by Lyndon Hardy
Jemidon pushed forward with the others. He reached Augusta where she had crumpled and elbowed one of the depositors away. A fist slammed into Jemidon’s back, staggering him to his knees. He twisted to the side and winced in pain as heavy boots trampled the backs of his legs. Scooping his arms around Augusta, he rolled to the left under the table, which had been banged against the outer wall. He reached out between the impatient feet that were stomping and kicking to get ahead and pulled in her legs. Together, they huddled in a tight ball.
The press of the crowd funneling through the doorway strained against their shelter. Someone fell next to the table and then another went down. Like building blocks toppled by a single swat of the hand, a whole row staggered to its knees. The ones behind pushed these closer to the floor and scrambled over their backs. The doorway jammed in a squirming mass of entangled arms and legs. Cries of pain and panic began to mingle with the shouts of anger.
The table planking groaned from the pressure, and then suddenly one pair of legs collapsed, confining Jemidon and Augusta to a small triangle. Jemidon looked quickly about. The table would not long withstand the load. They had to get out before they were trampled. He examined the wall planking—long vertical boards, each secured to a crossbeam at his feet. He decided what he must try.
Slowly he maneuvered his back to block the growing press of bodies threatening to squeeze into their shelter from the side. Then, still coiled in a ball, he raised his feet from the floor and centered them on one of the planks. With a deep grunt, he strained to straighten himself against the unyielding constraints on both sides.
The board shook. Then, with a high-pitched grating, it moved a fraction of an inch. Still firmly secured near the ceiling, it curved in a gentle bow. Jemidon relaxed, breathed deeply, and renewed his efforts. With each thrust, the force required was greater as the plank curved more and more from a plane.
After half a dozen attempts, his leg muscles began to tremble. Beads of sweat broke out on his forehead, and blood vessels throbbed in his neck. Another body crashed against his back; flailing arms boxed his neck and ears. Across the room, an ear-piercing scream rose to a crescendo, then abruptly stopped. With a final gasp, Jemidon ignored the pain of protesting tendons and thrust with his last reserve of strength.
The plank vibrated with resistance, then abruptly swung free, creaking about the nails which still held it to the upper crossbeam. “Out,” Jemidon said without pausing for another breath. “Squeeze through the hole while there is still time.”
Augusta disengaged from Jemidon and snaked through the narrow opening, ripping her gown in a dozen places where it caught on the rough, splintery wood. Jemidon ducked to follow; but as he did, the mass of bodies behind him suddenly heaved and buckled. Two tumbled into the small shelter over the backs of the ones struggling below. Jemidon was dashed to the floor and pinned under the writhing mass.
He reached for the opening with both hands and tried to squirm loose, but found he could barely move. He heard the table creak and then a sharp crack as the other legs gave way. Desperately, Jemidon pulled against the wall, thrusting his head out into the afternoon light. Gripping the walls as an anchor, he brought one leg slowly up along his side. The weight above pressed relentlessly, and his hip ached from the strain. When he could push his knee no higher, he muscled his foot outward in a slow arc until it butted against something soft yet unyielding.
Jemidon tensed the muscles in his back and arms for one final shove. He filled his lungs as best he could. With a shout, he kicked savagely and grated across the floor. Gathering momentum, he crashed through the opening and skidded across the rough ground outside.
Jemidon scrambled to his feet, not bothering to notice the scrapes and splinters on his face and arms. “Safe,” he exclaimed. “I did not reach you any too soon. A run on the vaults was the logical consequence, once it was learned that tokens no longer hold special value.”
He looked at Augusta, expecting her to reply, but found her staring at the street and the vault offices across the way. Everywhere the scene was the same. Crazed crowds carried out what small stores of wealth they could find. In frenzied fighting, they squabbled over what little there was.
“Safe,” she echoed vacantly. “Safe. What has happened, Jemidon? I do not understand.”
“It is the same for all the vaults, Augusta. All across the island, Arcadia, and Procolon. Magic is no more.”
