chair and looked at the assembled masters through heavy eyes. 'But surely someone here can meet the price for the girl. Pay what is required so that Delia need not accompany the trader as well.'
Jemidon frowned and slowly puzzled out how he felt. He was as much surprised at his outburst as the rest. Delia was an appealing beauty and in need of help. He should have done no less than he did. And yet she was the one responsible for Farnel's present predicament, as well as the cause of the additional complications that could only delay his quest for the robe. In the hut, he had chafed when the master instructed her in sorcery. Certainly he did not want competition. How could she be more than a passing distraction?
'Five hundred tokens.' Drandor ignored Jemidon's interruption. 'And I infer that the selection of the winner has not yet been made.' His eyes narrowed, and he showed his teeth in a crooked smile. 'I, too, deal in trinkets for the mind. And if I may be so bold, I wager that what I can create has greater merit than the best you have to offer.'
'You are no sorcerer,' Gerilac said. 'You can do no more than the imitations of the bazaar.'
'That is not so.' Drandor's smite broadened. 'My charms are far more powerful than any you can muster.'
'Tradesmen's banter,' Gerilac massaged his furrowed brow and slumped his elbow to the table. 'Anyone truly trained in the arts can tell the difference.'
'Then put it to the test,' Drandor said. 'I am willing to make a wager. Perform your best sorcery before the masters as judges, and I will invoke mine. Let the better win not only the accolade but five hundred tokens more that I will secure from my partner Melizar.'
'Why this sudden interest in our art?' Canthor asked. 'You have camped in the harbor bazaar for many days, but never ventured forth before.'
'Before, I did not know this recognition carried with it such tangible worth,' Drandor said. 'A large cache of tokens I must assemble. Melizar wishes it so.' He turned and smiled at Canthor. 'Besides, I cannot pass an opportunity that is now such a sure proposition.'
'All of this is irrelevant.' Gerilac deepened his frown. 'We are not here to ponder the empty words of someone who is not even a member of our council. Let us be done with his business and proceed with our traditions.'
'Our tradition is one of openness to all forms of expression and judgment on merit alone.' Farnel rose suddenly to his feet. 'Something we masters seem to have a hard time remembering. Yes, that is it. This offer presents an opportunity.' He pointed across the table to Gerilac. 'Is that the mold in which we shape the thoughts of our tyros who will someday follow? Are they to emulate a sorcerer who fears the challenge of one who is not even a master?'
'I do not fear this tradesman,' Gerilac snapped. 'His spinning mirrors or whatever would bore us all in a moment. It is an idle exercise not worthy of any of our time.'
'Not even worth an additional five hundred tokens?' Farnel asked. He looked around the council room. 'It is true that my reaction is one of principle. But additional tokens brought to the island from the outside are eventually of benefit to us all, no matter who is the first recipient.'
Jemidon saw a few of the masters nod and then the one nearest Canthor turn his palm upward in agreement with the trader's offer. 'Five hundred tokens more,' he said. 'As if the high prince visited not once this year but twice instead.'
Like a rippling wave, the others around the table agreed, one after another, until only Gerilac remained. All eyes turned to the master, and for a moment there was silence. Gerilac looked quickly around the chamber and finally stared at Farnel.
'You do this just for spite,' he spat. 'But very well. It appears we choose to defend the accolade against this preposterous challenge. Let it be tomorrow morning in the hall. There is no need to wait any longer.'
Jemidon struggled to think through his weariness. Dimly he recognized another presentation in the hall, and open to an outsider at that, as a chance to bind Farnel to his bargain. Impulsively he spoke again, not waiting to reason the consequences all the way through. 'If there is to be another competition, then it need not be limited to two,' he said. 'The other masters should have their chance as well.'
'What is the point?' Gerilac asked. 'The competition among the masters has already been held. Only the best need perform again.'
'You have not seen the work of master Farnel,' Jemidon said. 'This gives him the chance to compete when he is not ill-disposed.'
