'Ah, Jemidon.' Augusta smiled, placing her hand lightly on his. 'Your sweet words are always a delight. But one must be practical as well. You are only a neophyte; the training of an initiate takes three years more before you can pass to acolyte, let alone a master. I know that within a year I would be longing for the silks, cold fruits, and prestige that the woman of a master magician could command. Rosimar gives me that promise; from you, I can see nothing for a long time to come…'
Enough, Jemidon growled at himself. He covered the old hurt and pushed it away. It would do no good to dwell on opportunities already lost. He was now seeking the robe of a sorcerer, tracking down a trader and a slave girl. He would find out if the Augusta of the vault in the grotto was the one he knew only if he must.
He wrenched his attention back to the courtyard in front of him and scanned its interior. It was large and noisy, crammed with stalls and partitions around the periphery. The scene reminded him of the bazaar that had flourished on Morgana a fortnight ago; but here the structures were more permanent, made of stone and wood rather than canvas and paper. Each was decorated in gaudy colors. Hawkers at the entrances called out what could be exchanged inside. With long ceremonial daggers, they pointed to hastily chalked lists on panels that swung out over the milling throng. From time to time, scurrying messengers flitted through the crowd to erase an entry or change a price.
'For the name of lady Magma's lover,' one called, 'I have been offered twelve tokens. Does anyone on Pluton desire to know it more?'
'Gold from the west in exchange for grain,' another shouted. 'Two brandels per bushel. Trade now while my purse is still full.'
'A barge for the southern kingdoms will sail on the tide,' a third said. 'How much for a one-hundredth share?' At the far end of the court, on a board flanked by pages in silken hose, were listed the trading rates for metals and staples around the world. Gold, silver, wheat, stone, spices, and slaves all had entries scripted in bold black numerals. Below the board sat the changers, huddled between their huge scales and weights. Next to them were the assayers, with rows of reagent bottles and shelves crammed with specimens. Jemidon saw a richly dressed merchant exit from the freshly painted cubicle directly ahead and perfumed ladies duck to enter an equally elaborate facade to the left. He looked down the row and walked toward an entrance smaller than the rest. It had no hawkers outside, but the faded panel of fare was crammed with entries in a small, nervous script. 'Tomorrow's departures,' the first read. 'The true age of the high prince,' the second said. 'The size of Procolon's fleet,' the third proclaimed.
Jemidon ducked through the low opening and saw a room crammed with furnishings. Stools short and tall were pushed against shelves sagging from the weight of leather-bound books. Scrolls of parchment lay unwound on the floor, weaving a coarse tapestry between small chests and smooth boxes bolted shut with massive locks. Two oil lamps on the far wall shone above a high table with chairs on either side. Hunched over a ledger like a mantis watching its prey, a thin and gangly figure mumbled as he scanned entries and made small notes with a quill.
'Tomorrow Gandis will pay twenty tokens for the name of Trocolar's latest partner. And since I bought it from Brason for sixteen, that is a profit of four. Sixty-seven tokens for the week. Two thousand eight hundred and twelve in all. Ah, if only the election were another month away, Cumbrist would not have a chance. Three thousand at the most; he could not be worth a brandel more.'
'I seek information,' Jemidon said when the other did not look up. 'And I think I will not be able to afford the surroundings that the other divulgents seem to offer.'
The man behind the table jerked to attention. His elbow bumped the bowl of ink onto the sawdust floor. 'Calm yourself, Benedict, calm yourself, or it will be Cumbrist for sure.' He breathed deeply as he watched the ink sink into the ground. Then, focusing on Jemidon, he motioned to the empty chair. 'I am Benedict, pansophical divulgent,' he said. 'Ask me anything and I will know. Gossips of the guilds are a specialty. Futures of the exchanges with generous guarantees. For a copper, the use of the seat is yours.'
Jemidon halted just as he was lowering himself into the chair. He pushed it aside in irritation. 'An unthinking way to treat a potential customer,' he growled. 'It makes one want to try somewhere else.'
