by Lyndon Hardy
Jemidon began to feel dizzy. Strange dots of light appeared before his eyes. His diaphragm began to twitch against his will to hold it firm. In a last desperate test, he thrust his hand toward the ceiling and felt the same cold wetness. He was still submerged, and there was no more air.
Reason snapped, but surprisingly, Jemidon suddenly calmed. The dark spots of light grew into fuzzy images—his sister, the golden coin, Delia, the robe of the master. They all began to shimmer and wave in his dimming consciousness. Almost without knowing what he was doing, Jemidon rolled over on his back. He placed his palm upward in front of his face and walked his fingers along the rock as his kicks became mere twitches, moving him barely inches at a time. Finally he stopped moving altogether, letting his fingertips splash in meaningless patterns on the water’s surface. With an inward sigh, he released the tension in his body and prepared to sink into oblivion.
Water’s surface! He choked suddenly. With a gasp, he instinctively thrust his head upward and inhaled the sweet air. There was a sliver of open space between the water line and the upsloping rock. He had passed the narrowest constriction. Now each length forward would give him more room to breathe, not less. The tide was still rising, and he must not tarry, but at least he had a chance. He would not drown. He would keep the rendezvous with Augusta after all. Lying on his back and inhaling deeply, he slowly floated through the rest of the tunnel into the outer cavern. As his senses returned, he noted almost with amazement that in his left hand he still tightly clutched Benedict’s changer.
For a few moments, Jemidon continued to float, savoring his close escape. Then he rolled onto his stomach and saw Augusta maneuvering the skiff in his direction, a single torch bound erect in the stern, lighting her way.
He waited, exhausted, for her to draw alongside and provided only feeble assistance to her tugs to get him on board.
“There is a large sloop nearby in the harbor,” she said as she resumed rowing. “I saw it through the portcullis. We may as well head directly for it, rather than hide in the hope that it goes away.”
Jemidon did not protest. He lay in a limp huddle in the bottom of the skiff, trying to recover his strength, while Augusta propelled them through the opening to the grotto and out into the bay. In a few minutes, they rendezvoused with the sloop, and eager hands pulled them aboard. Over the far rail, Jemidon saw two more ships with the same rigging and, beyond them, a flotilla of many more. On the shoreline, flames still danced among some of the smoldering ruins, although not as many as before. The sky was smeared with dirty browns and grays. A rain of ash covered the rail and deck with a fine powder of grime.
A row of grim-faced traders whispered among themselves near the main mast. The eldest noticed Jemidon and Augusta coming aboard and broke off from the rest to see what his men had found.
“It was a good thought indeed to wait outside after we departed the grotto,” the trader said after he had scrutinized Jemidon for a while. “Even though the one called Melizar was able to sail for mainland Arcadia with the constabulary on the tide, not everyone responsible for what has happened has managed to escape. I recognize this one as one of the sword wielders, and the woman is a fugitive as well,” the trader continued. “No matter who wins, there will be a reward for their dispatch. Save their heads so that we can collect a bounty, if one is offered later.”
Jemidon tried to shake himself to full awareness. He remembered in a rush what he had concluded in the cavern. “Wait,” he croaked weakly. “You need not bother with such insignificant tasks. I greet you with the news that you can again be a wealthy man.”
“Tokens and scentstones,” the trader said. “I have gambled and lost with both. A bounty will be enough. Even if it fetches only a bowl of gruel, your demise will be well worth the effort.”
“But if you have holdings in Augusta’s vault, you can have means once again,” Jemidon rattled quickly as he struggled to his knees. “The tokens in her vault—what if their magic has returned, as if nothing had happened, the way they were before?”
“An easy enough tale to weave,” the trader spat out. “No one could prove you wrong.”
“Exactly so,” Jemidon said. “And why indeed should anyone of wit choose to disagree? Is it not in your best interest that the value of the token be restored?”
