Secret of the Sixth Magic

by Lyndon Hardy

  A richly robed merchant dropped at Jemidon’s feet, clutching his stomach, with spurts of gore pulsing between his fingertips.

  “His dagger!” Jemidon shouted. “Quickly, Augusta, cut my bonds so we can be away.”

  Augusta grabbed the blade just before another body fell. She severed Jemidon’s bonds with quick slashes. In an instant, he was on his feet and testing his leg. “Into the passage.” He pointed at one of the tunnels leading from the cavern. “On the way, you can tell me where it leads.”

  Limping as rapidly as he could, he pulled her into the opening and away from the fighting.

  “It dead-ends after a twist a hundred paces farther along,” Augusta said as Jemidon hobbled after. “There is no other way out, except back the way we came.”

  “A place of defense, then.” Jemidon grimaced. “And time to tell me of what you saw happening through clearer eyes.” He stopped a second and thought back over what he had seen. “From what Melizar had said, the sword still held power when I tried to withdraw it from the rock. And then, almost without effort, the laws have changed again. Another node in the lattice—and Melizar selected exactly which one it would be.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The Final Tally

  JEMIDON flexed his back and peered around the corner. He saw only pitch blackness. Except for the soft splash of distant oars, there was no sound. No one had pursued them. For over four hours, they had waited for the chaos at the other end of the tunnel to die away and the last survivor to leave.

  “Let’s hope that in the confusion at least one boat was left,” Jemidon said as he straightened to full height. “Come, I think it is safe enough now that I can get you out.”

  “But what has happened?” Augusta asked in the darkness. “Does one faction now rule the island?”

  Jemidon frowned. He was a good deal less confident than he was trying to appear. Twice he had rescued her from an immediate danger. But he had done little to free her from her ultimate fate. Now it was more than Trocolar’s minions they had to fear. No faction on the island would aid the ones who disrupted the election with the magic sword. Likely as not, they could become the common focus for the frustration and anger, an outside enemy that everyone could hate, a catalyst for uniting into a new order out of the destruction of the old. And what could he accomplish now that he could not before? With an invisible shrug, Jemidon ignored Augusta’s question and started down the passageway.

  Cautiously he fingered the cold and damp walls and stepped over the rough variations in the rocky floor. Still limping, he guided Augusta back to the landing above the vault. In the entranceway, he stumbled over a lifeless body. He moved to the side, but ran into another. He felt Augusta tense to scream and put his arm around her shoulder.

  “It is to our good fortune,” he said. “Surely one of those who remain has a flint and steel.”

  Positioning Augusta near the wall, he gave her a reassuring pat and then, on all fours, began to explore the floor of the cavern. After several minutes of distasteful groping, he found the necessary tools on one of the victims. Soon a single torch illuminated the arching ceiling with its flickering glow.

  “Half the wealthholders of the island are gone,” Augusta gasped. “Look, there is Cumbrist and next to him Benedict, his principal rival. Beyond them, I think I see even Trocolar among the rest.”

  Tears welled up in her eyes as she looked at the form barely an arm’s length away. “Poor Rosimar,” she said softly. “He came for my sake and now he will play the hero no more.” She sank her head on Jemidon’s shoulder and shook with a spasm. “And he was bound, with not even the slightest defense. When I freed you, I should have thought of him as well.”

  “You have seen enough.” Jemidon tugged her away. “Let us go to the cliff edge to see what remains.”

  The torchlight cut through the darkness down to the water. Only two skiffs were left. Even Jemidon’s raft was gone. Sprawled over the side of one, with hands dangling in the water, was a trader with a dagger in his back.

  “Luthor.” Augusta squinted through the gloom. “He wears the embroidered leggings from his last trade. And look at the tide. I have never been here when it was so high. Quickly, Jemidon, we must leave.”

  Jemidon nodded and started to move along the edge of the cliff toward the rope ladder. He looked back at the carnage and saw the sparkles of light that reflected from links of mail and broken blades. Would any of Melizar’s equipment still be there? Or perhaps even the body of the stranger?

