Secret of the Sixth Magic

by Lyndon Hardy

  Benedict moved slightly, and Jemidon saw the glint of the coinchanger at the divulgent’s waist. He watched as Benedict fingered the levers and scowled at the results in his palm. The divulgent selected a single coin from the pile to put in a pocket and returned the rest to the top of the device.

  “I am ready at last,” Benedict said as the jingle stopped. “The guard at the postern gate has told me much before, but never have I convinced him to let me enter. What we learn in Trocolar’s private estate had better be of supreme value to justify our risk.”

  “Then perhaps I should proceed alone,” Rosimar said. “I would have expected something more from this skill of yours than a simple bribe.”

  “A secret passage, perhaps,” Benedict snapped back. “Or maybe a ring that levitates the bearer over walls. You are the magician. What do you bring to our agreement in addition to your razor-edged tongue?”

  “Enough!” Jemidon waved his arms for silence. The muscles in his neck were knotted from anticipation. Keeping the other two from bickering was an added irritant that he could well do without. “Enough. Just get us inside. The rest does not matter.”

  “You are the least qualified to speak,” Rosimar said. “Except in stealth, you cannot move about on Pluton at all. The mercenaries will make sure all frozen assets are properly impounded; their annual fee depends on how well they perform.”

  “Our goal is to learn how the laws of magic and sorcery have been turned off,” Jemidon said. “And, if the random factors align, how to reactivate them as well. With the tokens in Augusta’s vault once more a well-regarded tender, she will be no debtor, and I can act as I choose.”

  “But if not within two days, the election will be over and Trocolar will prevail,” Rosimar said. “After that, it will not matter for you whether the craft is again operative or not.”

  “If you see all outcomes so bleak, then why continue?” Jemidon asked. “Return to your guild and wait out the storm. From the safety of your surrounding walls, try to convince Augusta of your aid in her behalf.”

  Rosimar glared at Jemidon, then at Benedict. Finally he shrugged and folded his arms inside his robe. Benedict hesitated a moment, but no one said more. The divulgent nibbled on his lip and started to move farther into the shadows.

  They traveled the rest of the way to the estate in silence, filtering among the trees. While Jemidon and Rosimar waited on the edge of the clearing, Benedict darted across to confer with the guard.

  The moon was bright in a cloudless sky. Strong shadows of the roofline traced a jagged pattern across the naked landscape surrounding the keep. The structure was not large—two storeys with perhaps a half-dozen rooms in each—but the face work resembled that of a large castle from the mainland of Arcadia or even Procolon across the sea. Miniature bartizans budded from crenellated walls. Tiny loopholes dotted shallow bastions. Each row of square-cut stone was slightly smaller than the one upon which it rested, giving the illusion of greater height as one scanned upward.

  While Jemidon watched, Benedict appeared out of the gloom of the small gatehouse, beckoning him and Rosimar to come forward. In a moment all three were inside, examining the dim walls and a grim-faced guard still clutching a fist full of coins.

  “He says that they all are at their evening meal,” Benedict whispered. “Including Trocolar’s new partner, who spends most of his time in the dampness below.”

  “Then to the dungeon,” Jemidon said softly. “We may learn everything we need before they have finished their wine.”

  “The stair is on the south wall.” Benedict motioned with his head. “But the guard will not escort us down. And the entry is barred and locked, besides.”

  “A simple lock will not stop us.” Jemidon felt his excitement begin to rise. “Come along. I will show you how it is done.”

  Without waiting to see if the others would follow, Jemidon turned and ran down the steps. It felt good to move quickly after all the cautious stealth. The passage was narrow, dirty, and hung with cobwebs. Just enough light to guide his feet flickered down from torches set high in the wall.

  On the landing below, Jemidon paused a moment for his eyes to adjust to the gloom. He saw a single short passage leading to heavy wooden doors barred by a single beam chained in place. From his cape, he pulled a finger-length shaft of metal with a narrow flange on one end and inserted it in the lock. After a few experimental probes, he rotated it a quarter turn to the left, and the hasp snapped open. Just as Rosimar and Benedict came up behind, he carefully pushed the bar aside and motioned them to enter.

