by Lyndon Hardy
“The journey begins.” A muffled voice snaked down the shaft. “Set the example so that it can be properly completed.”
Holgon grunted and resumed his ritual. He produced a small wand from his sleeve and sent it through a rapid series of gyrations.
Jemidon no longer had any interest in following the ritual. He looked at the others, but none showed any sign of discomfort. All were watching what the magician was doing.
Holgon tapped the box on the left, and the sides unlatched and fell open. It was empty, and the dove was gone. Then he put the wand away and carefully cradled the box on the right to his chest. Opening the top, he reached inside and produced the bird wearing the collar. The magician waved the dove back and forth; with a small bow, he hid it back in the container.
Without waiting for comment, Holgon rapidly repeated the steps he had just performed. When he was done, he showed the right-hand box to be empty and the dove to occupy the left. A murmur of impatience ran through the watching assemblage, but Holgon paid no attention. Again he enacted the ritual and yet again.
“And thus it is finished,” Holgon shouted out finally after the ninth performance. “The fortunes and futures of expert Trocolar are now well secured.”
Jemidon suddenly felt the drifting feeling stop and things anchor as firmly as they were before. In an instant, there was not even a glimmer remaining of what he had felt. As quickly as it had come, the sensation faded away. He shook his head in annoyance, then released the tension in his arms and legs. He could move about as he always had done. There was no feeling of danger that he might leave the ground and float away.
“That is no ritual of magic,” Rosimar said. “And the wand patterns were as ill-formed as those of a neophyte. No circles closed, and the cadence was off by at least half a beat. It takes perfection to perform magic, Holgon. I am surprised that your technique shows such a lack of grace. Is that what becomes of one who indentures himself to a trader instead of working in the security of a guild? Does he become a performer of street tricks that mimic magic and waste the watcher’s time?”
“And I am still puzzled as well,” Augusta said. “You speak of fortunes and futures, but Trocolar’s desires are not enhanced if you give me a greater fee rather than none at all.”
“Yes, it would seem to be a conundrum for you, Augusta,” Trocolar agreed, “a conundrum to be explained in its own due time. But as for me, it is quite simple. If my partner speaks false, then his tokens are forfeited to me. If his words are truth, ah, then, my scheming one, you will indeed have to worry about the cube.”
Augusta’s eyes widened, but Trocolar did not explain further. He motioned for Holgon to follow and pushed through the others to the ladder leading upward.
“Send this one following after.” Rosimar pointed at Jemidon immediately after the trader’s party had climbed to the top of the shaft. “He deliberately sabotaged what has taken us months to assemble. Your investment is jeopardized and also my guild’s.”
Augusta’s face contorted in deep furrows. She rubbed her forehead while squinting her eyes closed. “No, Rosimar, no more for today. Trocolar’s threats are enough. For the moment, I wish only to think of the fact that his tokens are back and his fees as well. Perhaps this whole exercise is some elaborate charade just for my discomfort. Possibly his chance in the election is nothing but bluster, and he can do no more than torment me with his words.”
“You need a steady hand and experience to guide you through the next few days,” Rosimar said, “not an incompetent who cannot perform the simplest magics.”
“You stated yourself that the ritual had a flaw,” Jemidon said. “And your neophytes were none too eager to perform in my place.”
Jemidon drew a deep breath to say more, but Augusta placed her fingers across his lips. “Hush, my dreamer. Do not bother to add your words to Rosimar’s din. For now, let me be away so that I can rest. If you truly want to help, then try to understand what lies behind Trocolar’s words. Does Holgon’s pretty display have any real meaning, or is it merely a fantasy of the mind?”
She looked back at Rosimar. “And with Trocolar’s fee, we are better positioned than before. There will be time enough to plan for additional funding for your guild—time enough after the elections are over and we have won.”
Without saying more, Augusta glided past all who remained and began to climb the ladder.
Rosimar looked at Jemidon, grunted, and made his way to the tripods. “If it provides her with reassurance, then it will be worth the effort,” he said.
Jemidon sighed with relief. His latest failure need not matter. He again could focus on tracking Drandor and Delia. He tried pushing the events of the morning out of his consciousness, back to the deep pit of memory where he hid the rest of the similar occurrences. With a shake of his head to clear his thoughts, he joined the magician in taking apart the tripods.
For over two hours, Jemidon and the magician examined the two boxes and their stands, looking for some trace of true magic, but finding only hidden latches and sliding panels.
“You were right,” Jemidon said at last. “It is no more than a conjuring trick from the mainland.”
Rosimar started to reply, but the pump attendant approached and pulled at his sleeve. “Master, I need assistance. I have tried all the variations that I know. The pumps! I cannot get them to restart!”
CHAPTER EIGHT
The Essence of Value
JEMIDON waited impatiently while Rosimar struggled up the rope ladder. The magician shook his head, perplexed.
“I thought I knew all the major rituals of perpetual motion,” he said, “but apparently the inner mechanism of the pumps is one that I do not understand. And the casings were very strange to the touch, like ordinary metal with no aura of magic about them.”
Jemidon frowned. He was bothered about all the events of the day. First, he could not completely forget his inability to perform the simplest of steps in a ritual. Then there was the sensation of pulling anchor and temporarily floating free. And now the pumps were unable to restart after Holgon had performed what he claimed was a magic ritual.
“A token,” he said suddenly to the oarsman who had ferried them into the grotto. “Fetch me one from the chests.”
“They cannot be removed, once the ledgers are marked. Only on Augusta’s orders are the transfers made.”
“A single coin and for a moment,” Jemidon insisted. “Your mistress is in peril.”
The oarsman hesitated, but finally turned from Jemidon’s determined stare. He descended the passageway and in a moment returned with a small bag of jingling metal. “From Trocolar’s deposit, the most recent change.”
Jemidon nodded and plunged his hand into the sack. He plucked out one of the smooth disks and his frown deepened. “Cold,” he muttered, “stone-cold. No doubt it will be the same with the rest.”
“Put away the distraction,” Rosimar said. “The riddle is the failure of the pumps.”
“The problem is far more basic.” Jemidon shook his head. “Look at what has happened to your craft.”
Before Rosimar could reply, Jemidon placed the disk against the wall and pushed it across the wet surface. He looked at the result, grunted, and tossed the coin to Rosimar.
The magician grabbed the token and examined it in his hand. His eyes widened and his mouth dropped open in surprise. “Scratched!” he exclaimed. “Somehow Trocolar managed to slip in a counterfeit among the rest.”
“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 that 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 crow
d 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.
