'But the message said that there was a sorcerer among the captives,' Jemidon whispered. 'Did you come with someone else?'
'I am the master.' Canthor patted his chest and laughed. 'It is for me that Pelinad staged his raid. And he has just told me why. He is to meet this morning with Ocanar, the leader of the other rebel band, and the village whispers say that this rival has acquired the aid of a master of one of the arts. Pelinad feels that he must show equivalent strength if he is to bend Ocanar to his will, rather than the other way around.'
'But you do not practice sorcery,' Jemidon said. 'Pelinad has made a mistake.'
'And one that I have chosen not yet to correct.'
'But why?'
'Why not? For all intents now, I can weave illusions as well as any master.' Canthor grimaced and looked in the direction of the sea. 'No need, they said. No need for a bailiff or men-at-arms. With no art, there would be no visitors. What little order they needed they could manage by themselves. Booted out from the keep with wages a month in arrears! A fine thanks for services almost two decades done. And so it was either starve or beguile the weak-witted with impressive-sounding chants that I have heard repeated over and over. A wave of the hand, a penetrating glance, a deep-pitched voice in a dimly lighted room. There are enough begging to imagine some fantasy in the air that the coin was easy enough to come by along the way.'
'Pelinad rescued us for no less,' Jemidon said. 'With sixty men or three times that, he will not directly challenge Kenton's sharp steel and tight mail. The rest are all babbling about their good fortune. They think that finally they have a weapon to use against the catapults and the lord's missiles of war. You had better explain quickly that you are a fighter like them and no more.'
'You did not seem so quick to speak when they filled your bowl with a double portion,' Canthor remarked. 'Even the tyro of a sorcerer rates more than an even share.'
'I put forth no such claim,' Jemidon protested. 'The forced march was enough, after a day in the fields, to keep any man's mouth from wasted chatter.'
'Nevertheless, they have accepted my word as to your budding proficiency.' Canthor waved down the volume of Jemidon's voice. 'And, as I said, Pelinad needs to have a sorcerer in his retinue for the parlay. For the moment, it is better that things proceed as they are. Besides, with two we should be able to carry out the illusion all the better. There will be time enough to reveal the reality. And if no harm is done in the process, then what can it really matter?'
'My purpose for coming to the wheatlands was not to fight in a rebellion,' Jemidon said. 'Rather, I intended to warn the high prince of the power of a stranger who has mercenaries of his own.'
'Indeed.' Canthor flicked another branch onto the fire. 'Then perhaps you should demand an immediate audience with Pelinad and inform him forthwith where your allegiances lie. I am sure that the others who were released with you would delight in the presence of a representative of the prince.'
Jemidon scowled and looked about the campground. What Canthor said was true. None of Pelinad's rebels would care anything about warning the prince. Perhaps he should slip away when there was opportunity. But slip away to what? Certainly not back to the toil of the cages or the oppression of Kenton's barony. Was it for the benefit of the Arcadian nobles that he was to offer his aid? He shook his head in confusion.
But if there was no warning to the prince, then how could Melizar be apprehended? And the secrets of the stranger were the slender threads from which everything else hung. There would be no robe of the master, no calming of the strange longing that made him turn away from all that Augusta had offered.
Jemidon lapsed into a deep contemplation, clutching the coin about his neck and cutting out Canthor's words. He tried to dissect the compulsion that apparently lay behind all the reasons he had thought were driving him on. What was the allure of Melizar's lattice and the soft, cold words that issued from the dark hood? Why did he care about the Postulate of Invariance and the new laws, the new sorceries, and the magics that somehow switched on and off, according to the stranger's commands? Lattices, drums and weights, flitting imps, visions of changers, and stacks of coins danced in his head. Copper and silver slid into the slit, and precise columns of gold issued from the bottom. Benedict's problem-inserting three regals followed by one galleon should produce-
'Alert, to arms,' he heard Pelinad say. 'Ocanar comes for the parlay, and I do not trust his intent.' The tall, angular warrior thumped his fist on his chest. 'Stand upright now and show them, each and every one, that you are the equal of any whom he has to command.'