  The doors opened onto one vast room, the view interrupted only by stout posts that supported the beams and planking of the ceiling above. In each corner, small alcoves projected off at odd angles, their entrances barred by grates of iron. Each was filled to overflowing with sacks, barrels, and wooden boxes. Stuffed in crannies were heaps of chain, shafts of steel, shields, pikes, and bowls of polished copper. More goods cluttered the main floor—piles of linen, bins of grain, huge leather volumes bound in groups of six, and rough tarpaulins covering stacked crates and lumpy mounds. In the very center, barely separate from the piles which pushed in from all sides, was a small anthanor with its coals still smoldering. Next to it was an array of large sacks, one tipped to the side, spilling hundreds of small, translucent stones on the floor. The smell of cinnamon mingled with the musty and humid air. Pokers and tongs lay scattered about, and pushed to one side was a large lattice of wires and beads.

  “Drandor!” Jemidon exclaimed, forgetting the hushed tones he had used before. “I knew I would track him down. And this time we will examine his wares with far more care to learn what secrets they possess.”

  Jemidon eagerly moved across the room toward the lattice. He looked up at one of the supporting beams and saw the familiar form of the guarding imp asleep in its bottle. Staying far enough away not to excite the sprite, he slowly began to examine the structure, looking for any differences since he had seen it last.

  “Why is it so important?” he muttered aloud. “So important to Drandor that Delia took it rather than anything else when she fled? If only she—”

  Jemidon stopped and looked around the room. Except for Benedict peering curiously into one of the alcoves and Rosimar standing in the entrance, there was no one else there.

  Jemidon grimaced in disappointment. Although he had never expressed it consciously, he had evidently envisioned Delia to be with the rest—a daring confrontation and a final rescue. But what if he could find the secret of how the trader suspended the laws of sorcery and magic and be away before anyone returned? He would have all that he needed to obtain the robe of the master. Why then track down Drandor to ask what he had done with a slave girl? Jemidon’s scowl deepened with his hesitancy. He tried to force himself to examine the lattice, to focus on what was most important before being distracted by anything else.

  Tentatively, he took another step closer to the structure, but stopped in midstep as a chorus of footfalls echoed down the passageway leading above. Benedict dropped the book he was examining, flung open the grating in front of him, and squirmed into the alcove behind. Jemidon looked back at Rosimar and saw the master standing rigidly erect, making no attempt to hide himself.

  Jemidon ran back across the room. “Quickly,” he said. “Into one of the side rooms. Apparently the iron gates are unlocked.”

  “Too small,” Rosimar moaned feebly. “Too small. The gloom, the musty walls. I cannot. The room, it confines. I must be away.”

  Jemidon looked into the sweating face and dazed eyes. He had seen the same expression when Rosimar had ventured into the grotto. The noises outside became louder. Jemidon stepped to the doors and pulled them shut. He turned back to Rosimar and grabbed him about the shoulders. “This way,” he commanded. “Control your feelings. We must hide without delay.”

  Rosimar opened his mouth to protest as Jemidon herded him toward one of the alcoves, but Jemidon clamped his free hand over the magician’s mouth. He ho
oked the grating with his foot, swung it open, and pushed Rosimar inside. With a final swirl, he looped his foot behind the iron bars and pulled them shut. Just as the wooden doors to the room creaked open, he shoved Rosimar behind a crate and tumbled on top of him.

  “Strange, I was sure we secured the entrance as Trocolar had directed when we left.” Jemidon heard a voice he recognized as that of Holgon the magician. “But it is no wonder. Nine passes with the dove were boring enough. Today’s tedium dulls even the brightest mind.”

  “Continue as you have been told, and you will be rewarded well,” another voice answered. “The Maxim of Perseverance, ‘repetition unto success,’ may not be as precise as the one before, but the results are nearly the same.”

