equipment still be there? Or perhaps even the body of the stranger?
Jemidon stopped and frowned. He and Augusta must flee. Clearly that was the best course of action. Any other was folly. But other currents also swirled in his mind. Slowly he placed one foot on the ladder and then hesitated again. Flee into what new uncertainty? His thoughts tumbled. How had anything he had done led him any closer to what he truly wanted? The Postulate of Invariance was only a beginning. With more information, who knew what he might be able to deduce? The urge to explore, if only for a little longer, began to well up inside. He could not put the feeling away.
'The secret may yet be here,' Jemidon said half aloud. 'Outside is more peril and, if we are lucky, another flight.' He returned to Augusta and drew her close. 'I cannot abandon the quest. You saw how Melizar so easily changed the laws. It seems he has discovered a greater magic than the five we know. Call it a sixth magic, something governed by a metalaw different from all the rest. And perhaps among the bodies there is some clue that will explain more. It does no good to understand what was done unless I also know how.'
'But the tide,' Augusta protested. 'We have waited long enough.' She looked about the landing at the bodies and shuddered. 'I cannot remain here while the passageway submerges.'
'Then you go ahead,' Jemidon said gently. 'You have traversed the tunnel many times, and I am sure you can manage alone. Wait just behind the portcullis that opens onto the bay. At most, I will be a few minutes behind.'
Augusta started to say more, but Jemidon drew his face into a mask of rigid determination. 'Every minute we delay, the water rises higher,' he said. 'You help me best by making haste.'
Augusta nuzzled closer for a moment and then sighed. 'I am not so much the dreamer that I would offer also to stay,' she said. 'But take care, Jemidon. The events spin too fast. I seem to need your comfort more and more.'
She disengaged and descended the ladder. With the precision of an oarsman, she maneuvered the empty skiff away from the cliff and toward the narrow opening in the far wall. As she disappeared from view, Jemidon saw her wave a final kiss.
Jemidon cleared his head. Now he must hurry to find out what he could before the tide rose any higher. He would first explore the other passageways, then whatever remained among the wreckage on the landing floor, and finally the vault itself.
Quickly he crossed back over the bodies and debris to begin. He entered a side tunnel and examined the ceiling and walls for any trace that Meltzar might have left behind. Falling into the pattern of the scholar, he investigated to the end of the passage and then started to explore the next, losing track of the time.
An hour later, Jemidon emerged from the last, as empty-handed as when he had begun. He turned his attention to the floor of the cavern and located Holgon's body sprawled across Melizar's toys. In the torchlight, he examined each one-the broken bladder, the sprung trap, and the painted blocks of wood. They felt quite ordinary, and no arcane symbols were anywhere to be found. Nearby was the broken sword of magic; when Jemidon grasped it, only the sense of cold steel greeted his fingertips. The shocks of electric pain were gone.
In frustration, he rubbed the worn coin about his neck. There was nothing here that told him anything more than he already knew. Somehow, with greater ease than the simplest glamour, Melizar had changed the laws, replacing the substitute magic with yet another,
Jemidon gripped the broken sword tighter, twisting its strange, unbalanced feeling back and forth with his wrist. Perhaps later, in the light of day, there might be something else that he could not see now. Yes, that was it- take an example of each form of magic and study the connection at a better time. He placed the sword hilt where he could easily find it again and then scooped up a handful of dominoes that lay next to the guard. He looked around for some example of traditional magic and saw Benedict's coinchanger reflecting the torchlight from a few feet away.
Jemidon stooped and pried loose the divulgent's stiffening fingers from the device, which was still strapped to his waist. He cut it free and experimentally tripped one of the levers. A pile of worthless tokens fell into his palm and bounded onto the cavern floor.
Jemidon continued his search, but found nothing more. Finally he knelt by the side of the shaft leading down to the flooded vault and peered into the inky blackness. Impulsively he gathered the tokens he had spilled and dropped one of the coins into the opening. Almost immediately, he heard an answering splash.
