by Lyndon Hardy
“Drandor does not always show good judgment in the treatment of his property,” Melizar said. “Especially when it is jointly owned. I have done what is necessary in her regard.”
Jemidon’s thoughts raced to frame another question; but before he could speak again, more footfalls sounded on the stone passageway outside the room. All turned to look. In a moment, three more of Trocolar’s men raced through the doors.
“The stones, the scentstones! The trader needs another chestful of them now.”
“They are not ready,” Melizar said. “We barely will have a gross of them finished by the eve of the election. As they are endowed now, too many purchasers can break out of their spell.”
“The spell does not matter,” the first of the newcomers said. “It is enough that they can be distinguished from the opaque pebbles on the beach. The demand exceeds the supply. Already a woman is the price for the smallest. Not even a fine team of horses will serve for one bigger than a pecan. Who cares about scents that eventually decay away? With the collapse of the token, it is the new fever of the hour. No one bothers to trade in anything else. Everyone scrambles to recover in a day the fortunes that have vanished.
“And the prescription is so simple. Buy in the morning and sell at noon for a return that nets you tenfold. One cannot fail. Why, Trocolar is the richest man on the island. He has been offered an estate on the crestline for a chestful. Make haste with the whole sack. We are all to come as guards, the entire household. The mercenaries cannot keep order everywhere at once. He has promised us each a handful if we are prompt.”
“It proceeds too quickly,” Melizar said. “It is not according to my plan. The crowds may prove fickle without the full use of the arts.”
“Our orders are to transport them now. Stand aside. Our own fortunes are at stake with the rest.”
“It does not follow the dictates of my plan,” Melizar repeated. “The stones are not properly prepared.”
“All of us here serve Trocolar the trader first.” The speaker’s voice grew threatening. “The wishes of his partners, no matter how well reasoned, must come later.”
“Wait!” Melizar suddenly waved his cloaked arm over his head. “Wait until I have calculated the consequences. Do not show such haste.”
Jemidon heard the gentle hiss about Melizar’s head abruptly increase to a roar. The imp light intensified into painful stabs of light. Frost began to form over Melizar’s cloak as he drew his arms to his chest and slumped into a ball. The cold air billowed down his sides, and a wet fog rolled across the floor. Trocolar’s men hesitated, stepping back from the dense air as it encircled their boots. They looked from one to another, trying to see who would take the lead on what to do next.
For several minutes, no one moved. The air in the room grew chillingly cold. Jemidon could tell which held their breath by the absence of cloudlets about their faces. Then, as quickly as they had started, the noise and lights began to fade. Melizar stood erect and unfolded his arms. Small shards of ice tinkled to the floor.
“Enough.” Melizar waved his arms again. “Enough. I have thought through the pattern of events.” The imp light dimmed to almost nothing. The whistling sound receded to the distant murmur it had been before. “I will do as the trader suggests and let you transport the stones now. It is as Holgon says. If the beholder perceives value, then intrinsic worth does not matter. But I must go along to ensure that Trocolar does not act too precipitously or even forget all the conditions of our bargain.”
The deep shadow turned back to face Jemidon. “And as for these, place them in one of the side rooms. They perhaps are the minions of a disgruntled vaultholder. Or maybe even his assets. Yes, it will save Trocolar the trouble of searching. For their capture, I will ask an additional fee.”
Jemidon watched sullenly as he and the other two were thrust into one of the alcoves and the lock snapped shut. He saw Holgon remove a crucible of molten metal from the anthanor and pour it into the keyhole as the rest of Trocolar’s men prepared to leave.
“A more difficult challenge than the outer lock,” the magician said. “I am sure that Trocolar would want you here when we return.”
Melizar exited with the last, pausing as he left to examine the lattice beside the furnace. Slowly he ran his slender hands along the wires and fondled the beads with his fingertips.
“So close and yet so different,” he said, touching one of the vertices and tapping it gently. “So unlike where we almost succeeded before.”
