themselves evenly in a cubic array. Connecting vertical struts were red; the horizontal ones were blue in one direction and yellow in the other. Most of the vertices connected only to their regularly spaced neighbors; but along one row, additional green wires stuck out at an odd angle, extending to nodes isolated from all the others.
In other regions of the lattice, orange wires branched in yet another direction; elsewhere there were lines of purple and black. Jemidon followed the progression of wires and saw regions in which green, purple, and orange formed the regular cubic array and the red and yellow connected the outliers. In the dense center, all seven colors competed to catch the eye in some unifying pattern that one could not fathom in a single glance.
Near the edges, the lattice was thin and sparse. Long tendrils of a single color rayed away from the center, like a mine following a vein of ore. At the regularly spaced intervals, stubs of unit length branched off like exploratory shafts, occasionally sprouting little sublattices that ran on other courses for two or three units more.
'Why seven directions, each with its own color?' Jemidon mused aloud as he reached for a bead that clung to one of the nodes.
'The Postulate of Invariance.' The imp in the bottle sprang to life. 'The Postulate of Invariance. Seven exactly. There can be no more. It is Melizar's, and you must not touch.'
'Quiet,' Farnel snapped. 'I am in the midst of instruction.'
'Seven exactly.' The imp's eyes gyrated in uncoordinated circles. 'Nor can one force there to be any less.'
'Cease the provocation so it will be silent.' Farnel scowled at Jemidon. 'At the very least, you understand how important it is that I not be misheard.'
'As you said, the sweetbalm is old,' Jemidon answered, 'The pain is not totally gone. And an idle wait for several hours to learn a spell I already know is not something I would freely choose.'
'An example recital of the completed charm would speed the process, I admit,' Farnel said, 'but the ale from last night makes me slow enough that I dare not try it myself.' He watched Jemidon cautiously test the mobility of his arm. 'But perhaps necessity will be a better motivator than a master,' he said, rubbing his chin in thought. 'Show us what you have learned. Speak the charm for yourself.'
Surprisingly, Jemidon felt a spark of excitement through his fatigue. The sense of dread which had accompanied all the other opportunities somehow was totally gone. He felt no confusion, no doubt that he might fail. Instead, it was an opportunity to redeem himself in Farnel's eyes. He glanced at Delia, who was looking at him expectantly. He searched through his memory to see if he still could recall the beginning and found that the first words were there, sharp and firm. Quickly he rose and walked to the mirror.
Jemidon licked his lips and rattled through the first few syllables in a rush. He paused briefly, expecting the nauseating backlash of a miscast charm, but he felt none. He saw Farnel's reflection nodding approval. Encouraged, he concentrated on the next grouping.
Again the words sprang from his lips with crispness. He caught the cadence of the chant and, with rising confidence, completed the first recital. Jemidon smiled as he began the repetition. Each charm had to be spoken three times to be enacted, and the difficulty increased with each enunciation. But his words remained clean and firm, projecting forth without effort, as if he had cast them a thousand times before.
He raced into the final recital like a boulder crashing downhill. The words tripped from his tongue unfailingly. His voice rose from a whisper to a booming shout. Hands on hips like a great orator, he mouthed the last phrases at his reflection. With a flashy bow, he concluded the charm and turned to receive Farnel's reaction.
'Perhaps it is to be sorcery, after all.' Jemidon smiled. 'It all came easy, both the recall and the casting.'
'A bit too dramatic, but well spoken nonetheless.'
Farnel said. 'It is a pity that you could not have done as well for the other masters.'
'But at least it is a better promise of what is to come from your instruction.' Jemidon started to wave the thought of his previous failure aside, but winced at a sharpness in his shoulder. 'How soon until the pain is totally blocked? It feels no better than before.'
'You should be numbed upon completion of the last syllable,' Farnel said. 'There is no delay in sorcery.'
'But my arm-'
Farnel frowned. He studied Jemidon's puzzled expression and shook his head. 'Then it is another miscasting,' the sorcerer said. 'Somehow, with your dramatic flourishes, you garbled the charm.'
