Rosimar stared at Jemidon for a moment; then, with a snarl, he staggered to look into the crates stacked against the wall. 'Tin cups,' he muttered, 'and metal spoons. They will have to serve for the pealing of the bells.'
All three turned to rummaging through the stored goods and shortly had assembled the required equipment as best they could. Rosimar directed Benedict in the striking of the bells and the drawing of the hexagon on the alcove floor. He selected the longest sword of the lot and placed it within the pattern. With trembling hands, the magician decanted vinegar over a sack of flour while stomping a complicated rhythm with his feet.
When he was done, Rosimar picked up the sword and pressed it against the wall. With a grating sound, it skittered along the stone, leaving a faint trail where it had scratched the rock.
'And so much for this nonsense.' The magician slumped back to the ground. 'Magic is no more. We will not free ourselves by such misplaced cunning, regardless of your theories of lattices and hopping between vertices in some realm that cannot be seen.'
'Again,' Jemidon said, pulling Rosimar back to his feet. 'The Maxim of Perseverance works on repetition. We must try the ritual again.'
'And if I do not?' Rosimar asked.
'Then I will continue with Benedict as I had originally planned.'
Rosimar grumbled and reached for the.bottle of vinegar. 'It distracts my mind from the closeness of the walls, at the least,' he said. 'One more time probably will do no harm.'
Jemidon clutched his hand to his stomach to stop the growling. He ran his tongue over the dry walls of his mouth and eyed what was left of the vinegar. Benedict slumped against the far wall, the makeshift string of bells dangling at his side, mouth open and eyes drooping with fatigue. Rosimar sat on one of the remaining unopened kegs, head bowed and shoulders slumped.
'Enough of a rest,' Jemidon said. 'We must keep trying until there is a change in the sword.'
'Enough, indeed,' Rosimar growled. 'It is an insanity. We are like children repeating a mindless game. There is no magic. It is gone. How can a few words by a stranger make you so sure?' The magician rose and lumbered to the wall. With the remains of the chalk, he added another stroke to the ones already there. 'Five hundred and seventy-two times,' he said. 'Over five hundred Auras of Adamance. More than what is performed in a guild in a year.'
'Once more,' Jemidon insisted. 'Once more and then we will reconsider what we must do.'
'You said that the last time,' Benedict whined. 'For over two days, we have stomped and chanted to no avail. In a few hours at most, the election will be over and Trocolar will return in triumph. We will not escape. To continue wasting his wares will only increase his displeasure.'
'Once more,' Jemidon repeated. 'What other plan do you have to offer in its stead?'
Rostmar grumbled and kicked at the sword that lay in the center of the hexagon on the floor. Both edges of the blade were dull. Dozens of knicks and gouges marred the sides. He stooped to thrust it out of the way and then stopped, his eyes opening wide through his fatigue.
'It feels different,' he said softly. 'Not the tingle of magic, but somehow different all the same.' Holding his breath, he clasped the hilt tighter and experimentally touched the blade tip to the wall. He started to scratch the dull point across in a great arc to match the other scars which crisscrossed the stone.
'There is resistance,' he muttered. 'It seems to take a great deal of strength to move it to the side.' Tentatively, he increased the pressure on the guard and then staggered forward, mouth agape. The blade had quietly slid a finger's length into the stone.
'A guild's endowing fortune,' Rosimar said in wonder as Jemidon and Benedict sprang forward. 'A stone- cutting sword as true as any in the sagas.'
'Let us begone.' Benedict tugged at Rosimar's sleeve. 'Save the marveling for when we are free. Try the iron bars and see if it performs there as well.'
Rosimar grunted and slowly extracted the blade from the wall. He slashed across the grating with two swift strokes. Instantly, the central portion of the bars fell away.
Rosimar blinked in disbelief at what he had so effortlessly done. Jemidon gently touched the freshly cleaved surfaces and felt a polish as smooth as if they had been ground. While Rosimar stood staring at the sword in his hand, Benedict pushed him aside and scrambled for the opening. He ran across the storeroom and cautiously tried the heavy wooden door. It swung open easily. There was no sound from above. Apparently the keep was deserted. Everyone had gone to the harbor with the scentstones.
'I will not wait at the skiff,' Benedict called back as he ran for the stairs. 'I have gathered enough information to last me a goodly while.'
'But the lattice,' Jemidon said. 'It will do no good unless we learn how to restore things to the way they were.'
'I doubt that you can add to your theories without more hints from this Melizar.' Rosimar climbed through the hole and headed after Benedict. 'And he no doubt will be with Trocolar in the grotto. It is there that I am headed, to help Augusta before it is too late.'
Jemidon hesitated for a moment and then scrambled after. As he ran past, he cast a last reluctant glance at the lattice.
A few minutes later, they were in the forest and running for the small boat that had brought them to the island.
'If this Melizar is in the grotto, we should head for the city instead,' Benedict shouted as they reached the shore. 'With what I know now, I see it is folly for the three of us to proceed unaided.'
'The mercenaries will be in the grotto to preserve order for the final vote,' Rosimar said, scrambling on board the skiff. 'I will speak to them there. But with this blade, I will need little else. Benedict, you can row,' he commanded as the divulgent sat down in the bow. 'No wavering when it is time to press advantage. Direct to the grotto. The voting should soon begin, but I judge by the tide that there is still some time.
'And as for you,' the magician continued, turning his attention to Jemidon, 'not another step. You can stay here until Trocolar's men find you upon their return.'
'Put away the sword,' Jemidon said in annoyance, stepping forward. 'We are all in this together, and I have contributed my share. Without my insistence, the blade would not have been made.'
'Your proper share is not of importance,' Rosimar snarled. 'I have what I need, and that is enough. Back from the skiff, or we will see how well I can cut through soft flesh.'
Jemidon hesitated and then lunged to the left. But Rosimar rapidly swung the sword in a flat arc to cut off the advance.
'Be off, I say,' the magician ordered Benedict, and the divulgent pushed against the beach with the oars. The skiff bounded away on a receding wave, while Jemidon stood helplessly watching the retreat.
'I may change nothing,' Rosimar called back, 'but at least Augusta will know who tried at the last.'
CHAPTER TEN
Fleeting Treasure
JEMIDON watched the boat bob away and pounded his fist into his palm. It just wasn't fair. If Rosimar succeeded, he would garner all the accolades, and none would be left. Rosimar would be the one who restored the vanished crafts. The power, respect, and riches would all fall to him. Jemidon's own quest would be over; there would be nothing left with which to claim a robe.
Besides, how would Rosimar proceed, once he gained access to the inner chamber of the grotto and climbed onto the ledge above the vault? Probably by whirling the sword over his head like some hero from the sagas and challenging any man to take Augusta from his side. There would be no careful confrontation with Melizar, no appeal to the confused voters to turn away from the stones. The magician was likely as not to fail. And if he did, the arts would remain lost. Trocolar would win the election, and all of Augusta's assets, including Jemidon, would default to him.
