Jemidon kicked at some driftwood washed up on the beach. Somehow he must also get to the grotto and be part of the final confrontation, no matter which way it went. Success for Rosimar or a failure-neither augered well, but Jemidon could not wait on the periphery for the result. Even without a clever scheme, he had to pursue his destiny.
He stopped his gestures of frustration and made up his mind. He ran back to the deserted structure and down into the dungeon. Hastily, he grabbed one of the tarpaulins, the rope on the floor, and a halberd and sword. He staggered up the stairs and back outside with the load, dropping it onto the beach. With only the halberd, he sprinted into the forest and began to fell the smallest trees he could find.
Two hours later, he shoved a makeshift raft into the waves and hoisted the tarpaulin on a mast barely as high as his head. Strapped precariously on board were three of the remaining sacks of raw scentstones. Perhaps, if everyone could see what they truly were, the spell could be broken. Paddling with a stubby log, he cleared the island and set a course for the grotto.
Low tide had already been reached, and the water level was on the way up when Jemidon maneuvered into the opening from the sea. He struck his sail and released the guy ropes that held the mast in place, letting the log topple over the side. The portcullis was drawn up and the wall cresset danced with flame.
He cut a square from the tarpaulin, wrapped it around a small branch, and dipped it into the burning oil. Resuming his paddling, he headed for the narrow opening that separated the two large chambers.
His raft was narrow, and he navigated the tunnel with ease. Emerging from the other side, he saw the ledge on the far wa.ll ablaze with light. Dozens of torches cut through the blackness from the opening in the rock. Others bobbed from the flotilla of small boats anchored below, many with oarsmen waiting in them. As Jemidon drew closer, he could see the cut in the cliff jammed with people to the very edge, shirts of mail, embroidered robes, and flowing capes crowding together shoulder to shoulder. The slurred mixture of many excited voices radiated out into the vast-ness of the cavern and echoed faintly from the other walls.
'Take me above,' he ordered one of the oarsmen when his raft finally bumped against the cliff. 'There is much that I wish to relate.' Cautiously he reached for his sword and swung it upward.
'Watch out, it may be a blade like the other.' An oarsman stepping from one skiff to the next suddenly stopped.
Jemidon smiled at the rower's words. In his haste, he had not thought about how to get everyone's attention. But perhaps Rosimar's interruption would give him the means. 'Fetch these sacks of stone,' he replied quickly before any of the others could think. 'And watch your backsides. Like that of Rosimar's above, this broadsword slices through mail as if it were gossamer.'
The oarsman closest to him jumped, to the side, and Jemidon boldly stepped forward, waving his sword. 'The sacks to the landing,' he said. 'Make haste before my patience is tried. You will be easy targets if you flee.'
The oarsmen nodded and cautiously came forward to pick up the bags Jemidon indicated. With repeated glances over their shoulders, they preceded him up the rope ladder to the landing.
'Make room, make room,' the rower in front directed as they reached the top. 'Another of the devil shafts. Move aside so that he can pass.'
A space opened up along one wall, and Jemidon crowded by. In the rear of the cavern, next to the hole that led down to the vault, he saw Rosimar standing with his back to the downward-sloping rock and waving the magic sword in jerky arcs. Benedict huddled to one side, his arms intertwined around his chest and his teeth working furiously on his lower lip. On the other side of the magician was Augusta. Her eyes darted back and forth over the group thai surrounded them in a wide semicircle. Some stood with swords drawn, and others waved at the men- at-arms, encouraging them forward. Behind the front row stood Trocolar and other influential voters. Meltzar and Holgon conferred in soft tones near one of the other openings that led further into the interior. At Rosimar's feet, two bodies were piled, one missing a hand and the second the side of his face.
'You are no swordsman, magician, and eventually you must tire,' the red-surcoated man Jemidon had seen in the exchange with the shrinking cube called out. The constable's eyes flicked over to Jemidon and then back to the magician. 'And even with three of you, you cannot manage to descend the rope to the boats and guard at the same time. Drop the broadsword, Rosimar, and save us all unnecessary grief.'
