overpowering numbness, he was sure they were the same.
'Delia,' he blurted. 'What has become of her? Your presence is tied closely with that of the smiling trader; I can sense it. You must know where they are. Where is Drandor and how did he cause the changes to come to pass?'
'Drandor?' the voice asked. 'Drandor, the cause of the changes?' The soft burble of laughter continued for more than a minute. 'He has served his purpose well and now he sleeps with my manipulants.'
A long, thin finger with smooth, unwrinkled skin poked out from one of the draping sleeves and touched Jemidon's chest with an icy coldness. 'Know Drandor for what he is. A minion. A minion like Holgon here and no more. A minion who has traded his talents for what he might have when I am done.'
The finger retracted and touched the center of the greatcloak. 'It is I, Melizar, who is the master. Melizar, the first among the pilots.'
Jemidon peered into the inky blackness of the hood, but only a hint of the dark features could be discerned. He tested the grip of the guard behind; the man was well trained and held him firm. 'But what of Delia?' he insisted. Somehow he felt he wanted to know that the most of all. 'What has been done with her?'
'Drandor does not always show good judgment in the treatment of his property,' Melizar said. 'Especially when it is jointly owned. I have done what is necessary in her regard.'
Jemidon's thoughts raced to frame another question; but before he could speak again, more footfalls sounded on the stone passageway outside the room. All turned to look. In a moment, three more of Trocolar's men raced through the doors.
'The stones, the scentstones! The trader needs another chestful of them now.'
'They are not ready,' Melizar said. 'We barely will have a gross of them finsihed by the eve of the election. As they are endowed now, too many purchasers can break out of their spell.'
'The spell does not matter,' the first of the newcomers said. 'It is enough that they can be distinguished from the opaque pebbles on the beach. The demand exceeds the supply. Already a woman is the price for the smallest. Not even a fine team of horses will serve for one bigger than a pecan. Who cares about scents that eventually decay away? With the collapse of the token, it is the new fever of the hour. No one bothers to trade in anything else. Everyone scrambles to recover in a day the fortunes that have vanished.
'And the prescription is so simple. Buy in the morning and sell at noon for a return that nets you tenfold. One cannot fail. Why, Trocolar is the richest man on the island. He has been offered an estate on the crestline for a chestful. Make haste with the whole sack. We are all to come as guards, the entire household. The mercenaries cannot keep order everywhere at once. He has promised us each a handful if we are prompt.'
'It proceeds too quickly,' Melizar said. 'It is not according to my plan. The crowds may prove fickle without the full use of the arts.'
'Our orders are to transport them now. Stand aside. Our own fortunes are at stake with the rest.'
'It does not follow the dictates of my plan,' Melizar repeated, 'The stones are not properly prepared.'
'All of us here serve Trocolar the trader first.' The speaker's voice grew threatening. 'The wishes of his partners, no matter how well reasoned, must come later.'
'Wait!' Melizar suddenly waved his cloaked arm over his head. 'Wait until I have calculated the consequences. Do not show such haste.'
Jemidon heard the gentle hiss about Melizar's head abruptly increase to a roar. The imp light intensified into painful stabs of light. Frost began to form over Melizar's cloak as he drew his arms to his chest and slumped into a ball. The cold air billowed down his sides, and a wet fog rolled across the floor. Trocolar's men hesitated, stepping back from the dense air as it encircled their boots.
They looked from one to another, trying to see who would take the lead on what to do next.
For several minutes, no one moved. The air in the room grew chillingly cold. Jemidon could tell which held their breath by the absence of cloudlets about their faces. Then, as quickly as they had started, the noise and lights began to fade. Melizar stood erect and unfolded his arms. Small shards of ice tinkled to the floor.