  Jemidon stopped and frowned. He and Augusta must flee. Clearly that was the best course of action. Any other was folly. But other currents also swirled in his mind. Slowly he placed one foot on the ladder and then hesitated again. Flee into what new uncertainty? His thoughts tumbled. How had anything he had done led him any closer to what he truly wanted? The Postulate of Invariance was only a beginning. With more information, who knew what he might be able to deduce? The urge to explore, if only for a little longer, began to well up inside. He could not put the feeling away.

  “The secret may yet be here,” Jemidon said half aloud. “Outside is more peril and, if we are lucky, another flight.” He returned to Augusta and drew her close. “I cannot abandon the quest. You saw how Melizar so easily changed the laws. It seems he has discovered a greater magic than the five we know. Call it a sixth magic, something governed by a metalaw different from all the rest. And perhaps among the bodies there is some clue that will explain more. It does no good to understand what was done unless I also know how.”

  “But the tide,” Augusta protested. “We have waited long enough.” She looked about the landing at the bodies and shuddered. “I cannot remain here while the passageway submerges.”

  “Then you go ahead,” Jemidon said gently. “You have traversed the tunnel many times, and I am sure you can manage alone. Wait just behind the portcullis that opens onto the bay. At most, I will be a few minutes behind.”

  Augusta started to say more, but Jemidon drew his face into a mask of rigid determination. “Every minute we delay, the water rises higher,” he said. “You help me best by making haste.”

  Augusta nuzzled closer for a moment and then sighed. “I am not so much the dreamer that I would offer also to stay,” she said. “But take care, Jemidon. The events spin too fast. I seem to need your comfort more and more.”

  She disengaged and descended the ladder. With the precision of an oarsman, she maneuvered the empty skiff away from the cliff and toward the narrow opening in the far wall. As she disappeared from view, Jemidon saw her wave a final kiss.

  Jemidon cleared his head. Now he must hurry to find out what he could before the tide rose any higher. He would first explore the other passageways, then whatever remained among the wreckage on the landing floor, and finally the vault itself.

  Quickly he crossed back over the bodies and debris to begin. He entered a side tunnel and examined the ceiling and walls for any trace that Melizar might have left behind. Falling into the pattern of the scholar, he investigated to the end of the passage and then started to explore the next, losing track of the time.

  An hour later, Jemidon emerged from the last, as empty-handed as when he had begun. He turned his attention to the floor of the cavern and located Holgon’s body sprawled across Melizar’s toys. In the torchlight, he examined each one—the broken bladder, the sprung trap, and the painted blocks of wood. They felt quite ordinary, and no arcane symbols were anywhere to be found. Nearby was the broken sword of magic; when Jemidon grasped it, only the sense of cold steel greeted his fingertips. The shocks of electric pain were gone.

  In frustration, he rubbed the worn coin about his neck. There was nothing here that told him anything more than he already knew. Somehow, with greater ease than the simplest glamour, Melizar had changed the laws, replacing the substitute magic with yet another.

  Jemidon gripped the broken sword tighter, twisting its strange, unbalanced feeling back and forth with his wrist. Perhaps later, in the l
ight of day, there might be something else that he could not see now. Yes, that was it—take an example of each form of magic and study the connection at a better time. He placed the sword hilt where he could easily find it again and then scooped up a handful of dominoes that lay next to the guard. He looked around for some example of traditional magic and saw Benedict’s coinchanger reflecting the torchlight from a few feet away.

  Jemidon stooped and pried loose the divulgent’s stiffening fingers from the device, which was still strapped to his waist. He cut it free and experimentally tripped one of the levers. A pile of worthless tokens fell into his palm and bounded onto the cavern floor.

  Jemidon continued his search, but found nothing more. Finally he knelt by the side of the shaft leading down to the flooded vault and peered into the inky blackness. Impulsively he gathered the tokens he had spilled and dropped one of the coins into the opening. Almost immediately, he heard an answering splash.

