Secret of the Sixth Magic

by Lyndon Hardy

  Farnel looked at Jemidon in silence for a long while. He ran his hand over the back of his neck but said nothing.

  “Knowledge,” Jemidon said, breaking the silence at last. “Knowledge to remove the inconsistencies from your works, the imperfections that seem to bother the other masters so. All that I have learned in my wanderings I will share.” He touched the coin on his chest. “That and one brandel more if you take me as your tyro and lead me to mastership of sorcery.”

  “And so it is as simple as that.” Farnel laughed. “But one must start with a young mind, smooth and pliable, not a mind already filled with the lessons that gave one his manhood. If you must dabble in the arts, seek some other, such as thaumaturgy. You are too old to begin any other.”

  “No!” Jemidon shouted. “It is to be sorcery.” He stopped suddenly, embarrassed by the outburst that echoed off the stone walls. “I am aware of the difficulties,” he continued after a moment in a softer tone. “That is why I have come to you. I know that none of the other masters would choose to take me because of my age. But then, none of the others might feel so keenly about winning the supreme accolade in order to reestablish the standards for the art.”

  “And the one gold brandel?” Farnel asked.

  Jemidon breathed deeply, almost choking on the words. “It is the most important of all. You see it around my neck on a simple loop, but somehow it is more intricately intertwined with my innermost being. It is for no ordinary barter; I can give it up only when the debt it was meant for has been fully paid.”

  Jemidon started to say more, but the jangle of a key in the lock distracted Farnel’s attention.

  “Canthor, you come half a day early,” the master said, rising to his feet. “I thought the penalty for wandering in the hills ran at least from sun to sun.”

  Jemidon slowed the rush of his thoughts and looked at the figure swinging open the grating. The bailiff wore leggings and a sleeveless tunic. The skin of his arms was smooth and taut. Short bristles of hair, struggling back from a daily shaving, covered a shiny head. Only his face showed any aging; his eyes swam in a sea of wrinkles from a perpetual squint.

  “The crude pranks of Gerilac’s tyros are punishment for any man.” Canthor laughed. “I dare wager that this lad will no longer take our warnings so lightly. No, now is the time to depart. Before Erid and the others think of coming here and sneaking in more practice.”

  He waved Jemidon to the corridor with one hand and grabbed Farnel by the arm with the other. “And as for you, my rough and unbending friend, far less bother would there be for me in the first place if the masters set decent examples for the tyros to follow. Gerilac told me of what you were attempting when I was summoned.”

  Farnel shrugged. “If what he built had some merit, it would not matter.”

  “A soldier is measured by his most recent battle,” Canthor said, “no matter how glorious were the ones that came before. If you wish to challenge Gerilac’s ascendancy, it must be in the presentation hall, not with hot words shouted outside its walls.”

  “Sage advice from one who has not raised a sword in true anger in many a year!” Farnel snorted. “If that is so, why are you here instead of taking a side in the growing unrest in the northern plateau of the mainland? The high prince has need of men-at-arms.”

  “The difference is that I am content with my lot,” Canthor replied. “As long as there is sufficient bread on my table and pulling masters apart does not occur too often, I do not care what the others may say behind my back.”

  Farnel frowned and began to pace the room. “It is too late in the season,” he muttered, “and for too long have I not dabbled with the themes and forms.”

  “Spend time in the bazaar,” Canthor said. “Listen to the bondsmen prattle about their lords’ latest fancies. You know that pandering to the popular tastes is how Gerilac achieves his successes. You could learn in a few nights what Gerilac guesses at for the entire year.”

  “Yes, yes, I have thought of that idea often enough myself. But masters do not thread their way among the hawkers and imitation delights,” Farnel said. “That is a job for a tyro, and there is none who would care to accept my tutorage.”