  Jemidon strained to hear the second speaker and frowned. The voice was not unfamiliar, but he could not place it for certain. He looked down at Rosimar and saw the magician’s knuckles pressed to his teeth. Cautiously, Jemidon released his grip and waited for a reaction. Rosimar remained still, rigidly stiff and unmoving. Jemidon paused a moment more and then, indicating silence, slowly rose to peer through a crack between the stacked crates.

  He looked out to see Holgon, tightly bundled in a heavy cloak and wearing woolen gloves. The magician huddled over the furnace and was talking to someone just outside Jemidon’s view. Two guardsmen with bored expressions lounged against supporting posts, ignoring the conversation. From the metallic rustle of mail, Jemidon could tell that there were more men-at-arms in the room as well.

  “It will take nearly a hundred times,” the soft voice continued. There was a hint of some accent about it and a breathless quality, as if each word would be the last before a massive gulp of air. “But with each repetition of the ritual, the effect becomes more likely to happen. You rushed the first stones to the marketplace, Holgon, with barely a dozen complete enactments. Some of the purchasers were able to shake the illusion that compelled them to buy and saw what the pebbles truly were. Only when you increased the repetition for the next batch did the images hold firm beyond the first hour. And without the subsequent trades, an increase in value would never have happened.”

  Jemidon nodded in his hiding place. That explained why there had been no outcry about worthless stones as there was for the tokens. Except for himself, Benedict, and a few others, the illusion had held. After the glamour that compelled him had faded, something else convinced the owner that they were still very special. With growing excitement about what he was learning, Jemidon strained forward to catch more.

  He saw Holgon sigh and then dip into the sack for one of the small stones. The magician gripped it with tongs, inserted it into the furnace, and began to stomp his feet. The guard on the left unbuckled his sword and lowered it to the ground. He then joined Holgon’s beat, clapping his hands to the rhythm while simultaneously banging together two cymbals strapped to the insides of his forearms. The other guard scooped some pieces of rope from the floor and tied them together in a series of intricate knots, while puffing his cheeks with air and then swallowing in noisy gulps.

  “The Rhythm of Refraction,” Jemidon muttered to himself. “Except for the use of cymbals instead of drums, it is the magic ritual for making a lens that focuses all of the colors the same.”

  “Enough,” the soft voice commanded abruptly. “It is the number of repetitions that count, not the perfection of each step as it is performed.”

  Holgon grunted and extracted the stone from the furnace. With his free hand, he flicked open a small vent above the coals. A brilliant yellow shaft of light shot out into the room. Holgon held the stone to intercept the beam, and one of the guards scurried to hold a scrap of cloth on the other side.

  “Nothing,” Holgon said after a moment. “It is no different from all the times before.”

  “Patience,” the soft voice commanded. “I suffer without comment the small air volume of this room. Repeat the ritual as you have been told.”

  Holgon shrugged and began to move the stone slowly back and forth across the beam, momentarily blotting it out and creating bursts of light that hit the cloth. Another guard extracted a poker from the coals; with each pulse of light, he gently dabbed the cloth with the tip.

  “And again enough,” the voice said. “After a dozen passes, the burning point grows too cold. Start from the beginning and proceed as before.”

  Everyone returned to his former position, and the sequence was reinitiated. Holgon heated the rock in the furnace and stamped the dust, while the others executed their parts of the ritual in step with the cadence.

  “Eventually there will be transparency,” the voice continued. “Never as fine as the most exacting lens, but with each heating, each bathing in the flow of the flame, each burning of the cloth, the barrier to the light weakens. Eventually it will suddenly shine through.”

  “But why not have the glamour carry it all?” Holgon asked. “If the owner believes, it does not matter whether the scentstone truly is flawed or not.”

  “As I have already explained, the glamour can do no more. It is the Rule of the Threshold, or ‘fleeting in sight, fixed in mind.’ The subtle messages that flash on the screen with the animations cannot be too short, or they never would be noticed. But if they are presented too long, the mind becomes aware that they are there, and their power is lost. The glamours in the marketplace strain to the limit. They can convince no more than they do now.”