'Enough!' Farnel rose and pushed Jemidon back, his eyes wide at what his tyro had said. 'One day is insufficient time. My cause cannot be aided by another hasty preparation.'
Gerilac watched Farnel's reaction for a moment, and then the deep furrows in his forehead relaxed. 'Insufficient preparation, did I hear you say, Farnel? How could that be if your theories are correct?' He shrugged slightly and beamed a broad smile, his discomfort of a moment before totally gone. 'I am a fair man, even though you perpetrate these petty spites. If you wish to present an example of what you define as an with only a day of thought, then let it be so. It is not my intent to bar any glamour so vigorously extolled by its creator. And it is not secret that my production will be the other one the masters will be seeing. Perhaps the contrast will be amusing.'
'I do not wish to present.' Farnel slammed his fist on the table. 'For no such permission did I ask.'
'Permission!' Gerilac shot back. 'Permission! I do not think this any longer is a matter of pampering your idle whims. You have forced me to recite again. Very well, if I am to dance to your manipulations, then so should you to mine. Present your art in the hall tomorrow. Present it so the rest can compare and then judge the relative merit for themselves. Perhaps when it is all over, you will be silent at last.'
Gerilac did not wait for Farnel's reply, but turned to the other masters for their agreement. Farnel started to say more, then clamped shut his mouth as the first few indicated assent. The master watched silently as, one by one, they nodded. With a deep scowl, he slumped back in his chair.
'Wait, there is no need for any other,' Drandor said. 'We already have agreed on the elements of the wager.'
Gerilac frowned at the trader. He looked again at Jemidon and his eyes narrowed. For a moment, he studied the imp bottle and lattice and then shook his head. Finally he ran his eyes over Delia's gown. 'Make her part of the prize,' he said finally. 'As long as you inconvenience the masters of Morgana, you must offer more as your share. And as to what Farnel has to submit, it can only be this outspoken tyro. But then he will be enough. Erid and the others have the need for an experimental subject, and this one already has some practice.'
'It is not a contest of equal risks,' Drandor blurted; he paused and snapped shut his mouth. For a moment he was silent and then he smiled. 'But neither is it one of equal chance. Very well, the girl is part of the final award.' He looked at Jemidon. 'Melizar will replace my pets with others. They, too, will need amusements.'
Jemidon ignored the threat and slumped back against the wall. Now that Farnel was back in the competition, he had somehow to figure a way for them to win. Indeed, his very freedom now depended upon it. But the events of the last day were taking their toll. Jemidon's thoughts were fuzzy and dissolving in a muddle. Fatigue pressed down on him like a great stone. He needed sleep before he could be of much use to anyone.
'Then it is settled.' Canthor slapped the table for attention. 'These two properties to the trader at once, for which he agrees to mention the incident no further. And all the rest to be decided after a meal or two to repair yesterday's excesses.' He waited a moment and looked at each master, but no one protested. With a nod to his men, he left; one by one, the others silently followed. In a moment, only Farnel, Jemidon, and Delia remained in the chamber.
'And what is the rest of your plan, quick-witted one?' Farnel growled, 'We have done nothing on the battle scene since we abandoned it. There is hardly time to pull it together now.'
Jemidon opened his mouth to speak, but no words came. It was probably best if he said no more. In a groggy haze, he followed Farnel and Delia back to the hut.
Jemidon blinked open his eyes. It was evening. He had struggled to keep alert and be of some help when they reached the sorcerer's lair, but finally had succumbed to a deep sleep that had lasted for hours.
He stretched tentatively and then with greater force. He still felt somewhat groggy, but better than before. Slowly he rose to sitting and readjusted the tatters of his tunic over his shoulder. He centered the brandel on his chest and pushed aside his torn cape, which had been balled into a pillow in the corner of the littered floor. Delia saw him stir and stepped between the helmets and maces to his side. She touched his shoulder, radiating concern.
