Secret of the Sixth Magic

by Lyndon Hardy

  The scene blurred as if it were viewed through cloudy water. A ringing persisted in Jemidon’s ears. His calf throbbed with a dull pain, and his arms were bound tightly behind his back. He was propped against a wall, and Augusta huddled at his side. Near her feet, Rosimar twitched in his bonds and stared vacantly into space.

  Nimrod now sat at the small table in the rear of the chamber. Solemnly, he examined the outstretched palm offered by the first in a queue which ran along the wall to the right. Behind his chair stood the cloaked form of Melizar, and next to him, holding the magic sword gingerly at arm’s length, was another man-at-arms. In the center of the first row of the encircling throng, Trocolar stroked the bulge of his stomach with a jeweled hand.

  “Eight small stones and one twice the size,” Nimrod boomed over the buzzing all around. “An equivalent of ten altogether. Very well, Cumbrist, how do you vote?”

  “For the head of the council, it cannot matter.” Cumbrist looked up at the chalked totals on the slates erected behind the table. “But for the record, let is show that I add my support to the expert trader.”

  “Trocolar is right,” another voice rang out. “There are barely a dozen of us left. And the common street hawkers have less than anyone here. We waste our time for the sake of tradition. Let us declare the trader the leader by acclamation and be done. It is in all our best interests to return to the shoreline quickly to protect what remains from the looters.”

  Jemidon saw Trocolar smile and bow slightly to the speaker. “I am pleased that others also see the practicalities of the moment. If now no one objects, I am ready to assume the responsibility of restoring order and issue my first edicts.”

  The murmuring stopped. Everyone present looked to his neighbor to see what he would say. For a full minute, no one spoke, and then Trocolar strode deliberately to the rear of the cavern where Rosimar had made his stand.

  “Constable Nimrod, you are now mine to command,” the trader said. “No one voices dissent. And my first instruction is for you to seize the vaultholder Augusta and transfer her writ of personal ownership to me. Her and her remaining assets. She is a debtor, and as senior lien holder, I have first rights to do with her what I will.”

  “It is the rule for the surrender of the body to come after transfer of the other assets has been duly recorded,” Nimrod said. “Three days’ grace is given to settle one’s personal affairs. That has been the custom for many years.”

  “My first instruction,” Trocolar repeated. “Carry it out quickly, or a reprimand will be the second.”

  “Our charter is to enforce an equitable peace.” Nimrod’s tone hardened. “Not to serve as the instrument for some private intrigue.” He waved at Jemidon and Rosimar. “It is for the likes of these that we administer swift justice. The fate of the vaultholder should follow the due course of law.”

  “The intruders concern me less,” Trocolar said. “They strove to disrupt the orderly transition of power. Every faction here supports the retribution that is its due. All would help to heat the shears and turn the cranks. But Augusta’s crime might go unpunished, were I not to exercise my responsibility as leader.”

  “Some inner desire warps your reason.” Nimrod scowled. “The danger of the day is from the two who are bound. Indeed, it is well that the younger was somehow unable to remove the sword from the rocky floor before he was felled. He was no stiff-armed magician. With the blade in his hand, it is uncertain what the outcome would have been.”

  Jemidon frowned and tried to reason through the implications of what was being said, but his thoughts were slowed. He had been unable to budge the sword, even though he had strained with all his might. Yet now the constable held it free and clear of surrounding rock. Had it lost its magic while he was unaware, or had something else prevented him from wielding it?

  “As you say, they are bound.” Trocolar paid no attention to Jemidon’s puzzlement. “But as yet the vaultholder is not. Seize—”

  “Your petty vendettas can be no more than second priority, Trocolar,” Melizar suddenly interrupted. “Foremost, you must honor the terms of our agreement that made your victory possible. You now lead the council. My skills put you there. In payment, you are to provide me a year’s service of your constabulary to follow my instructions and not your own.”

  Trocolar scowled. He turned to face Melizar’s shadowy hood. “There are riots in the streets,” he said. “Warehouses are being plundered. Already two passing ships have refused to anchor. When we made our bargain, you did not hint at the turmoil that would result. As elected leader, I also have the responsibility to see that order is restored.”