  “It still sounds better than this excuse for magic.” Holgon extracted the tongs for a second time. “Perhaps I should become like the archmage and learn more than one art.”

  “Your archmage!” The voice tinkled in what Jemidon took to be a laugh. “Soon his skills will be no more. The imps twitter that he has heard of the strange failures of sorcery all around this globe and that he finds no explanation at home and plans even to strike across the seas in search for the cause. But by the time he gets to Arcadia, Trocolar’s payment to me of Pluton’s mercenary constabulary will have long since passed. And then for the rest, it will be too late.”

  Jemidon strained against the crates which defined his hiding place, trying to ferret out the true meaning of all the words. He shifted his position slightly and then felt a sudden kick from Rosimar’s legs. He looked back to the ground just in time to see the magician explode in a frenzy of motion, his eyes twitching in a wild panic.

  “Air, clear air! I can withstand no more!” the magician screamed. He bolted upright and shouldered against the crates in front, sending them in a crash to the floor and knocking open the grating to the larger room. Instinctively, Jemidon pulled at Rosimar’s robe, but grasped only emptiness. Together, they clattered out onto the dusty stonework for all to see.

  “Seize them,” the voice commanded as the men-at-arms sprang to life. “This is not according to my plan.”

  Jemidon turned for the doorway, but managed only half a step through the clutter before he was hit from the side and hurled to the ground. He rose to one knee, but two more guards joined the first, pushing him to the stones. He looked quickly about to see another slap the flat side of his sword against Rosimar’s head, crumpling the magician in a heap. Benedict bolted from his hiding place and tried to rush past Holgon, but the master thrust his glowing poker between the divulgent’s legs as he dashed by, crashing him to the ground, where he lay gasping in pain.

  “Trocolar advised me well to keep his dungeon secured,” the voice said with the same soft cadence that had come before. “When these are fettered, search the other alcoves. There may be more.”

  Jemidon struggled to look in the direction of the anthanor and, for the first time, saw Holgon’s companion. The figure was thin and tall, easily a head taller than even Canthor, the bailiff on Morgana. He was totally covered from head to toe with a dark brown greatcloak and deep hood that shielded his face entirely in shadow. The cloth hung heavy and limp, water glistening among the coarse threads. A small pool had formed from what dripped from the low hem to the floor. A belt of gold braid cinched in a narrow
waist, and a multicolored cube hung from the clasp. Jemidon saw a tiny circle of imp light dancing around the hood and heard the hiss of gently moving air behind the soft tones of the accented voice.

  The guards dragged Jemidon to his feet and, with his arms held tightly behind, pushed him toward the stranger. As he drew closer, Jemidon caught his breath. Cold air rolled around his knees and swirled up to his chest. As if stepping out onto an arctic meadow from a well insulated hut, he found himself shuddering and tried to turn away.

  But as he did, he suddenly remembered the suggestion of coldness in Drandor’s tent and the wisp of icy air behind the latched door in the presentation hall. They had been only hints before; but now, in the almost overpowering numbness, he was sure they were the same.

  “Delia,” he blurted. “What has become of her? Your presence is tied closely with that of the smiling trader; I can sense it. You must know where they are. Where is Drandor and how did he cause the changes to come to pass?”

  “Drandor?” the voice asked. “Drandor, the cause of the changes?” The soft burble of laughter continued for more than a minute. “He has served his purpose well and now he sleeps with my manipulants.”

  A long, thin finger with smooth, unwrinkled skin poked out from one of the draping sleeves and touched Jemidon’s chest with an icy coldness. “Know Drandor for what he is. A minion. A minion like Holgon here and no more. A minion who has traded his talents for what he might have when I am done.”

  The finger retracted and touched the center of the greatcloak. “It is I, Melizar, who is the master. Melizar, the first among the pilots.”

  Jemidon peered into the inky blackness of the hood, but only a hint of the dark features could be discerned. He tested the grip of the guard behind; the man was well trained and held him firm. “But what of Delia?” he insisted. Somehow he felt he wanted to know that the most of all. “What has been done with her?”