impact that our presentation will have. Rote and repetition can come later. I have memorized well. I am sure of it.'
'Why, most of this outline is explicit enough.' Farnel frowned and looked at the jottings covering the walls. 'The basic idea is not to use a fine brush when a mop will do. The sorcerer should only suggest; the viewer will fill in a much more vivid scene with his own imagination.'
'But why risk the random thoughts that might come into their minds when you can direct the precise image with certainty?'
'You already know enough to answer that,' Farnel said. 'What is the basic law of sorcery?'
'The Rule of Three,' Jemidom said, 'or 'thrice repeated, once fulfilled.' Each charm must be spoken in its entirety three times without the slightest error, or it will come to naught.'
'And the more detailed the illusion?'
'The longer and more difficult the glamour.' Jemidon paused for a moment. 'Ah, yes, I see the connection. In Procolon across the sea, where sorcery is a sinister weapon of state, the length of the charm does not matter. But in a presentation hall, under the lightest of glamours, the words must be swift, or else the lords will hoot and ask for the next production.'
'It works for the benefit of the master as well.' Farnel began to scrutinize the last sheet of the outline, cramming cryptic notes into the margins of what was already there. 'Each charm robs something of the life force of the sorcerer; there is only so much power within him. And the simpler he can make his glamours, the longer will he prosper. Why, it is for that very reason that the sorcerers of Arcadia forswore the deeper cantrips ages ago and retired to Morgana to deal in nothing more than simple pleasures.
'But enough of that. I want to run through the broad outlines before we go. There will be sufficient time to select the details, once we have been chosen for the final program.'
The sorcerer turned to the first sheet and studied its contents. 'Let me see, the high cliff walls that define the pass, the hint of storm in the morning, and the last meal in the camps. Perhaps Alaraic's Foreboding, followed by Magneton's Walls of Closure and then Aroma of the Hunters. Yes, they should be sufficiently close.'
'Would not Dark Clouds and Clinton's Granite Spires be more to the point?' Jemidon asked.
Farnel cast Jemidon an appraising glance. 'You learn fast, tyro, but in this case, the combination will not work. When Dark Clouds is connected with the opening, it finishes on too low a syllable to connect onto Clinton's charmlet smoothly. I am a practiced master, but even I would not risk mouthing such a transition.'
'A small Hint of Curiosity sandwiched between the two lines them up perfectly.' Jemidon moved to the easel and grabbed the pen. 'As I said, I have been studying. See, I think of all these charmlets as little squiggles on the paper. They can be joined together only if their end-points and slopes smoothly align. Making the grand glamour consists of splicing the curves together so that they move in the general direction you want.'
Farnel frowned and studied the sketches as Jemidon rapidly filled the easel. He stroked his chin and rolled his eyes upward in thought. 'An interesting way of looking at it,' he said at last. 'But in the end, it comes to the same thing. The sorcerer must piece together the words for the charm he wishes to achieve.'
'But by visualizing the curves, you can slide them around like a puzzle and discover new combinations without risking a self-induced trance to envision them fully formed.'
'And have you tried this theory of yours?' Farnel asked. 'Even with the simpler charms for which I have given you the words? How many of them have you linked together?'
'Well, none,' Jemidon said. 'I have not had the time. The manipulation of the charmlets on the easel seemed much more interesting. I have always had an interest in finding the underlying patterns of things. And sometimes I have succeeded when others have overlooked them. Who knows, it might lead to some new principle.'
'Nevertheless, a master sorcerer is known by the charms he executes, Jemidon, no matter how well he can recite the theory. Believe me, the first time you misspeak, and one goes awry, the sickness that follows will make you wish you had doubled your practice.'
'But the rote is so boring. It is just a matter of putting in the effort to do it.'
'Exactly so,' Farnel said. 'Exactly so. There is more to success than making a fuzzy plan that leads in the general direction of the goal. At some point, each step finally must be executed to the finest detail.'
Jemidon frowned. He did not like the way the conversation was going. Soon Farnel would be insisting he pass up exploring the last tent and spend the evening endlessly running through simple recitals. And surely he could do that easily enough. The time would be as good as wasted.