  “Assemble and train a new cadre of warriors,” Melizar said. “My need now is greater. The unrest in the wheat fields may not last beyond the season.”

  “I did not think that your scheme had any merit.” Trocolar shook his head. “It appeared a risk-free means of securing five hundred tokens with which to augment my vote. I had no intention of surrendering such a central element of power after I had won.”

  “Nevertheless, I provided the skills without which you could not have been guaranteed victory,” Melizar replied. “We have an agreement. I have honored my part. You must do the same.”

  “And I had the clerks, the distribution, and the strategic locations for the glamours,” Trocolar snapped back. “I exploited the use of your wares as I would any other’s. The triumph is of my own making. No other credit is due.”

  Trocolar paused for breath and then smiled. “You speak of agreements to honor, but what have you truly offered in good faith? Worthless disks of metal, five hundred circles of dull steel. And the stones—they have value of their own creation. Intrinsic worth because demand exceeds the supply, independent of the rituals in the confines of my estate. You have given me nothing, Melizar, and expect a largesse in return.” Trocolar licked his lips as if he were savoring the taste of his words. “Nimrod, escort him away,” he said. “I hold no writ of indebtedness, but this cold one would be well advised to make Pluton no longer a port of call.”

  “Another lackey’s task,” Nimrod mumbled. “Will sweeping the dungeon floor be next?”

  “It is the fee that binds you to the island, is it not?” Melizar pushed a slender hand palm outward from his cloak as Nimrod hesitated. The dance of imps above Melizar’s head quickened. Their glow of light throbbed from dull red to energetic yellow. “Do you hold the concept of honor the same as your new master?”

  “My troop has fulfilled its contract faithfully for over four decades,” Nimrod said, “through the tenure of more than a dozen councils. And we expect ample bonuses with our recompense for the year just past, as we have been rewarded many times before.”

  “For the year past.” Jemidon heard Melizar’s voice quicken slightly. “Fees rendered after the service is done, rather than before! What perverse logic you use to conduct your affairs! Had I but known, I would not have even bothered with this Trocolar. Name your price for the year to come, warrior, and it shall be yours.”

  “There is the matter of custom and tradition,” Nimrod said. “We have been treated well.” He paused to turn a scowl at Trocolar. “Heretofore the leader of the council has been able to judge between private interest and public need.”

  “Nimrod, to your duty,” Trocolar commanded. “Use the sword you pulled from the rock, if you must. It is the cold one’s own folly if he does not move aside when you thrust.”

  “Then is it the sword that gives you such presumption, trader?” Melizar asked. “Without it, how would you regard the bargain then?”

  “Indeed, with the sword and the scentstones, I need little more.” Trocolar laughed. “I have enough to handle easily a simple peddler with a few tricks such as yours.”

  “Swords and scentstones.” Melizar’s own voice lowered until Jemidon could barely hear. “You compare them with the resources of a pilot?” He whirled and motioned to Holgon, who was still standing near the cavern wall. “Forward, magician. Perform the ritua
l as you have been instructed.”

  “But that was before the sword was captured and Trocolar’s election completed. He is my master, and now I do not see the need.”

  “The ritual,” Melizar repeated. “Think. Where should your allegiances truly be? With a petty island trader without honor or with one who can show you secrets that none of your kind has ever dreamed?”

  Holgon looked at Trocolar and then to Melizar. He stepped backward until he touched the rough wall. He glanced at the wooden box at his feet and shrugged. Stooping down, he dragged the crate to the middle of the floor.

  “I will allow no more of your strange games,” Trocolar said. “And as for you, Holgon, remember that you are still in my debt.”

  “If you have so much power, then why do you fear the simplest of your children’s toys?” Melizar asked. “Show him, Holgon. The scentstones are one and the sword is the second. From the container, you must bring three.”

  Holgon grunted and produced a smaller box from the first. With a flourish he removed the lid.

  “Dominoes!” Nimrod snorted. “A game with which my men sometimes wager their rations.”