'I feel no other ill effect,' Jemidon said, 'and you heard it all the way through without pointing out any error.'
'Probably it occurred in the leading phrase of the first recital,' Farnel said, 'just as the charm was beginning. An error there would render the rest a mumble of nonsense without power or meaning. Yes, that must be the reason. It was indeed too much to expect for you to get through it all so easily.'
Jemidon opened his mouth to frame some sort of a reply; but before he could, a heavy pounding shook the door. With a crash, it flew open and banged against the wall. Canthor and four men-at-arms entered the hut. One pointed to Delia and the bottle beside her. Canthor nodded and looked back to Farnel, shaking his head.
'To the keep, old friend,' he commanded. 'The trader Drandor has charged that you have possession of three of his properties and demands their restitution.'
'This is not a matter of harmless bickering, to be forgotten after a night in the keep.' Canthor tried to scowl at Farnel, who sat at the other end of the table. 'Morgana must show to everyone that its justice applies to master and bondsman alike.'
Jemidon and Delia stood between two men-at-arms behind Farnel's chair. Up and down the length of the table sat the other sorcerers of the island, all puffy-eyed and slack-jawed from the night before. When a charge was brought against one, then they all had to be present to hear the evidence and decide what must be done. Drandor paced behind Canthor's high chair, and his footfalls echoed off the round walls. A faded banner hung behind the trader, splotches of mildew mingling with tattered threads. Spiders nervously scampered across the fitted stone and into niches in the crumbling mortar. Recently broken webs hung in the doorway. The council room of the keep was seldom used in Canthor's administration of the island. From two small slit windows, the morning light stabbed into the shadows.
Even though it was a bracingly cool morning, Jemidon felt increasingly tired and disheartened. He had been up all night and dosed with sweetbalm besides. Again he had miscast a spell in front of Farnel, and now there were additional complications, additional obstacles between him and the robe of the master. He gripped the back of the chair tightly to stand erect and grimly forced his sluggish thoughts to follow what was happening.
'Justice I expect,' Drandor said. 'Of the evidence there can be no denial. The imp bottle, the lattice, the girl, all belong to me and my partner Melizar. I have the bills of possession here for you to examine.'
'But it is so unlike a master to bother with material objects,' the tall sorcerer on Canthor's right said. 'Our work is what we can shape with the mind. And to summon the full council for what surely must be a private matter is most unwarranted. Did you not deal directly with master Farnel? Despite his antiquated techniques, he is most honest and reasonable.'
'I did try my own negotiations.' Drandor shot Jemidon a glance. 'But they met with mishap at the base of the granite cliff. Prudence directed that I appeal to a higher authority, rather than attempt more on my own.'
'Trader, justice you shall have.' Gerilac rubbed his forehead irritably. 'And the quicker you are quiet, the quicker it will be meted.' He looked around the table through bloodshot eyes. 'After last night, I am sure we all wish to move quickly to settle this matter. And since we are all here, we can also cast the final vote and present the supreme accolade. Let us be done with everything so that we can return to much needed rest.'
'You need not show such haste,' Farnel growled. 'We all filled our cups as many times as you. And the tokens from previous years are keeping you in a pampered style. The five hundred from this season probably will add little difference.'
'Five hundred tokens?' Drandor asked. 'This sculpting of phantoms brings so much to the one who performs it best?'
'That concerns only the masters,' Canthor replied. 'We are here at your behest, trader. And when the complaint has been settled, you will be dismissed before we proceed to the other.'
'But five hundred!' Drandor persisted. 'It is indeed a very large sum.'
'Much more than the objects you are making such a clamor about,' Canthor said. 'You have disturbed my sleep and that of a good many others. Is it not sufficient to return them to you and let the matter drop?'
'The lattice and bottle are the trader's,' Jemidon blurted. 'Take them and begone.' He stepped around Farnel's