He ran his finger down one of the wires to an adjacent vertex and then at right angles up to a third. “And yet, two steps already taken. The basis is set for one more. And three should be enough. Three changes to the unfamiliar, and none here will be able to cope. The remaining four shifts will come with ease. And then I can traverse at will, move back and forth between what I know and the unexplored, and add new vertices with no threat of dissent.”
Melizar sighted down one of the slender tendrils that arched from the dense central maze. “I shall discover what lurks beyond the last node in the thaumaturgy line. Yes, the satisfaction will be great indeed.”
He turned back to look a final time into the cell that confined Jemidon. “Drandor the causes of changes, indeed! Not in this place and time.”
As the last footfalls of Melizar’s departure faded, Jemidon shook the bars in frustration. He had learned much, but was no closer to his goal than before. He had to escape soon, before the trail once again grew as cold as Melizar’s cloak. He looked at the broken sword blades on the floor. Trying to pry back the bolt had served only to snap the finely wrought steel. The rest of the crates contained nothing of value to aid in their escape.
Benedict huddled on a small keg in the corner, wringing his hands and moaning softly about the burns on his legs. “I should not have been swayed by the value,” the divulgent muttered. “The risk, the risk, it was too great.”
A loud groan cut off Benedict’s whispering as Rosimar flailed his arms through the air and pulled himself to sitting. The trickle of blood from his scalp had clotted in a stringy cake that ran over one eye and down his cheek. “Air,” the magician croaked hoarsely. “I must get out to the fresh air.”
Jemidon looked from one to the other and sighed. He moved to allow Rosimar to stumble forward and rattle the grating.
“Air!” Rosimar shrieked again. “I cannot withstand it. Give me air.”
“The magician awakes.” Benedict rose to his feet. “It is his magic that is our hope.” He climbed over the intervening boxes and grabbed the front of Rosimar’s robe, twisting him around. “You boasted of your worth. Now is the time to prove your mettle. You must get us out before that cold one returns.”
“Magic.” Rosimar shook his head vacantly. “Magic, magic swords and rings of power. Magic to give me air. If I had but one such object, I could barter my way to freedom.” He turned and stared at Jemidon, squinting through the clotted blood. “But this one says that magic is no more. All my craft is gone, vanished like a demon’s wind.” He sagged to the floor. “And in truth, none of my rituals work as they should. Empty forms that might as well be abstract dances for entertaining a prince! My magic is gone and I cannot get my air.”
Rosimar started to say more, but stopped and turned to the grating. He gripped the bars and tried to thrust his face between them, gasping for breath.
Benedict watched for a moment and then placed his hand tentatively on Rosimar’s shoulder. The magician did not respond, but continued to stare out into the storeroom, eyes bulging and forehead glistening with sweat. The divulgent nibbled at his lip and darted his eyes about the alcove. With a long sigh, he slumped his shoulders and resumed wringing his hands.
“They left the equipment here untouched.” Jemidon grabbed at Benedict as the divulgent started back for the corner. “Look about, man. Maybe there is something we still can learn by keen observation or something that Melizar said that can yet key a discovery.”
“So close and yet so differ
ent,” Benedict replied absently. “So unlike where we almost succeeded before.”
“Yes, that is the idea,” Jemidon said. “Melizar’s words when he touched the lattice. You remember them well.”
“Those are his exact words. A divulgent must retain what he is told with no repetition, else he will find he has paid for nothing.”
“You remember all the conversation?” Jemidon asked. “Everything?”
“Strange, I was sure we secured the entrance—” Benedict nodded and began again, but Jemidon excitedly waved him to stop.
“Never mind about Holgon. Concentrate on Melizar. What did he say when they were heating the stones?”
“Eventually they will be sufficiently transparent. Never as fine—”
“No, after that.”
“The Rule of the Threshold, or ‘fleeting in sight, fixed in mind.’”
“And the Maxim of Perseverance,” Jemidon added. He began to pace within the small confines of their cell, nervously fingering the old coin around his neck. He squeezed between two open crates and flexed his palm around the grip of one of the unbroken swords.