  “Here the use is even simpler,” Melizar said. “A quaint practice of no utility, but somehow of amusement to your smaller minds. The next is a simple rat trap—and after that, the bladder of a pig.”

  While Melizar spoke, Holgon quickly stood the dominoes in a row, one after the next. He cocked the trap so it was triggered when the last domino fell, then bound a pin to the metal loop that was flipped shut by the spring.

  “Finally the bladder,” Melizar directed. “Inflate it quickly and place it so that it will intercept the sharp point as it flies upward.”

  “Enough, enough!” Trocolar said. “Scoop up this refuse and be away.”

  “In a moment, it will be done,” Melizar said in his soft voice. It projected no strain and only a hint of the need for speed. He drew into a tight ball and huddled to the floor. “The nexus can be no stronger,” he said, “and the contradiction is easy enough to make.”

  Jemidon struggled erect to see better what was happening, but his vision suddenly swam when he moved his head. A wave of disorientation swept over him as he collapsed weakly back to the floor. He closed his eyes to steady himself, but the feeling cut deep, down to his core. It was more than a loss of physical balance; his whole being was adrift. The sensation was like what he had felt when Holgon performed his ritual with the dove, but with much greater intensity. Trivial facts, flashes of memory, subtle concepts, intuitive insights, and all his thoughts mixed in a jumble. There was no framework to sort one from the next. Childhood delights blended with logical deductions. Intense passions blurred slender shafts of subtle reason. Simple hunger engulfed algorithms that solved complex puzzles. In a swirling sea of abstractions, he floated away from a sharp focus.

  “Rest, Jemidon. Do not give them cause.” A gentle touch ran across his forehead.

  Looking up through glazed eyes, Jemidon saw Augusta kneeling beside him.

  “I am sorry for the blow,” she said, “but I did not know what else to do. Surely if you resisted further, you would have been slain.”

  “But the election,” Jemidon managed to say. “Without an explanation, it is all over. Trocolar has won. Our fate has only been postponed while his attention is elsewhere.”

  “I said I am sorry,” Augusta repeated. “But forgive me the one last weakness in wanting to have someone at my side when the trader finally forces his way.”

  “And thus it is done.” Melizar’s voice cut through the ringing in Jemidon’s ears. “The domino, Holgon. With the softest touch you can manage.”

  Through the haze, Jemidon saw Melizar return to standing. He watched the magician strike the first wooden block in line. One after another, the rest tumbled in order across the rough floor. The last hit the trigger on the trap, flipping it into the air and hurling the pin into the inflated bladder, which exploded with a loud pop.

  “And now you will be gone,” Trocolar said when the action had stopped.

  “Two more simple demonstrations,” Melizar insisted, waving off the man-at-arms who moved forward to grab his shoulder. He huddled a second time for a brief moment and then rose again with majestic slowness. “Two more and then I will depart.”

  Jemidon breathed deeply. He had to regain control. With determination, he held himself perfectly still and concentrated on Holgon’s apparatus. Item by item, he willed that he should see. For a long moment, nothing happened; but then, gradually, the swirl started to subside. Dominoes became distinct in the blur, then the sprung trap. Finally the entire cavern returned to focus. The pain in his calf sorted itself from the rest as the disorientation ebbed away. His thoughts resumed their order and wispy phantoms disappeared.

  “Holgon, clap your hands in the rhythm of the Adagio for Perpetual Lights, but as softly as you can muster.” Melizar’s voice cut through Jemidon’s concentration.

  Holgon’s face registered confusion, but the magician began to push his palms together, so that Jemidon could just barely recognize the familiar cadence of a neophyte’s training. On the final stroke, the ground rumbled. A spout of water coursed up the hole that led to the vault. A great spray of cold and slimy wetness struck the low ceiling and showered down on those nearby. The ground trembled slightly, and Jemidon thought he heard the grinding of great masses of rock.

  “The vault! It’s flooded! The weak walls have given way!” one of the men-at-arms shouted as he peered down the hole to see what had happened.