  The water level was halfway up the shaft, he decided. There was no way to see what had happened below. Exploration was impossible. If any secrets were in the vault, they would forever remain there. One by one, he dropped the rest of the tokens into the dark water, trying to visualize the imagery of their grave.

  As the last one left his fingers, he bolted upright with a sudden thought. The tokens in the vault were totally submerged and inaccessible. It might work at that. It offered no bearing on the riddle of the changing laws but was useful, nonetheless. Why hadn’t he thought of it before racing after Rosimar with no idea of a detailed plan?

  With a rush of excitement that blotted out the pain in his leg, Jemidon decided what he must do. He had learned all he could. There was no reason to remain. Now the feeling of urgency returned. He must get out ahead of the rising tide, out to safety so he could tell Augusta what they could do.

  Quickly he scurried around the landing, gathering up his loot. Balancing the load precariously, he descended the rope ladder to Luthor’s skiff. With no hesitation, he pushed the trader the rest of the way over the side of the boat and kicked the wares to the bow. “Forgive my disrespect,” he muttered, “but if the grotto is ever used again, you will be given the proper rest.”

  In a few minutes, Jemidon was at the tunnel opening that connected to the outer chamber. The water level was far higher than he had seen it the week before. On his first passage, only the narrowest part near the center had been confining. Now, even at the entrance, he had to duck his head. Cautiously he paddled forward and peered into the receding darkness. The tide was still rushing in, and each stroke of the oar was an effort. The ceiling hung oppressively close.

  As he stroked, Jemidon concentrated on the small knobs and folds protruding from the tunnel wall ahead, measuring his progress as these landmarks slowly passed by. He ducked to the side to miss a low monolith and then peddled furiously to avoid an outcrop that narrowed the passageway from the left.

  For a moment, he stopped rowing and let the stream blunt his forward momentum. Perhaps it would be better to return to the landing and wait half a day for the next tide. But who knew what would transpire outside in twelve hours? He had sent Augusta ahead to wait in the outer cavern. He must increase his effort in order to pass through the neck of the tunnel before it was too late.

  Jemidon resumed his rowing. He sucked in lungfuls of air and concentrated on delivering powerful strokes to either side. For a few minutes his pace increased noticeably, but then another low dip in the ceiling forced him to duck and wait for the obstruction to pass. When he continued, his burst of energy was spent. He felt fatigued and winded. His wound and the confinement in Trocolar’s dungeon were taking their toll. It seemed he could just barely make progress against the force of the water.

  The ceiling sank lower and the walls closed with unrelenting menace. The skiff jammed into a narrow restriction, and Jemidon had to use his good leg against the wall to break free. He ducked beneath a projection and found that he could no longer sit erect. With each passing moment, he hunched lower and lower, barely avoiding blows against the top of his head.

  Eventually rowing became impossible. Jemidon switched to pushing his oar along the wall, as he had seen the oarsmen do before. He adjusted himself to be as comfortable as possible, lying chest down on the keel, propped on one elbow while he pressed the oar against the wall. His progress slowed, as more and more frequently the skiff became jammed between the confining rocks. And with each foot forward, the ceiling sloped lower; with each passing second, the water rose to meet it.

  The gap between the side rail and the ceiling diminished to less than a foot. His forehead beaded with sweat as the truth of his situation began to sink in. He was not moving swiftly enough. There would be too little room. Before he reached the narrowest constriction, the boat would jam against the ceiling, and he would be trapped.

  Jemidon groped around the bottom of the skiff, trying to trigger a fresh idea. He saw the pile of Luthor’s leggings and, behind them, a coil of the flexible tubing, animal intestines wrapped in cloth and stitched together into great lengths. He frowned and looked at the ceiling. He visualized the skiff pressed firmly against the rock and cold sheets of water spilling over the rails on both sides. With a shudder, he convinced himself of what he must try.