Jemidon groaned and willed his body erect. Understanding the puzzle of his own mind would take more than a few minutes in a crowd of men pursuing a desperate cause. Without words, he accepted Canthor's nimble fingers tightening and adjusting his leather vest. He grasped the scythe in one hand, wondering how well he would fare against someone who knew how to use a blade. Pelinad shouted orders, drawing his men into a jagged line that faced the direction from which Ocanar would come.
After a few moments, the trail sounds that had alerted the lookout grew loud enough for everyone to hear. Shortly thereafter, the first of Ocanar's band topped the small rise to the west. Murmurs of surprise arose among Pelinad's own troop as they saw the procession come forward.
'Mail,' the rebels whispered. 'Some of them are in mail.'
'Yes, Ocanar and at least a dozen more.'
'And the total number-he comes with unexpected strength.'
'Silence,' Pelinad snapped, but Jemidon barely noticed the command. He had expected Ocanar's master to be the same as Canthor, another fraudulent sorcerer manipulating the gullibilities about an art that was no more. But instead, what followed the line in front was a shock.
'Melizar!' Jemidon cried. 'And the men in mail. They must be Nimrod and the Pluton mercenaries.'
Canthor cuffed Jemidon in the arm as a warning. Jemidon looked back, surprised, and then dropped his eyes from Pelinad's disapproving stare. Fidgeting uncomfortably, he waited with the others, watching the troop pour over the hill and form into another straggly rank, a few pike lengths from Pelinad's own. He saw his father march up with the last, in a clump of older villagers, all with faces set in grim lines. But he was already numb from the jolt of Melizar's appearance and gave the second surprise little thought. Both troops spread out to span the depression from lip to lip, each a single row deep, alternating clumps of men and large gaps. Despite the attempts of each leader to make his following appear the larger, Jemidon estimated that the forces numbered about the same.
'Greetings, brother,' the red-bearded man in front hailed. He alone wore an embroidered surcoat, and the morning sun glinted off a cap of steel. 'The hills speak of an increase in your might. Had I not been augmenting myself, then your size might have begun to rival even my own.'
'The lord's burden grows too oppressive.' Pelinad moved forward to answer the greeting. 'Two nights ago my following tripled. Tomorrow, if I approach the village, it will probably double again.'
'A day too late.' Ocanar forced a laugh. 'I have already made the sweep while you were fussing over the harvest of a single field. Look at my legion.' He waved a thick arm to those filling in behind. 'At least two hundred, trained freetoilers, and ready to fight. Yes, two hundred. It is clear that the momentum has swung my way. The rebellion is growing, and I am the center. The time for timid confusion is over. I charge you to accept my command, Pelinad. Swear allegiance to me as leader, so that we may strike Kenton's strength rather than poke with petty irritations at his periphery.'
'Command is not measured by mere numbers.' Pelinad pointed at Jemilor and those around him. 'If I wanted to enlist the old men and the lame, I could have done so a year ago. No indeed, my raid was strategic. Because of it, I have garnered an element of great power.' He motioned Canthor to come forward. 'Henceforth I battle with a craft far removed from simple thaumaturgy. Here is my sorcerer, Ocanar, and from no less than Morgana itself.'
Ocanar looked at Canthor as the bailiff walked forward. He frowned and pulled at his beard. 'The village whispers that sorcery is no more,' he said slowly. 'And this man wears no robe with a logo. His walk is that of a fighter, not the shuffle of the masters I have seen.'
'Look me in the eye and we will test the truth here and now.' Canthor put his hands on his hips. 'Let us see to what extent the village talk is true.'
Ocanar took a step backward and threw his hand across his face. 'Whatever resources we have should be tested in battle,' he said quickly. 'It is folly to waste them fighting between ourselves.'
'Allow me to accept the challenge to your place.' Melizar glided forward to stand by Ocanar. 'Let the so-called master pit his skills against the powers that are mine.'