  “And now the Stomp of the Forging Presses.” Melizar did not pause. “And then a taste of other forms of power.”

  Holgon complied. Beginning with his third step, the ground shook, this time not in slight trembles, but in great jerks that tumbled Trocolar and those around him to the floor. The basin of water below the landing began to slosh. With creaks and groans, the moored boats crashed into one another.

  “Stop them, Nimrod!” the trader shouted. “Stop them before they collapse this cavern as well!”

  “The Maxim of Perturbations.” Melizar’s voice competed with the shriek of tearing rock. “With it my minions can shake the earth or skim carpets across the ground. And beyond that, there are other maxims as well. Those of perspective, of penetration, persuasion, and pomp. You speak of power, insignificant mite, but know not one hundredth of all it entails.”

  “The sword,” Trocolar demanded. “Nimrod, use the sword.”

  The constable snapped shut his gaping mouth and sprang into action. He ripped the blade from the man who held it and slashed at Holgon’s legs. The magician’s support buckled, and he tumbled to the ground. With eyes wide in fear, he threw his hands across his face, awaiting the next blow.

  But the rumbling instantly stopped, and Nimrod hesitated before continuing the attack. He grunted as he saw a crimson stain begin to glisten in the hem of Holgon’s robe and turned his attention back to Melizar.

  “Yes, the sword.” Melizar stepped forward to meet his assailant. “The sword that once sliced through rock. Until a moment ago, it held great power. But now, did it really feel all that different from any other when you tried it on the magician’s flesh?”

  Nimrod paused in mid-strike and turned the blade aside. It plunged toward the ground at Melizar’s feet. With a shriek, it skittered across the rough stone and suddenly snapped near the hilt.

  “And the scentstones.” Melizar glided to the three bags that Jemidon had brought to the grotto. “Holgon’s stompings have done more than rearrange the structures of the caverns. See also what they have done to crystal impurities.”

  With a surprising grace, he dumped the sacks to the floor, one after another.

  “Cloudy!” someone exclaimed as the stones poured over his feet. “Not even citrine or amethyst. Milky quartz and no more!”

  “Look closely, Nimrod,” Melizar continued over the din that arose as everyone present began to examine his own collection of stones. “It is with this simple r
ock that you will be paid for your labor and the past year. Who knows what it will be for the next? Come with me to the wheat fields of the mainland, and there will be plunder enough for all.”

  The wave of white pebbles spilling onto the floor acted like a catalyst. The voices competing with Melizar’s rose in volume. First had come the shock of the ruined tokens and now of their glittering, worthless replacements—financial ruin twice within a week. Traders and vaultholders began to push between the men-at-arms to side with trusted comrades. Swords rattled with anger in their scabbards.

  “The stones are nothing!” one of the men-at-arms shouted. “And I am in debt! I depended on my fee to settle free and clear.”

  “Then to the mainland with the cold one,” the guard next to him said. “Enough of dull sentries and shrinking cubes.”

  “Trocolar is the one at fault,” a trader cried. “Without his tampering, this election would have proceeded as all those before.”

  “To your positions,” Nimrod ordered. “We have an obligation still to discharge.”

  “For what?” one of his men shouted back. “For ballast, good enough only to weight a ship’s keel?”

  “Divulgents, to your guildsmen. Protect one another until we are safely away.”

  “Trocolar is not a winner. His clouded gems can be worth no more than mine. Now is the opportunity, vaultholders! Seize the records. Once again, the island can be ours.”

  “Those for the mainland, to my side,” Melizar said. “Do not let them dishonor you more.”

  “Death to the schemer!” Luthor pushed his way through the crowd and headed for Trocolar, waving a small dagger over his head.

  Another trader crumpled as he was hit from behind. A torch went sailing overhead to crash into the throng. Someone screamed, and then one guardsman tried to prevent another from reaching Nimrod’s side. In a moment, the scene swirled into a chaos of motion, flashing blades, and flowing blood. The shouts and cries of pain mingled with the echoes reverberating from the walls. Torches were ripped from their sconces. In growing dimness, fists, daggers, and swords flailed at whatever was closest at hand.