  He pulled one pair of trousers from the pile and looped shut the waist and one leg with some of the twine that held the bundles together. He inhaled deeply and blew into the open leg, as Holgon had done with the pig bladder. Again and again he emptied his lungs, until the leggings bulged like a misshapened balloon. Then he collapsed the hem in his fist and forced the end of the tubing through the constriction. With the last of the twine, he bound the end of the pipe into the opening, sealing it shut. It did not hold much air, but that was all that he could muster. Finally, he grabbed the other end of the coil in his right hand and pushed one of his feet into the gap above the railing.

  Struggling awkwardly, he worked his calf through the opening and then his thigh. The splintering wood dragged against one side of his leg and the rough rock ceiling against the other. With each wiggle, he felt the resistance increase.

  Using both arms for leverage, he forced his other leg out and then, with a burst of strength, shoved himself clear to his waist. He inhaled deeply, preparing for one more thrust to push him free. He looked around the skiff a final time and blinked in surprise about what he had almost forgotten. Scattered on the keelboard were the sword hilt, dominoes, and Benedict’s changer. If he escaped without them, then it would have all been in vain. He might as well never have come into the grotto. But there was not time to pack them away, and he could not carry them all when swimming.

  Then one, just one, part of his mind demanded. If he could take one, from it there still might be some clue with which to continue. But which had the best chance of assisting him toward his goal? he argued with himself. The water continued to buoy the skiff upward. The railing pressed harder and harder against his chest. Each breath became a painful effort that could not be ignored. Jemidon waved his arms in indecision and then impulsively grabbed the changer. Now both hands were encumbered, but he had made his choice. He pushed his knuckles against the keelboard, trembling from the effort, and somehow squeezed the rest of the way over the side.

  There was barely a handbreath clearance between the water level and the rock, but Jemidon began kicking away from the skiff.

  He glided into the dark water, turning his head to the side for gulps of air and then floating forward, propelled by his kick. With each gasp, he saw the ceiling press closer and then finally felt it drag along the top of his head. He tipped his neck lower until his chin bore down on his chest; then he felt the ribs of rock scrape along his back. He could proceed no farther without resorting to swimming underwater. He took one last gasp of air and then thrust the end of the tubing into his mouth. Holding it in position with his hand, he angled downward and continued his glide.

  In what seemed like too short a time, Jemidon was out of breath and he sucked
on the tube. The pressure from the leggings was not great. He gasped for air. He felt his lungs expand, but sensed no great satisfaction from the musty smell that filled his mouth. He pulled himself through the water, not quite believing that he had received any nourishment at all, but somehow managing to complete another two dozen gliding strokes.

  Again he gasped for breath and received the tainted air from the tube. He banged against one of the tunnel walls in the darkness and angled slightly to the side. He reached upward and felt the ceiling scrape across his knuckles, in contact with the water and just inches from his head.

  Onward he stroked, trying not to think of what would happen if the leggings finally collapsed or the hose was too short. In a mindless daze, he paddled through the darkness. Time lost all meaning. Despite his efforts to concentrate only on his swimming, the sense of panic slowly grew until he could contain it no longer. After countless gulps of air, he missed a stroke and floundered, slipping deeper into the water and rolling on his side. And as he tumbled, the tube jerked from his mouth. Quickly he reinserted it, but coughed as he inhaled water. He tried pinching off the opening with his hand while he prepared to draw again and then felt a sickening release of tension as he jerked the hose about. It had extended to its full length, and he had pulled it from the leggings at the other end. The air he had in his lungs would be his last.

  Jemidon somehow maneuvered back into a horizontal position and touched the side of the tunnel for orientation. With a spasmodic kick, he floundered a few feet more down the passageway. He tried to resume a smooth stroke for one final try, but his bubbling thoughts swept all coordination away. Like a child splashing in a bath, he jerked forward in uneven spurts. His lungs emptied past the point where he previously had gulped more air. He gnashed his teeth together to resist the desire to exhale. It seemed he could feel each thrusting limb pumping air from his lungs like a piston and replacing it with a foul odor he must expel.