our safeguards are good, despite what Lectonil will say. Which prince rules the valley and the townsmen does not matter. But enough of affairs outside our walls. Come now, what do you say to the problem?"
"I see I give you no direct satisfaction, O sage," Duncan replied. "But let me press on to another perhaps more practical reason to consider my petition now. The council stands sorely divided between those who support your august views and those who fawn behind Lectonil's robe. It is no secret among the acolytes how many issues of great import are laid aside to another day with seven votes yes and seven more nay. A fifteenth magician would bring great changes in the state of affairs in short time."
Beliac paused for a moment and then spoke with care. "And what would your persuasions be, were you indeed to get the privilege of the black, acolyte Duncan? Where do you stand on the issues that so dearly concern the council these days?"
"Why most assuredly with you, inspiring sage," Duncan answered. "I like not the constraints to which Lectonil wishes us bound. Many times have I heard you argue the need for expanding the number of acolytes, diversifying their skills, experimenting with new rituals and the rest. And on such a course I would see the Guild steered as well."
"Yet the manner in which you approach the craft is more like that of Lectonil than mine," Beliac said. "He would much favor one who found comfort in memorizing what has gone before, rather than daring what is new. Why have you not approached him instead with your proposition?"