“‘Repetition unto success.’ Melizar spoke of laws. As if they guided his efforts like those that apply to the crafts—”
Jemidon paused as his thoughts suddenly exploded. “The glamours of the marketplace,” he said after a moment. “And a ritual almost the same as the Rhythm of Refraction. Sorcery is governed by the Rule of Three, and Melizar spoke of a Rule of the Threshold. Magic obeys the Maxim of Persistence, and he talked of perseverance instead.”
Jemidon’s eyes widened and he slapped his thigh. “That’s it, Benedict, don’t you see? Sorcery and magic are not merely inoperative. There are still seven laws, just as there were before. The laws have not simply vanished. They have been replaced, substituted by ones similar but not quite the same. Seven laws. Seven before and still seven after the transformation.”
Jemidon stopped a second time and looked out into the storeroom. The leap of intuition was based on nothing substantial, but somehow he knew he was right. He grabbed a piece of debris and threw it through the bars to strike the imp bottle attached to the overhead beam.
“The Postulate of Invariance.” The imp fluttered to life. “Seven exactly; there can be no more. The lattice, it is my master’s master’s. You cannot touch.”
“Yes, the Postulate of Invariance!” Jemidon yelled, grabbing Benedict by the shoulders and shaking him back and forth. “Invariance. A constant. Seven laws. There can be no more or no less. Whenever one is turned off, another must take its place.
“It is a new law of the arts, Benedict! We have found another law! No, wait, not a law but a metalaw. A law about the laws. A statement that there are many, but that only seven can be in effect at any one time. Different arts, many principles that guide them.
“And no one even suspected. Not even the archmage. It has been the same throughout history, from the very first sagas. The seven that we know so well were painstakingly discovered, and then no more were found. For at least a thousand years and, who knows, maybe back to the beginning of time, there have been seven constant laws and no reason to suspect that there could be more.”
“You gibber too fast for even a divulgent,” Benedict said. “Laws or metalaws, such abstractions make little difference. There is more to be gleaned from the tangible. What of this lattice of which the imp speaks?”
“The lattice is the proof,” Jemidon said. “It is the—the road map by which one navigates through the realm of the laws. The first vertex Melizar touched represented the seven laws as we know them. Move one node to the right and the Rule of Three was replaced by the Rule of the Threshold. Continuing in that direction would change sorcery to something more exotic still. Instead, the next change was in a different direction, changing the Maxim of Persistence to the Maxim of Perseverance. The lattice has seven distinct axes—seven directions, one for each of the laws and the many possibilities along each one.”
“I see no sevenfold mapping throughout that structure.” Benedict squinted at the framework. “Only in small sections and there for a few nodes at most.”
“It represents only what Melizar has explored,” Jemidon said. “It is how he keeps track of where he has been. Yes, that is it. Melizar cannot turn off a law; he cannot create one. He can only replace it by the next in line. At the edges, if he moves in a direction for which there is no node, a new law is invoked that must be found through experimentation, one that he does not know.”
“Your thoughts gallop too fast for me to judge their significance,” Benedict protested. “And they seem to infer too much from the small hints we have heard tonight. How can you construct such fanciful structures from so meager a basis?”
“I—I do not know.” Jemidon slowed his patter. “It—it just came to me in a rush. I have always been good at seeing the whole from the parts. Perhaps it is because I have had other hints along the way.”
Jemidon stepped back from the grating and took a deep breath. His present danger, his link to Augusta’s fate, even if he could escape, and his longing for the robe of a master all faded away in the seductive rush of a new discovery. He felt the exhilaration of finally solving a complex puzzle after many abortive attempts—a last turn that removed a ring from a string or the final piece that made a picture complete.