“All the vaults?” Augusta asked, shaking herself out of a daze. “Then none of the holders will have a basis for any votes. Those who have deposited will all demand their due. We are debtors one and all.”
She looked at Jemidon, her eyes growing wide. “Yes, we are safe—safe until the election. Until Trocolar has his way.”
“His fortune is based the same as yours,” Jemidon said. “And so is that of everyone else. It is unclear who will be judged the richest, if tokens no longer matter.”
“Not all his wealth is in the vaults,” Augusta said. “He owns ships, men, and warehouses full of goods. Bolts of silk, barrel staves, links of heavy chain, seedcorn, and flour. A thousand items that he can barter for advantage. He is well prepared to make profit on whatever strikes the speculator’s fancy. Why, on the way back from the grotto, he bragged that he even had acquired a boatload of citrine and amethyst to add to his holdings.”
“But at least his threat cannot be the shrinking cube,” Jemidon said. “That device now functions no better than the rest.”
“Then chains and hot needles.” Augusta shrugged. “He will think of something else to—”
“Citrine and amethyst,” Jemidon interrupted. “You say that Trocolar is the one with the gems?”
“They cannot matter,” Augusta said. “Trocolar showed me some samples. At most, they can be made into inexpensive baubles for the wide-eyed visitors from the mainland. He would need a powerful glamour to entice one with any knowledge to pay more than a copper for a barrelful.”
“But, like magic, sorcery is no more. No one can mouth a working cantrip. The words have no resistance.” Jemidon paused while his thoughts raced. “And yet, if not an enchantment, what compelled me on the way here? Yes, now that I think on it, the displays on the street were like the projections in the storm and the presentation hall—moving images on a screen that somehow shaped one’s thoughts. Drandor! His strange animations. The smiling trader and Trocolar. There is a connection. It is too great a puzzle, and the solution can wait no longer. I must find out, Augusta, regardless of the fee.”
“Wait, where are you going?” Augusta called out as Jemidon bolted for the street.
“Come. I will take you to Rosimar’s guild for safety,” he called back as thoughts of Delia formed with a renewed intensity in his mind. “Then I will see Benedict, the divulgent, to ask him how he fared with his purchase of the stones. And this time I will not leave until I have negotiated the exchange of information.”
“My blade is small, but I warn you, it bites deep, nonetheless.”
“As before, I am here to trade.” Jemidon looked at Benedict, who was huddled in the far corner of his cubicle, clutching his strongbox with both arms to his chest. Jemidon’s sense of urgency had been growing ever since Augusta had been left at the guild. The cries in the street made it clear that little time remained before a complete collapse of order. But the divulgent could prove to be of value. Jemidon willed himself into the appearance of nonchalant calm and slowly motioned Rosimar to enter behind him as he sat on one of the stools.
“A copper,” Benedict said. “And two more for a guest.”
“What I have for you is worth far more than three coppers,” Jemidon replied. “Even more than the tokens you would charge for the contents of that now-worthless box.”
“‘Perfection is eternal’ indeed!” Benedict spat. “A stronghold impervious to the dent of the mightiest hammer, so I was told. Look at it now. No more than a tray with a well-hinged lid. And no hasp for an ordinary lock, at that. Even a child could flip it open
and seize the contents if I did not stand on guard. It is as worthless as the tokens that you offer to pay.”
“Let us be gone,” Rosimar said behind Jemidon’s back. “This is an affair of magic, not gossip of the harbor. If Augusta had not wished that I come along, I would be elsewhere, employing my skills as a master.”
“There is no time to learn everything that we must know,” Jemidon said. “The knowledge of a divulgent may save us many a step.”
“His brain is clearly addled.” Rosimar moved to Jemidon’s side and waved across the high table. “He can only impede what I must do.”
“I plan to convince him that our goal is the same,” Jemidon said. “That we can work to the benefit of us all.”