  The master stopped suddenly and his eyes narrowed in thought. He looked at Jemidon and shrugged. “I suppose an alchemist would say that some of the random factors have aligned,” he said. “Very well; as Canthor says, it would be better than mouthing more words of protest that the others pay attention to less and less. I accept your proposition. I will begin your instruction as you desire. In exchange, you will spend part of each day in the bazaar, befriending the bondsmen and learning the latest gossips and popularities of the mainland. We will work together for a presentation to the high prince.”

  Jemidon felt some of the pent-up emotion dissolve away. For once, things were going well. Perhaps this time there finally would be success. “And after the prize is awarded, how long then until I can have my own robe with the logo of the staring eye?”

  Farnel placed a hand on Jemidon’s shoulder. “The agreement is that I will teach. I can promise no more. It is up to you to marshal the talents within that will make you a master.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Test for the Tyro

  JEMIDON slumped down on the stool in Farnel’s hut. The last few months had been a blur. He had worked from sunrise far into the night, following Farnel’s instruction, gathering information in the bazaar, and helping to prepare their audition. He was tired, yet at the same time mentally exhilarated. After four months, Farnel still accepted him as a tyro.

  “A battle scene.” Farnel shook his head as he jotted a final note and tore the full sheet from the easel. “Who would have thought that I would dabble in something so explicit and mundane?”

  “But the whispers in the bazaar point consistently and clearly,” Jemidon said. “Once you piece them all together, a pattern emerges. The high prince is troubled about the unrest in the wheatlands, and the crushing of the rebellion at Plowblade Pass three generations ago would be an excellent salve.”

  He scooped up the outline as it fluttered to the floor and pinned it in line with the others already filling the walls in Farnel’s small hut. A bed of straw, hearth of smoke-blackened brick, and bowl-cluttered table were at the far end. The coarse blankets under which Jemidon slept on the floor were pushed into a corner. On the longest wall, thin planking supported by tiers of stone sagged under the weight of bound parchment and furled scrolls. The rest of the space was a jumble of wadded paper and stacks of properties used in illusion making—model dragons, silks and furs, cameos of billowing clouds and stormy seas, glass trinkets, and sunbleached bones.

  “Yes, yes, I know.” Farnel slid from his high stool and stepped over the pile of swords, axes, helmets, and other weapons lent by Canthor to aid in the suggestions. “Your sojourns to the bazaar indeed provided the focus for the path we should take. And your knowledge of the historical event has been most complete. The agony of the commander before ordering his followers to their death gives me sufficient scope to project something of a deeper meaning.

  “Still, I am uneasy. We started so very late, compared with the others. They have had time to polish their presentations to a high luster, while we are not quite done with a complete structure from end to end. Had we been, I would have shown a rough outline to the other masters in the hall this evening. Already they are deciding which to reject and which to keep for presentation to the prince. And when the high prince comes, there will be no time left for more auditions. He is here for about a week only. If one is not ready for him, there is no point in continuing further.”

  The master scratched the back of his neck. “Yet there are signs of hope. Even Gerilac must have some concern that I am competing again. He was almost civil as he sat next to me at the council meeting when we had our morning meal.”

  “Perhaps he begins to wonder what profit comes from my evenings in the bazaar,” Jemidon said. “I have noticed Erid and the others cautiously
following me from time to time. But it will do them little good. Tonight will be the last. I have only one more tent to visit, that of a trader named Drandor, at the end of the row.”

  Jemidon paused and wrinkled his brow. “He is a rather peculiar sort, to hear the others talk, not connected in any way with the affairs of the prince. But they also say the trip is worth it, just to see his pretty assistant, if nothing else.”

  “I admit the value of your trips,” Farnel said, “but sometimes I wonder if so many have been necessary to achieve the same result. Ordinarily a tyro’s evening is spent practicing the charms his master has taught him during the day.”

  “I have been studying,” Jemidon protested. “And if there were more time, I would try to expand your outline into more detail and select the charmlets that will be used. Then we would feel more confident about the final impact that our presentation will have. Rote and repetition can come later. I have memorized well. I am sure of it.”