'You will find none charge less than a copper,' Benedict said. 'Everything on Pluton has a price. And besides, you need look no further. Anything you wish to know, I will tell.'
'Then what of a trader called Drandor?' Jemidon asked. 'How much for where he is now?'
'For two coppers I will speak my fee.' Benedict centered the ledger on the table. 'How soon do you wish to know?'
'You have heard of Drandor?' Jemidon exclaimed. 'What luck on my first try! Then what of Delia, the slave girl with the golden curls? Is she still safe? Who is the partner Melizar? Has he interceded on her behalf?'
'One at a time,' Benedict said. 'For someone who begrudges the copper for a chair, you talk as if your purse were full. Show me your assay so that I will know you are worth my time.'
'Assay?' Jemidon shook his head. 'I have come to this exchange directly from the harbor.' He furled his brow. 'And even that cost two coppers for the directions.'
'What, no writ certifying your worth?' Benedict asked. 'Not a single token in any of the vaults? Then why are you here? It cannot mean you seriously intend to trade.'
Benedict stopped and his eyes widened. He quickly snatched the ledger from the table and raced to the wall. Jemidon saw the divulgent stuff the book into a large box on the floor and slam shut the lid. A flash of painful blue light sparked from the container as it closed. The air crackled and hissed. Jemidon caught the pungent smell that came with a storm.
'Forever protected, save by my command.' Benedict shot back a triumphant look. 'No hammer can dent the walls, nor can the box be moved from where it sits on the floor. And unless I am calm, even my words will have no effect. A knife at my throat will not force entry if I do not wish it so. A small strongbox as those of magic go, but effective nonetheless. You will have to try your thievery on one who is not so fortunately secured.'
'I will take nothing here that you do not freely give,' Jemidon growled. 'And if I must have some piece of paper before we can talk, then tell me how one is obtained and I will be back.'
Benedict paused, eyeing Jemidon critically, but a roll of drums outside in the court stopped him from speaking. He hurried back to the high table and grabbed a belt from a shelf. It was plain leather and buckled on the side. In the very front, it looped through a row of small columns that butted together and protruded with thumb levers. Buckling the belt around his narrow hips, the divulgent dashed past Jemidon and through the opening. 'No more time to weigh your merits,' he called. 'The court is full, and many will want to wager on the outcome with less than a full token.'
Jemidon turned to follow, his annoyance growing with each step. He flung aside the curtain, but then stopped as he sensed the sudden change of mood in the courtyard. Except for the drumbeat, the throng was quiet. The jostle of bodies had ceased, and all eyes were on the center of the court. A pathway had cleared itself back to the rate-board. From behind the changers marched a small troop of men-at-arms. The first two pushed the crowd farther back on either side. Behind them came two lines of three, supporting a huge gleaming box on their shoulders.
The coffer was a perfect cube of glistening metal, polished to such a smoothness that Jemidon saw the surrounding scene reflected better than if by the finest mirror. Along the top edge, just below a row of hinges, he recognized the arcane script that magicians had chiseled into the side as part of the ritual of formation. Near one bottom corner, a small pipe protruded from the interior. Except for these, nothing else marred the clean and rigidly flat surfaces.
A whisper of anticipation started through the crowd as the next in the procession came into view. Jemidon stood on tiptoe to look over a shoulder and saw a man with eyes wide with fear, his hands secured behind his back and his neck circled with iron. From the heavy black ring, a chain ran to a second prisoner, similarly bound, and then to a third. The last was a woman, clad only in a thin chemise, stumbling barefooted after the others.
As the procession stopped in the center of the court, the men-at-arms set the cube on the ground and flung open the top face with a crash. Two more guards struggled forward underneath the weight of a pair of huge sandglasses. The last brought up a ladder, placing it against the side of the box. The top rung came to rest near the rim, well above the height of Jemidon's head.
'The men are worth nothing, but for the woman, ten tokens,' someone shouted.
'Twelve,' another countered, 'and one of my own in trade.'