His frown deepened as other thoughts tried to bubble to the surface. Determinedly, he thrust them away. Work the simple charms-of course he could. There was no need even to try. And he might learn something of value in the last tent, some additional fact to merge into the whole and make their presentation even better.
'The sun is setting,' he said quickly, 'and it might be better if I visit this Drandor soon, before the bazaar gets too crowded. The traders are more willing to talk if their tents are not filled with customers.'
Farnel looked outside at the growing dimness and then back at Jemidon. 'In sorcery, a master can only suggest,' he said after a moment. 'It is the tyro who ultimately must force himself to attempt the tests. Yes, yes, go on. I see in your eyes how much you want to investigate this last tent. I will dabble with what we have and perhaps even be ready for a first trial when you return.'
Jemidon stepped onto the bazaar pathway and jostled the crowd already starting to build. He had walked the distance from the hills to the shoreline in under an hour. Here he coutd lose his concerns in a myriad of distractions. It felt good to be away from Farad's hut and the sorcerer's all-too-accurate observations. To Jemidon's left, a hawker in a tunic of gaudy red and green touted sketches that leaped from their canvases. On the right, he heard the moan of a faraway whistle under a sign promising to conjure up rare creatures of legend. Down the path were the other displays, multifaceted mirrors, rotating checkered boards, and vaults of total darkness, where one sealed his ears with wax and dipped his hands in a numbing salve before entering. The cries of the pitchmen, music from adjacent rows, and noises of the crowd mingled into a meaningless hubbub.
Besides the usual taverns and stalls, the bazaar was crammed with peddlers of cheap illusions. They had nothing to do with real sorcery; that was banned in the harbor area by decree of the masters. But with their lords traipsing off to the presentation hall to fill their minds with the artfully constructed images, the bondsmen hungered for a taste of the same thrills. So they paid their coppers for the risque sketches, the touch in darkness of the slimy tentacle, and the dizzy heads from spinning in the small cages hung from a rope.
Jemidon meandered down the pathway, watching the reveling bondsmen and listening for interesting snatches of conversation. Nothing was worth stopping for, and finally he reached the end of the row. He looked over a medium-sized tent, set apart from the rest; this was Drandor's, the last to check. Jemidon saw that the pavilion was made from three smaller ones, inexpertly sewn together, with excess fabric hanging in disarray where they joined. The colors had long since faded. No pennants flew from the poletops, nor did any peddier challenge the passerby to come inside.
Jemidon ducked to enter the low opening. It was dark inside, illuminated only by two small candles, their flames unprotected by any sort of bowl. 'What do you sell?' Jemidon asked, as the slight figure behind the high counter began to take on detail. 'Your brothers in the other tents are much more boastful of their wares.'
'Exercises for the mind,' a melodious voice responded. 'Journey with these and you can create illusions of your own making.'
Jemidon's eyes widened as they adjusted to the flickering light. He saw a young woman with curls of golden hair and sparkling eyes that revealed their bright blue, even in the dimness. Her features were delicately drawn with the deftness of a sculptor; if not for the tension in her face that pulled the skin tight and wrinkled the corners of her eyes, she would have been judged most fair. From a loop around her neck cascaded a free-flowing gown that sparkled in a subtle iridescence. On her left arm was wound a thin band of dull iron, the emblem of the indentured servant. The counter in front of her supported a scatter of small works of metal, twinkling in the candlelight, webs of intertwined wires, tessellated polyhedra, and burnished flatwares intricately pieced together.
'Your tent has been placed in the wrong position.' Jemidon appraised the woman's beauty. 'The more traditional entertainments are closer to the entrance by the harbor.'
'It is as I have said,' the woman responded, after a quick look over her shoulder to the curtain which partitioned the tent. 'Entertainments for the mind. Please, buy one. It will help me a great deal.'
Again Jemidon marveled at the voice, tinkling softly like a chime in a light wind. 'My name is Jemidon,' he said