  “Why, most of this outline is explicit enough.” Farnel frowned and looked at the jottings covering the walls. “The basic idea is not to use a fine brush when a mop will do. The sorcerer should only suggest; the viewer will fill in a much more vivid scene with his own imagination.”

  “But why risk the random thoughts that might come into their minds when you can direct the precise image with certainty?”

  “You already know enough to answer that,” Farnel said. “What is the basic law of sorcery?”

  “The Rule of Three,” Jemidon said, “or ‘thrice repeated, once fulfilled.’ Each charm must be spoken in its entirety three times without the slightest error, or it will come to naught.”

  “And the more detailed the illusion?”

  “The longer and more difficult the glamour.” Jemidon paused for a moment. “Ah, yes, I see the connection. In Procolon across the sea, where sorcery is a sinister weapon of state, the length of the charm does not matter. But in a presentation hall, under the lightest of glamours, the words must be swift, or else the lords will hoot and ask for the next production.”

  “It works for the benefit of the master as well.” Farnel began to scrutinize the last sheet of the outline, cramming cryptic notes into the margins of what was already there. “Each charm robs something of the life force of the sorcerer; there is only so much power within him. And the simpler he can make his glamours, the longer will he prosper. Why, it is for that very reason that the sorcerers of Arcadia forswore the deeper cantrips ages ago and retired to Morgana to deal in nothing more than simple pleasures.

  “But enough of that. I want to run through the broad outlines before we go. There will be sufficient time to select the details, once we have been chosen for the final program.”

  The sorcerer turned to the first sheet and studied its contents. “Let me see, the high cliff walls that define the pass, the hint of storm in the morning, and the last meal in the camps. Perhaps Alaraic’s Foreboding, followed by Magneton’s Walls of Closure and then Aroma of the Hunters. Yes, they should be sufficiently close.”

  “Would not Dark Clouds and Clinton’s Granite Spires be more to the point?” Jemidon asked.

  Farnel cast Jemidon an appraising glance. “You learn fast, tyro, but in this case, the combination will not work. When Dark Clouds is connected with the opening, it finishes on too low a syllable to connect onto Clinton’s charmlet smoothly. I am a practiced master, but even I would not risk mouthing such a transition.”

  “A small Hint of Curiosity sandwiched between the two lines them up perfectly.” Jemidon moved to the easel and grabbed the pen. “As I said, I have been studying. See, I think of all these charmlets as little squiggles on the paper. They can be joined together only if their end-points and slopes smoothly align. Making the grand glamour consists of splicing the curves together so that they move in the general direction you want.”

  Farnel frowned and studied the sketches as Jemidon rapidly filled the easel. He stroked his chin and rolled his eyes upward in thought. “An interesting way of looking at it,” he said at last. “But in the end, it comes to the same thing. The sorcerer must piece together the words for the charm he wishes to achieve.”

  “But by visualizing the curves, you can slide them around like a puzzle and discover new combinations without risking a self-induced trance to envision them fully formed.”

  “And have you tried this theory of yours?” Farnel asked. “Even with the simpler charms for which I have given you the words? How many of them have you linked together?”

  “Well, none,” Jemidon said. “I have not had the time. The manipulation of the charmlets on the easel seemed much more interesting. I have always had an interest in finding the underlying patterns of things. And sometimes I have succeeded when others have overlooked them. Who knows, it might lead to some new principle.”

  “Nevertheless, a master sorcerer is known by the charms he executes, Jemidon, no matter how well he can recite the theory. Believe me, the first time you misspeak, and one goes awry, the sickness that follows will make you wish you had doubled your practice.”

  “But the rote is so boring. It is just a matter of putting in the effort to do it.”

  “Exactly so,” Farnel said. “Exactly so. There is more to success than making a fuzzy plan that leads in the general direction of the goal. At some point, each step finally must be executed to the finest detail.”

  Jemidon frowned. He did not like the way the conversation was going. Soon Farnel would be insisting he pass up exploring the last tent and spend the evening endlessly running through simple recitals. And surely he could do that easily enough. The time would be as good as wasted.