The water level was halfway up the shaft, he decided. There was no way to see what had happened below. Exploration was impossible. If any secrets were in the vault, they would forever remain there. One by one, he dropped the rest of the tokens into the dark water, trying to visualize the imagery of their grave.
As the last one left his fingers, he bolted upright with a sudden thought. The tokens in the vault were totally submerged and inaccessible. It might work at that. It offered no bearing on the riddle of the changing laws but was useful, nonetheless. Why hadn't he thought of it before racing after Rosimar with no idea of a detailed plan?
With a rush of excitement that blotted out the pain in his leg, Jemidon decided what he must do. He had learned all he could. There was no reason to remain. Now the feeling of urgency returned. He must get out ahead of the rising tide, out to safety so he could tell Augusta what they could do.
Quickly he scurried around the landing, gathering up his loot. Balancing the load precariously, he descended the rope ladder to Luthor's skiff. With no hesitation, he pushed the trader the rest of the way over the side of the boat and kicked the wares to the bow. 'Forgive my disrespect,' he muttered, 'but if the grotto is ever used again, you will be given the proper rest.'
In a few minutes, Jemidon was at the tunnel opening that connected to the outer chamber. The water level was far higher than he had seen it the week before. On his first passage, only the narrowest part near the center had been confining. Now, even at the entrance, he had to duck his head. Cautiously he paddled forward and peered into the receding darkness. The tide was still rushing in, and each stroke of the oar was an effort. The ceiling hung oppressively close.
As he stroked, Jemidon concentrated on the small knobs and folds protruding from the tunnel wall ahead, measuring his progress as these landmarks slowly passed by. He ducked to the side to miss a low monolith and then peddled furiously to avoid an outcrop that narrowed the passageway from the left.
For a moment, he stopped rowing and let the stream blunt his forward momentum. Perhaps it would be better to return to the landing and wait half a day for the next tide. But who knew what would transpire outside in twelve hours? He had sent Augusta ahead to wait in the outer cavern. He must increase his effort in order to pass through the neck of the tunnel before it was too late.
Jemidon resumed his rowing. He sucked in lungfuls of air and concentrated on delivering powerful strokes to either side. For a few minutes his pace increased noticeably, but then another low dip in the ceiling forced him to duck and wait for the obstruction to pass. When he continued, his burst of energy was spent. He felt fatigued and winded. His wound and the confinement in Trocolar's dungeon were taking their toll. It seemed he could just barely make progress against the force of the water.
The ceiling sank lower and the walls closed with unrelenting menace. The skiff jammed into a narrow restriction, and Jemidon had to use his good leg against the wall to break free. He ducked beneath a projection and found that he could no longer sit erect. With each passing moment, he hunched lower and lower, barely avoiding blows against the top of his head.
Eventually rowing became impossible. Jemidon switched to pushing his oar along the wall, as he had seen the oarsmen do before. He adjusted himself to be as comfortable as possible, lying chest down on the keel, propped on one elbow while he pressed the oar against the wall. His progress slowed, as more and more frequently the skiff became jammed between the confining rocks. And with each foot forward, the ceiling sloped lower; with each passing second, the water rose to meet it.
The gap between the side rail and the ceiling diminished to less than a foot. His forehead beaded with sweat as the truth of his situation began to sink in. He was not moving swiftly enough. There would be too little room. Before he reached the narrowest constriction, the boat would jam against the ceiling, and he would be trapped.
Jemidon groped around the bottom of the skiff, trying to trigger a fresh idea. He saw the pile of Luthor's leggings and, behind them, a coil of the flexible tubing, animal intestines wrapped in cloth and stitched together into great lengths. He frowned and looked at the ceiling. He visualized the skiff pressed firmly against the rock and cold sheets of water spilling over the rails on both sides. With a shudder, he convinced himself of what he must
