'Two chairs. They account for two of the treadmills,' Kenton continued. 'But with four ambulators in the hall, there must be additional bindings.'
As Jemidon struggled upward, he saw a wine cup across the way suddenly jump from the table, splashing its contents down the front of a woman's dress. A turkey thigh rose from a platter and plunged into the beard of a grain-keeper on her right. For several minutes, the laughter continued as Kenton manipulated the objects, dashing the chairs into anyone who lost track of where they were, bouncing the cup off heads and elbows, and thrusting the turkey leg into mouths not discreetly shut when it passed by.
'Enough,' the lord said finally. Jemidon saw the ambulators collapse to sitting, their chests heaving from their effort and their treadmills still. The laughter died away.
'Release the bindings,' Kenton ordered, and the thaumaturges started to sing as they had done earlier in the day. The lord turned to the prince. 'This is just a sample of what the other arts can do to amuse one nobly born.'
'It is little different from last year's,' Wilmad said. 'And a few minutes' entertainfnent at that. You presume too much, Kenton. Guide your masters in the production of wheat. In that, you have shown much skill. But leave true art to those who have the sense to judge the subtle from the mundane.'
'But the goblet,' Kenton protested. 'Have you no idea the difficulty involved in fashioning a replica on such a small scale?'
'The craft of your masters is well regarded, even in Searoyal,' Wilmad said. 'The candles that they carefully build, taking a full day for each layer, are used throughout the plains.'
'You waste time in debating the merit of foolish games when you should be attending to the responsibilities of being lords,' Jemidon suddenly interrupted. The snickers and the hot gravy soaking down his legs as he tried to blot the wine from his tunic had proved to be too much. He had come to tell the high prince of an impending danger, not to be the butt of a baron's jokes.
Jemidon's outburst brought the hall to silence. He immediately realized what he had done, but there was no way to turn aside the look that began to etch itself on Kenton's face. A growing sense of apprehension began to mingle with his flash of anger. Boldly, he plunged on before the lord could speak.
'First sorcery, then magic. Can you not see that even thaumaturgy might be next? How will you harvest all of these ripening fields if the art gives you no aid?'
'The last incantation of ripening has been performed,' Kenton said in a surprisingly quiet voice. 'The thaumarurges stood in the village square in exactly the same geometric pattern as that of the fields upon the plain. The crops will mature, each field one day after the next in lock step, just as the representative stalks did in the square.' The Jord glowered at Jemidon. 'All that remains is to ensure that the labor for the reaping is properly applied to the task.'
'Not the cages again,' another voice on Kenton's left interrupted. The man stood and faced the prince with his palms spread wide. He looked like the senior master of a guild instructing a first class of neophytes; a ring of white hair circled a completely bald crown. Burst veins of blue netted his cheeks, and flesh hung limply from slender arms. 'The freetoilers work to their limit as it is. Another fetter will drive them directly into the brigands' hands. Instead of eleven bushels where you used to have ten, you will have none at all.'
'I have eleven where you have only six, Burdon. Eleven to your six because I know better what effort the freetoilers are capable of exerting. If it is the cages that will increase this year's yield to the desires of the high prince, then cages I shall use.' Kenton waved his hand in Jemidon's direction. 'And for every one that I can fill with legal cause, it is one less that the freetoilers must elect to enter by choice.'
'I do not care to interfere with your methods,' Wilmad interjected. 'As long as the grain is produced in sufficient quantity and my house gets its rightful share, the means are not my concern.' The high prince paused for a second, eyeing Kenton down the length of his nose. 'They are not my concern, as long as Arcadia remains at peace with itself and I do not have to explain to my doddering father why the royal garrison must be pulled from the coast to the inland plains. One company from Searoyal is quite enough, Kenton. Do not overstep the bounds, so that next year I again must shout apologies about a vassal's conduct to the rabble in the village square.'
'The chance of rebellion is not to be lightly dismissed, my liege,' Burdon said. 'Each day the brigands add one or two more to their cause-one or two more cursing Kenton's abuses of the art.'
'Abuses!' Kenton snorted. 'A weak excuse for those unwilling to toil as they should. Why, of the five arts, thaumaturgy is the least sinister; it has the smallest potential for true harm. There is no opening of a channel to the frightening power of the demons with which the wizards toy. Nor the possibility of lifelong enchantment that can come from a sorcerer's gaze. No awesome weapons, like those from a magician's guild. No salves or philters of evil intent from an alchemist's anthanor. No, just two simple principles to aid in the production of our crops.'
Kenton paused for breath, but then raced on before Burdon or the prince could speak again. 'Even I understand their intent, if not the incantations that invoke their uses. The Principle of Sympathy, or 'like produces like.' Because of it, when I move the model chair, the one in the room responds in kind. A whole field ripens as does a single stalk.
'And the Principle of Contagion, or 'once together, always together.' Both the full-size chair and its model were made from the same log. The wheat maturing in the square is coupled to the field from which it came and no other. These two concepts, plus the binding of a bit of energy to make it all come about, span the full scope of the art. It is so simple that, as I have said, no great harm can result.
'And look at what we have accomplished by dutifully applying the craft to our fields year after year: seeds placed in straight rows to equal depth merely by inserting one; germination in unison of all that is sown; accelerated growth, as if each plant were nurtured in the finest of fertilized soils; and an entire field ripening at once, while its neighbor is delayed for a day, so our limited tools can be used for each at the optimal time.'
'The harvest incantations occur in my villages, as well as in yours,' Burdon said. 'We all understand that each layer of candle wax was made a single day before the one underneath, and hence lives one more sunset from birth to death, and that each field's ripening is bound to a layer, so that it matures in the same sequence. All of that is not the point. You see no abuse, yet it is all around you, Kenton. What of those misshapen ambulators? Their thighs are as big as their waists, and they are of no use other than to provide the energies that your incantations demand. If by some chance the art were to go away, to what other craft could they be employed?
'No, the issue is not the principles of thaumaturgy,' Burdon continued, 'but the degree to which magic robs our people of their will. Now the freetoiler has little choice. He must volunteer to man the cages in step with the bondsman so that his own field yields as much as yours. If you have your way, ultimately he will be little more than a machine, locked in a grotesque dance that stomps the stems and separates the chaff with jerking steps precisely placed.'
'My masters have not yet perfected their craft, it is true.' Kenton smiled. 'But it is a goal well worth striving for, nonetheless. The cage that you show so much concern about is no more than the logical extension of what we have been doing for years. And the freetoilers need not employ it. As long as they can get eleven bushels from each acre, where last year they harvested ten, how they accomplish the task I do not question.'
'Yes, eleven bushels.' Kenton turned his attention back to Jemidon. 'For one of the miller's trade, it will be agrand experiment. It is the form by which you will accept the punishment for your impertinence. Eleven days in the cage. Let us see if you are as skillful as the rest when you are done.'
Kenton smiled but said no more. He rang a small bell at his side; from somewhere in the castle, a huge gong sounded. He motioned to his thaumaturges and ambulators. The treading resumed. The words of a binding incantation again filled the air. A squad of men-at-arms marched into the feasting hall, carrying shackles and chains.
Jemidon turned to meet the new arrivals. His apprehension was well founded. In the hallway behind the men, he glimpsed iron bars and a steel plate. He heard the rumble of wooden wheels on stone. What they were he knew he was soon to learn.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