  His frown deepened as other thoughts tried to bubble to the surface. Determinedly, he thrust them away. Work the simple charms—of course he could. There was no need even to try. And he might learn something of value in the last tent, some additional fact to merge into the whole and make their presentation even better.

  “The sun is setting,” he said quickly, “and it might be better if I visit this Drandor soon, before the bazaar gets too crowded. The traders are more willing to talk if their tents are not filled with customers.”

  Farnel looked outside at the growing dimness and then back at Jemidon. “In sorcery, a master can only suggest,” he said after a moment. “It is the tyro who ultimately must force himself to attempt the tests. Yes, yes, go on. I see in your eyes how much you want to investigate this last tent. I will dabble with what we have and perhaps even be ready for a first trial when you return.”

  Jemidon stepped onto the bazaar pathway and jostled the crowd already starting to build. He had walked the distance from the hills to the shoreline in under an hour. Here he could lose his concerns in a myriad of distractions. It felt good to be away from Farnel’s hut and the sorcerer’s all-too-accurate observations. To Jemidon’s left, a hawker in a tunic of gaudy red and green touted sketches that leaped from their canvases. On the right, he heard the moan of a faraway whistle under a sign promising to conjure up rare creatures of legend. Down the path were the other displays, multifaceted mirrors, rotating checkered boards, and vaults of total darkness, where one sealed his ears with wax and dipped his hands in a numbing salve before entering. The cries of the pitchmen, music from adjacent rows, and noises of the crowd mingled into a meaningless hubbub.

  Besides the usual taverns and stalls, the bazaar was crammed with peddlers of cheap illusions. They had nothing to do with real sorcery; that was banned in the harbor area by decree of the masters. But with their lords traipsing off to the presentation hall to fill their minds with the artfully constructed images, the bondsmen hungered for a taste of the same thrills. So they paid their coppers for the risque sketches, the touch in darkness of the slimy tentacle, and the dizzy heads from spinning in the small cages hung from a rope.

  Jemidon meandered down the pathway, watching the reveling bondsmen and listening for interesting snatches of conversation. Nothing was worth stopping for, and finally he reached the end
of the row. He looked over a medium-sized tent, set apart from the rest; this was Drandor’s, the last to check. Jemidon saw that the pavilion was made from three smaller ones, inexpertly sewn together, with excess fabric hanging in disarray where they joined. The colors had long since faded. No pennants flew from the poletops, nor did any peddler challenge the passerby to come inside.

  Jemidon ducked to enter the low opening. It was dark inside, illuminated only by two small candles, their flames unprotected by any sort of bowl. “What do you sell?” Jemidon asked, as the slight figure behind the high counter began to take on detail. “Your brothers in the other tents are much more boastful of their wares.”

  “Exercises for the mind,” a melodious voice responded. “Journey with these and you can create illusions of your own making.”

  Jemidon’s eyes widened as they adjusted to the flickering light. He saw a young woman with curls of golden hair and sparkling eyes that revealed their bright blue, even in the dimness. Her features were delicately drawn with the deftness of a sculptor; if not for the tension in her face that pulled the skin tight and wrinkled the corners of her eyes, she would have been judged most fair. From a loop around her neck cascaded a free-flowing gown that sparkled in a subtle iridescence. On her left arm was wound a thin band of dull iron, the emblem of the indentured servant. The counter in front of her supported a scatter of small works of metal, twinkling in the candlelight, webs of intertwined wires, tessellated polyhedra, and burnished flatwares intricately pieced together.

  “Your tent has been placed in the wrong position.” Jemidon appraised the woman’s beauty. “The more traditional entertainments are closer to the entrance by the harbor.”

  “It is as I have said,” the woman responded, after a quick look over her shoulder to the curtain which partitioned the tent. “Entertainments for the mind. Please, buy one. It will help me a great deal.”

  Again Jemidon marveled at the voice, tinkling softly like a chime in a light wind. “My name is Jemidon,” he said without thinking. “What is yours?”