“In any event, the knowledge is of little value.” Benedict jarred Jemidon’s thoughts back to their plight. “Knowing all the secrets of the universe is of no help if we still must remain here to receive Trocolar’s displeasure. If he is indeed elected head of the council, he can make the penalty for trespassing what he will.” The divulgent lowered his eyes. “Although I doubt it will be as severe as what he would do with an impounded asset.”
“But there are still sorcery and magic,” Jemidon said, “or at least something very close to them. We can use them to find our way out. As for this new sorcery, or whatever it is called, it involves animations on screens and messages flashed in the blink of an eye. There is nothing here that will aid us to construct a glamour.
“But the new magic gives us the Maxim of Perseverance,” Jemidon continued, picking up the sword from the crate in front of him. “Perhaps we can use it to enhance this blade and make it strong enough to pick out the mortar between the bricks.”
“A magic sword,” Benedict scoffed. “You have read too many of the sagas. If indeed there could be such a thing, the guild that could make it would charge two kingdoms’ ransom. Producing such an object would require many lifetimes and the labor of hundreds.”
“The Maxim of Persistence is no more,” Jemidon said. “I am not talking about a blade that forever retains its sharpness. We are dealing now with perseverance instead.” He looked down to the magician at his feet. “Rosimar, my thoughts still churn too quickly and I cannot remember. What is the ritual for the hardening of the steel that was used in the manufacture of the tokens?”
“The Aura of Adamance,” Rosimar mumbled without looking up. “It is one that must be mastered before the robe of the initiate is received.”
“And the equipment?” Jemidon asked. “What is needed to act out the steps?”
“Bells and candles,” Rosimar said, “magic hexagons drawn on the floor, chalk and pearl dust, and a bottle of ten-year-old wine.”
“We will improvise the best we can.” Jemidon began looking into the storage crates with a fresh perspective. “Explain the details so that we can begin.”
“No, I am the master,” Rosimar said weakly. “All credit for magic will be mine.”
“You are indisposed. Rest. Benedict and I can do as you direct.”
“No!” Rosimar struggled to his feet. “Magic may no longer work, but all rituals will be mine. You stand aside while I perform. I will get the credit. There will be no mistake about who performs with skill.”
Jemidon looked at Rosimar’s glistening forehead, the whitened knuckles that gripped the bars, and the eyes that twitched in erratic patterns.
“It is not that important, Rosimar,” he said. “You perform the ritual if you wish, and I will watch. But be warned, it will not be a single time that we must see it through.”
Rosimar stared at Jemidon for a moment; then, with a snarl, he staggered to look into the crates stacked against the wall. “Tin cups,” he muttered, “and metal spoons. They will have to serve for the pealing of the bells.”
All three turned to rummaging through the stored goods and shortly had assembled the required equipment as best they could. Rosimar directed Benedict in the striking of the bells and the drawing of the hexagon on the alcove floor. He selected the longest sword of the lot and placed it within the pattern. With trembling hands, the magician decanted vinegar over a sack of flour while stomping a complicated rhythm with his feet.
When he was done, Rosimar picked up the sword and pressed it against the wall. With a grating sound, it skittered along the stone, leaving a faint trail where it had scratched the rock.
“And so much for this nonsense.” The magician slumped back to the ground. “Magic is no more. We will not free ourselves by such misplaced cunning, regardless of your theories of lattices and hopping between vertices in some realm that cannot be seen.”
“Again,” Jemidon said, pulling Rosimar back to his feet. “The Maxim of Perseverance works on repetition. We must try the ritual again.”
“And if I do not?” Rosimar asked.
“Then I will continue with Benedict as I had originally planned.”
Rosimar grumbled and reached for the bottle of vinegar. “It distracts my mind from the closeness of the walls, at the least,” he said. “One more time probably will do no harm.”
Jemidon clutched his hand to his stomach to stop the growling. He ran his tongue over the dry walls of his mouth and eyed what was left of the vinegar. Benedict slumped against the far wall, the makeshift string of bells dangling at his side, mouth open and eyes drooping with fatigue. Rosimar sat on one of the remaining unopened kegs, head bowed and shoulders slumped.