The trader squinted at Jemidon with beady eyes. Slowly he ran a hand across his chest. “The tokens have not been restored to magic,” he said. “There are probably some here on deck, and their tingle is gone. The masters of the guilds moan the loudest, because their craft is no more.”
“Only tokens, and only those in the grotto.”
“The token was the medium of exchange. How can it be that, buried under the slime?”
“As it was before,” Jemidon replied. “Only rarely were they moved about as you conducted your trades. Far more often, it was pieces of paper that you exchanged—writs that certified the shifts in ownership and the new balances that corresponded to them. It is the ledgers all carefully kept that told the story of your wealth, not the pieces of metal hidden away.”
“But I had no deposits in Augusta’s vault.” A second trader came forward. “There is no gain for me to consider as truth what you claim.”
“Dump your tokens down the shaft to join the rest,” Jemidon said. “When they hit bottom, consider their magic restored as well. Again the ledger books will reflect your true wealth. Things will revert to exactly as they were before.”
“It is too illogical to believe,” the second trader objected. “Magic restored to the tokens in an inaccessible vault—there and nowhere else!”
“The consequence of not accepting the possibility is to continue the way things are now,” Jemidon said. “The riots, the barter, perhaps the end of Pluton as a port of trade. But if everyone agrees to accept the tokens in the vault as they were before, then what difference does it make what truly happens with steel disks buried under the water?
“Indeed, if you agree in addition to pool the tokens from all of those who died in the grotto and then divide them up among those of you who survived, you will in fact come out all the richer from what has happened.”
The eyes of the first trader widened at the mention of additional wealth. “The rates with the other commodities would be fixed as before,” he said slowly. “I could buy from Tobruk and pay my debt to Demson with the usual exchange of writs.”
“And I could take the cargo from the ship that lies just outside the harbor,” the second mused. “And credit the captain’s account with some of my tokens so that he could buy from others for a return voyage across the sea.”
Jemidon quickly scanned the faces of the other traders. On some, the hints of smiles indicated their acceptance of his scheme to recover their fortunes. Others were blank with confusion, and a few were drawn in stiff lines of rebuttal. He sighed. It would take longer than he had first thought. But even arguing for hours was better than how the traders had suggested they pass the time.
Jemidon slumped down on the deck. Seventeen traders in all had needed convincing, and the last had been the most stubborn. But finally they all had agreed on the merit of his idea. They could find no better alternative.
“Call the rest of the faction together,” the first trader instructed the rest when the last had decided. “We must send signals to the others so that they, too, can quickly agree. With that soft-voiced Melizar sailing with most of the mercenaries, almost everyone will have the sense to see that this is the only way to restore order to the isle.”
“What about Trocolar’s assets?” Augusta asked. “I am in his debt for the pumps in my vault. And he threatened to make the sum due immediately rather than over a period of years, as is the custom.”
“Trocolar!” the trader snapped. “He was the one responsible more than any other. His wealth will be pooled and divided just like the rest. And I doubt that anyone will be interested in carrying out his plans. The prudent will disassociate their inclinations from his faction as much
as possible. I was a member of that faction, but my votes will be cast in another direction. There is little chance that one of his followers will garner anywhere near enough to win a position on the council.”
“Then, Jemidon, you have saved me indeed!” Augusta exclaimed and hugged him close. “With Trocolar dead and none to follow in his steps, I can continue to run the vault as I did before.”
“And with considerably more influence.” The second trader eyed Augusta critically. “The other vaultholders may still hoard gold and other metals that we will need for minor exchanges, but only you will receive the holding fees for all the tokens on the island. Congratulations, mistress of the grotto; your future prosperity seems assured.”
Augusta tightened her grip on Jemidon. “The week is over, and your indenture is fully expired,” she whispered. “It will appear unseemly for one partner in the vault to be the property of another.”
Jemidon looked at the group of traders. On every face was an expression of self-importance. Once they had all agreed, they were no longer paupers, but holders of great wealth and power. Augusta was no more the fugitive, but again the prestigious vaultholder. The fires on the shoreline, the dead in the grotto, and the realities of the outside world melted away. As long as there were tokens, the rest did not matter.