'Enough.' Melizar waved his arms again. 'Enough. I have thought through the pattern of events.' The imp light dimmed to almost nothing. The whistling sound receded to the distant murmur it had been before. 'I will do as the trader suggests and let you transport the stones now. It is as Holgon says. If the beholder perceives value, then intrinsic worth does not matter. But I must go along to ensure that Trocolar does not act too precipitously or even forget all the conditions of our bargain.'
The deep shadow turned back to face Jemidon, 'And as for these, place them in one of the side rooms. They perhaps are the minions of a disgruntled vaultholder. Or maybe even his assets. Yes, it will save Trocolar the trouble of searching. For their capture, I will ask an additional fee.'
Jemidon watched sullenly as he and the other two were thrust into one of the alcoves and the lock snapped shut. He saw Holgon remove a crucible of molten metal from the anthanor and pour it into the keyhole as the rest of Trocoiar's men prepared to leave.
'A more difficult challenge than the outer lock,' the magician said. 'I am sure that Trocolar would want you here when we return.'
Melizar exited with the last, pausing as he left to examine the lattice beside the furnace. Slowly he ran his slender hands along the wires and fondled the beads with his fingertips.
'So close and yet so different,' he said, touching one of the vertices and tapping it gently. 'So unlike where we almost succeeded before.'
He ran his finger down one of the wires to an adjacent vertex and then at right angles up to a third. 'And yet, two steps already taken. The basis is set for one more. And three should be enough. Three changes to the unfamiliar, and none here will be able to cope. The remaining four shifts will come with ease. And then I can traverse at will, move back and forth between what I know and the unexplored, and add new vertices with no threat of dissent.'
Melizar sighted down one of the slender tendrils that arched from the dense central maze. 'I shall discover what lurks beyond the last node in the thaumaturgy line. Yes, the satisfaction will be great indeed.'
He turned back to look a final time into the cell that confined Jemidon. 'Drandor the causes of changes, indeed! Not in this place and time.'
As the last footfalls of Melizar's departure faded, Jemidon shook the bars in frustration. He had learned much, but was no closer to his goal than before. He had to escape soon, before the trail once again grew as cold as Melizar's cloak. He looked at the broken sword blades on the floor. Trying to pry back the bolt had served only to snap the finely wrought steel. The rest of the crates contained nothing of value to aid in their escape.
Benedict huddled on a small keg in the corner, wringing his hands and moaning softly about the burns on his legs. 'I should not have been swayed by the value,' the divulgent muttered. 'The risk, the risk, it was too great.'
A loud groan cut off Benedict's whispering as Rosimar flailed his arms through the air and pulled himself to sitting. The trickle of blood from his scalp had clotted in a stringy cake that ran over one eye and down his cheek. 'Air,' the magician croaked hoarsely. 'I must get out to the fresh air.'
Jemidon looked from one to the other and sighed. He moved to allow Rosimar to stumble forward and rattle the grating.
'Air!' Rosimar shrieked again. 'I cannot withstand it. Give me air.'
'The magician awakes.' Benedict rose to his feet. 'It is his magic that is our hope.' He climbed over the intervening boxes and grabbed the front of Rosimar's robe, twisting him around. 'You boasted of your worth. Now is the time to prove your mettle. You must get us out before that cold one returns.'
'Magic.' Rosimar shook his head vacantly. 'Magic, magic swords and rings of power. Magic to give me air. If I had but one such object, I could barter my way to freedom.' He turned and stared at Jemidon, squinting ihrough the clotted blood. 'But this one says that magic is no more. All my craft is gone, vanished like a demon's wind.' He sagged to the floor. 'And in truth, none of my rituals work as they should. Empty forms that might as well be abstract dances for entertaining a prince! My magic is gone and I cannot get my air.'
Rosimar started to say more, but stopped and turned to the grating. He gripped the bars and tried to thrust his face between them, gasping for breath.
Benedict watched for a moment and then placed his hand tentatively on Rosimar's shoulder. The magician did not respond, but continued to stare out into the storeroom, eyes bulging and forehead glistening with sweat. The