“No, not of us all!” Rosimar suddenly thundered. “By no means will we all achieve what we seek.” His face flushed; with a deep glower, he raised his fist in the air. “This time I will not be haunted by your memory, Jemidon. This time there can be no doubt about the value of what I provide. This time there will be gratitude without reservation. This time Augusta will not whine and complain about the love she left behind, about how slowly I advanced in the hierarchy of the guild, and about how few were the gowns of silk that I could afford. When I snatch her away from Trocolar’s certain torture, there will be no excuse to cast me aside and strike out on her own.”
Rosimar’s knuckles whitened. His hand shook as he continued. “And this time I will make sure that the credit is properly placed. In the end, it will all be mine, not shared with a would-be neophyte who cannot work the simplest ritual—one who curries favor by resurrecting the past, rather than with solid works expertly done.”
Jemidon blinked at the sudden rush of passion. He returned Rosimar’s stare, looking for a spark of reason behind the emotion. In addition to everything else, he did not need petty bickering. He pushed the confused tangle that defined his own feelings toward Augusta away and focused on why he was in the divulgent’s cubicle. “There is no time for that now, Rosimar,” he said. “Three working together will serve Augusta better than each laboring apart.”
“If I will not share with one, then neither will I with two,” Rosimar rushed on. “And certainly I see no advantage in a timid divulgent who does not know even the value of pebbles I can fetch from an ore dump.”
“Did you not see the exchange board as you passed?” Benedict asked. “It is empty, wiped clean in the past hour. No longer is value measured in tokens. Each commodity is individually bartered, and no standards prevail. And I know what will happen as a consequence. There is information from the past and other places that foreshadows the events here. Already I have learned of the effects on the shoreline. Ships have missed the tide because the fee for the crew’s provisions could not be settled. Goods will remain to rot in storage because no one is sure of their true worth. Commerce will halt. Many stomachs will be empty before a new order is established.”
The divulgent’s eyes took on a faraway look as he stroked the lid of the box in his lap. “But scentstones are different. They possess a spicy essence that men will fight for; they produce a thirst that cannot be slacked. And more importantly, there are not enough to satisfy the demand. Already a large one has been traded for a barrel of the purest oil. There is a rumor that my rival Cumbrist will offer the use of his cubicle for the next year for three handfuls.
“I desire them as the rest do, but I can see also a second purpose they serve as well. The price has doubled in the last hour. In the next, it probably will double again. With only two more days to the election, who knows what one’s fortune might turn out to be?”
“I saw you in line to buy some of the first,” Jemidon said. “Worthless pebbles with allure for minutes at most.”
Benedict’s eyes glazed over, and he did not acknowledge Jemidon’s words. Looking past Rosimar’s shoulder, he stared vacantly at the curtain behind.
Jemidon stamped his foot and then clapped his hands, but Benedict did not move. With little spasms, the divulgent’s fingers twitched on the lid of his strongbox.
“The scentstones,” Jemidon said. “Benedict, pay attention. Do you have them here?”
“My dagger.” Benedict shook out of his reverie and fumbled with a blade at his belt. “It will be my answer if you press too close.”
“Yet before today, did you care at all about such pebbles?” Jemidon continued. “Does it not strike you as odd? Yes, think of something else besides the stones. Break the connection as I did on the street. What of the threat to what you have in your arms in addition to the chips of rock? Jerk your attention away.”
Benedict huddled in the corner and raised his dagger threateningly. Slowly Jemidon slid from the stool and advanced. “All of your information,” he said. “Is it worth sacrificing that to save what rattles between the scrolls?”
Benedict’s face froze in a mask of tension. He tentatively jabbed the blade forward as he watched Jemidon approach. He started to speak again, but then paused, squinting his eyes.
“Now the stones themselves,” Jemidon said, coming another step closer. “What allure can they really have? Look at them quickly. Make sure that they are worth the risk.”
Benedict shook his head in denial. But as Jemidon moved forward again, the divulgent quickly thrust his hand inside his box to withdraw one of the stones. He looked at the rock hurriedly and cast it aside. Throwing back the lid, he reached to the bottom and extracted a handful of pebbles, the smaller ones slipping between his fingers to bounce on the floor.