“But Melizar,” Jemidon said after a moment. “The power that is at his command cannot be ignored. It is not for a peaceful intent that he leads men-at-arms into the rebelling wheatlands.”
“The mainland can be far away, if we choose to ignore it, Jemidon,” Augusta replied. “Concentrate instead on what I have just offered—a partnership in what will become the wealthiest vault on the island. It is not something to be dismissed lightly, even by a dreamer.”
Jemidon felt Augusta press against him. Even through his fatigue, his pulse quickened. Perhaps this was to be the end of his quest. He had vindicated his worth with his first love. Now she was his for the taking.
After all, why had he pursued the robe of the master? Were not the arts the means to the end, the paths most likely to lead to success, despite his failures along the way? Now he could have them all—the gold, the nods of peers, the bows of servants, and adoration in a woman’s eyes. A mantle of black was no longer necessary. There was no need to restore the art of sorcery, no reason to rescue a slave girl to prove that it could be done.
Or was there? Jemidon looked down at Benedict’s changer. He pressed a lever, and a shower of brass and silver spilled into his hand. A single gold brandel gleamed on top of the pile. He picked it up and compared the sharp contours of the embossing with the dull indistinctness of the coin about his neck.
Jemidon stiffened. He ignored Augusta’s suddenly questioning eyes. Did anything that she offered wipe away the guilt of his sister’s death, the humiliation of failing the initiates’ examinations time and time again, the frustration over the formulas that would not work, and the slight shake of Farnel’s head when the glamour did not complete?
“No, they are not enough.” Jemidon surprised himself with the intensity which the words blasted forth. “The prestige, the power, the wealth—I want them, yes. But if I could trade them all for my own self-respect, then gladly would I deal. I have the knowledge, the intuitive skills, and the deep understanding of the arts that few will ever possess. Dullards ten times my inferior have succeeded. By the laws, then, why can’t I?”
Clumsily, Jemidon pushed Augusta away. With a booming thud, he crashed his fist down upon the rail. The taste of victory soured in his mouth. What did it matter that he had escaped the cube if he still must carry his burden?
“Gently, my sweet.” Augusta wrapped her arms around his waist from behind. “The poisons of your exertions have not yet run their course. Be calm and fight inner demons some other day.”
“But I am not a master,” Jemidon exclaimed. “I found the reason for the vanishing of sorcery and then I let it slip away.”
“No man can be a master solely from desire,” Augusta said. “Each must have inherent aptitudes, as I am sure you have amply learned. But put the thought from your mind. You have shown me skills that I have found in no other.”
Jemidon gently pulled Augusta’s arms from around his waist and turned to face her. He attempted a smile; but despite her words, he was not comforted. For a long moment, he pondered all that he had experienced.
“I have learned much, Augusta,” he said at last, “and solved more than a single riddle—the vanishing of sorcery and magic, and their replacement by new arts heretofore unexpected.” He held out his hand and began to coil his fingers into his fist, one by one. “But there is more still unanswered. First, why have I had the feeling of drifting? From where does it come? Second, it may indeed be that my tongue is ill-suited for sorcery, but what forced me to trip and stumble when attempting the simplest of rituals in Rosimar’s guild? Third, the skill of Melizar—how does the stranger change the very fabric of existence to move from one law to the next? Somehow, with certainty, he can direct where reality is to go.”
Jemidon started speaking faster as he realized where his thoughts were leading him. “And lastly, the Postulate of Invariance. If there is one metalaw, can there not be others as well?
“Yes, yes, Augusta. There is a way for me to be a master yet. I need to learn just a little more of how to guide the laws to ones that fit. My quest goes on. It is of Melizar I must learn more. From him, I will extract what I need to know.”