'I am no part of this,' Benedict whimpered. 'He forced me to row into the grotto against my will. I am a captive, no more free than the rest of you.'
'Silence, divulgent.' Rosimar gasped for air and waved the sword threateningly to the side. His face glistened with wetness and his eyes had a wild and panicked look. 'As for you and your men, constable Nimrod, if I do tire, which of you will rush forward first to engage the cutting edge?'
'Nimrod, do your duty,' Trocolar said. 'That I will be the winner when this interruption is over there can be little doubt. And the bonuses that I would be inclined to bestow for the previous year's service will be greatly influenced by your actions here and now.'
'You have not yet won, Trocolar,' someone shouted from the crowd. 'The final tally is still to be summed.'
'I know very well the number of scentstones that have been sold from my stock these last few days,' Trocolar turned and called back. 'I have had my clerks keep careful count. Even if every one of you decided on someone else, the total would be less than what I have held for my own. You see the sum that shows for me already on the slate. Now it is just a formality, and we are done.'
'But it is unfair,' the voice persisted, and several others joined in the chorus. 'Forget about the madman. The important thing is how we consider the stones. Of them I have none. My ship docked after the price had become too dear. I possess only a cargo of leather leggings from the mainland and some curious flexible pipes from the southern kingdoms across the sea. I have brought samples of each for assay. The entire lot would have fetched fifty tokens. Surely they still have value against something else.'
The hubbub of dissent rose in volume, but Trocolar waved his arms for silence. 'We have insufficient time, Luthor. Insufficient time to bicker the proper balance for each commodity. We would be here from one election to the next, trying to redetermine the relative merit of each. But nearly everyone has some stones. I have released enough to make sure of that. In point of fact, they are the new foundation by which all else is judged.' The trader paused and looked toward Augusta. 'If you have none to assay, then the logic admits of no alternative, Luthor. Your vote is null. Just thank the random factors that you are not a debtor as well.'
'Rosimar, the stones,' Jemidon interrupted. 'Did you explain how they came to be?'
Rosimar turned in Jemidon's direction and his eyes widened. 'An impostor,' he wheezed, wiping his forehead with his free hand. 'I have the sword of power. I have the only one. Take him away. His fate is no concern of mine.'
'Stand back,' Jemidon replied quickly. 'You have no need to put it to the test. Just listen for a moment. What I have to say concerns you all.'
'Attack, Nimrod. Do your duty,' Trocolar said. 'Secure these malcontents before there are any more.'
'Do not listen,' Rosimar shouted as he moved out from the wall and flailed his weapon through the air. 'I am the one who is rescuing the lady. It is me to whom she will belong. I am the master who has forged the sword. He had not enough time. The one he holds can be only common steel and no more.'
The men-at-arms at Jemidon's side looked at Rosimar, then to the scowling face of his constable, and finally back to Jemidon. He hesitated a moment, but then drew his own blade partway from its scabbard.
'Back, I say!' Jemidon moved to the wall and held his sword menacingly outward. 'I have no quarrel with you. I want only the freedom to have my say.'
'Impostor, impostor!' Rosimar shrieked. 'If it possesses true magic, have him show what it can do.' With a sudden rush, he whirled to the wall and sliced off a knob of rock as if he were cutting cheese. The outcrop crashed to the ground, and the magician attacked it with a two-handed grip, thrashing the stone to jagged slivers and crumbling slices.
'And yours,' Nimrod called out quickly. 'Indeed we have not seen you cut nearly so deep.'
'I did not come for petty display-' Jemidon began, but his hesitation was enough. The man on his left completed his draw and pushed to attack. Jemidon danced to the side to avoid the downthrust, looking quickly about for something he could use as a shield. He jabbed to his right and the guard there gave ground, not yet sure of the potency of what he faced.
Jemidon slid along the wall, kicked a stool out of the way, and vaulted a small table at its side. A low slash nicked his calf as he flew past. When he landed, his leg buckled in pain. Down on one knee, he looked frantically about and saw that the men-at-arms still gave Rosimar a wide berth. With one leg dragging on the ground, he