“Cinnamon,” the divulgent said, puzzled. “Only cinnamon! By the looks, the magician is right as well. Murky stones with inclusions and flaws.”
Benedict looked back at Jemidon. “But how can that be? It is as I have said. Some purchased after mine have traded hands many times, and each exchange has fetched a more princely sum.”
“I know who is responsible for the mysteries,” Jemidon said, returning to his stool. “And I hope that you know how to gain entry into his keep by some stealth. If we exchange what we know, then perhaps in addition to who and where, we will be able to learn how.”
Benedict looked at the pile of rocks as they dribbled out of his hand. Slowly he inverted his palm to let the last few drop away. “Penniless,” he mumbled. “Everything I traded for worthless rock. And more I borrowed from others, besides.”
Finally he looked up at Jemidon. “You may have information of some value,” he said. “And as things stand, I have few options, other than to hear what you have to say. Perhaps the fee for the chairs can be waved.”
Jemidon smiled and motioned Rosimar to the other stool. But before the magician moved, one of the pages thrust his head through the curtain leading to the court.
“The men-at-arms,” the boy said. “They are searching each cubicle, one by one. It is to impound the assets. All property belonging to the vaultholders is to be seized against payment of their debts.”
“Another exit,” Jemidon said. “We cannot exchange information if I am bound.”
“The debts of the vaultholders are no concern of mine.” Benedict retreated back to the far wall. “From the mercenaries I have nothing to hide.”
“And neither will you learn about the stones,” Jemidon said, “nor of what has happened to the tokens and sorcery. Without information, how can you hope to repay your newly acquired debts?”
Benedict bit his lip. His eyes darted around the small room. He looked from Jemidon to Rosimar and then at the pebbles at his feet. “Why did I care?” He shook his head. “The allure was so real. And no doubt Cumbrist pursues them still. The divulgent who first understands it all will have knowledge of great value, to be sure.”
He paused and looked at Jemidon a final time. “Quickly.” He motioned to a hinged panel in the rear wall. “We will strike the bargain, once we are away from the exchange.”
Benedict ducked through the opening. Jemidon rounded the high table to follow. He turned to look at Rosimar, who was slowly descending from his stool. “The two of
us will proceed without you if we must,” he called back, “but a master’s knowledge of magic may be useful as well.”
Rosimar hesitated a moment and then frowned as he heard the clink of mail. “Until you are to be cast aside.” He shrugged. “Until then, I will permit myself to follow.”
CHAPTER NINE
The Shadow in the Keep
IN the moonlight filtering through the trees, Jemidon shifted position to get a better view. He looked down to the shoreline where their small skiff could be seen bobbing on the gentle waves. Farther back across the water were the lights of Pluton, some mere pinpoints, but others the flickering brightness of fires out of control.
Jemidon looked back at the rising slope of the island. The trees blanketed the hillside toward the crest, except on the right, where they had been cleared away for the garishly decorated structure of stone and iron. Behind the crest and out of sight was the other island in the bay, the one that contained Augusta’s vault. Jemidon had not guessed that the larger of the two islands in the bay was owned by Trocolar. The leader of the tradesmen had indicated nothing when Augusta ferried him to her vault three days before.
But Benedict had been insistent. The island and the estate were indeed Trocolar’s. The divulgent had said that, if there was more to be learned, it would most likely be there. And so, under the cover of nightfall, he, Jemidon, and Rosimar had rowed across the bay and landed unobserved where the green canopy came nearly to the shore.
“I will have the correct amounts in a moment,” Benedict whispered above the soft jingle of coins. “My sorting device barely functions; the output from a single column is more often a scramble than not.”
“Why not carry a pouch the way everyone else does and dip into it, once the price has been settled?” Rosimar growled in irritation. “The guards on the wall or some patrol will soon find us if you continue to fumble.”
“A full purse is no way to bargain for several favors,” Benedict said. “You will empty it for the first and get no other. I acknowledge your mastery of your craft, Rosimar; respect my skill in mine. A divulgent prepares his cape with many pockets, each with but one coin or two.”