Jemidon looked into Augusta’s eyes and stopped. He sighed and then spoke softly, almost not believing the words as they came forth. “The cold one travels to the wheatlands; the high prince must be warned. And, and—there is a slave girl who must be freed. The reasons are too great, Augusta. I must be gone.”
“You speak nonsense,” Augusta said. “How can such a course compare with what I can give you here?”
“It is nonsense,” Jemidon agreed, shaking his head. “I do not fully understand the feeling, but I know it cannot be denied.” He touched the cold, unresponsive metal of the changer and felt a longing swell. “I must follow the nodes of the lattice until I find one that is meant for me. I must return, Augusta, return home to the wheatlands, to discover what Melizar means when he speaks of contradictions.”
Augusta looked intently at Jemidon, searching for some hint of doubt, but he stood unmoving, his decision firmly made. Finally she drew him close, turning her head away.
“Indeed, there has been change in you, my gentle one,” she said at last. She looked back at him and smiled weakly, batting away a tear. “But no matter; I am still mistress of the grotto and will have a wide selection from which to choose.”
Her cheeks trembled as she struggled to broaden her smile. “You will need the means for your passage, shelter, and food. Let me refill your purse for services rendered.”
“There is no great need,” Jemidon said. “As a scholar, I can—”
“Hush.” Augusta put her finger to his lips. “One of the traders here, Martin, I think, has said that in three days’ time he sails for the Arcadian mainland. No other leaves before him. And I am sure he will be happy to take you along, provided you have the means to pay your way.”
“Augusta, if it were not for the master’s robe, I—”
“You stomp and shout about riddles and robes,” Augusta said, “but I wonder. How much of your quest is for them and how much for this slave girl whom you mention the last of all?”
PART THREE
The Axiom of Least Contradiction
CHAPTER TWELVE
Spring Harvest
JEMIDON walked down the deeply rutted path, guided only by the moonlight. Little was different in his native village, despite seven years’ absence. As he walked, he pondered the logic that had brought him home.
Two months had passed since he had left Pluton. The lingering winter rains had slowed his journey; the accompanying chill had made travel a definite displeasure. And Melizar’s path was as cold as the weather. Nowhere could he find
anyone who remembered the passage of a cloaked stranger in the company of a small band of men-at-arms.
And so, when he had learned that the high prince also journeyed to the wheatlands, he made the royal party his quarry instead. Along with everything else, the regent should be warned of what Melizar had done and of the stranger’s interest in unrest and plunder. Perhaps, with the minions of the prince looking as well, Melizar would be found all the sooner.
But then the random factors must have aligned for him to catch up with the prince when he visited the barony of lord Kenton. Now there was no reason for Jemidon not to visit his father’s hut as well. Indeed, it probably was no less than his duty. But what would he say? Could any words match the expectations and finally obtain forgiveness for what had happened so long ago? He would have to be assertive and somehow cast an image that emphasized accomplishment, rather than additional failures along the way.
Jemidon wrenched his thoughts away to something less distasteful. Having the conversation with his father once would be enough. For perhaps the hundredth time, he turned back to another puzzle, one that he had played with ever since he left Pluton, Augusta and Delia. Where did his true feelings really lie? If it were not for the quest for the robe, which, then, would he choose? Augusta had made very clear her feelings for him. In her eyes, he was already what he wanted himself to be. And she was intelligent and perceptive—perceptive enough to suspect that Delia was more than a casual interest.
But why should Delia be more? He had known the slave girl for a few days only. True, she showed courage and independence. She probably had the makings of a great sorceress as well. But a deep-felt relation built on so little acquaintance was substance only for the sagas. In life, it would have to take much more.
Jemidon suddenly recognized a familiar structure and broke out of his reverie. His father’s hut stood to the side of the path. It seemed unchanged from the image painted by the wash of memories. As before, the tattered curtain which served as a door fluttered against its lashings in the quickening wind. The feeble wisps of smoke from the tin stack indicated that the fire inside was little more than smoldering coals. The light of a single candle winked through a high window stuffed with rags.
