'Oniy copper!' Drandor exclaimed. 'Copper and no gold! I am to show these choice wares only to those willing to pay, and in a discreet manner besides. Melizar wills it so. Take your imposturing to another tent, where they are more gullible and less prudent with their precious time.'
Drandor grabbed Jemidon by the arm, but he shrugged the trader off. 'A moment, just a moment more. There is some pattern about the way the struts leave the central cube at an angle. See, with a few more cross bracings, they would form another symmetry there.'
'Begone, I say.' Drandor reached for Jemidon a second time but then stopped as a blast of trumpets suddenly pierced the air.
A muted cry soaked through the heavy canvas of the tent. 'The high prince. The high prince. He disembarks in an hour for the first night of illusions at the hall. Bondsmen of the prince and his retinue, attend unto your lords.'
Farnel and his sorceries popped back into Jemidon's mind, and he knew that time enough had been spent at the bazaar. Despite his reluctance, he must immediately return. There would be little time left now in which to prepare. He looked at Drandor's scowl and again at the cage in the corner. With an irritated wave, he indicated that he was going.
'I will return, Drandor,' he called as he passed through the front tent. 'There is much here that interests me.' He cast one glance back at Delia, standing like a statue behind the counter. 'Yes, much more that I would like to understand exceedingly well.'
Farnel's reaction upon Jemidon's return was an energetic one. 'Tonight,' the master said. 'We must present what we have tonight. My peers will determine the final list at the end of the audition session that is taking place now. They will make the selection and be done with it, so that the winners have time to prepare.'
'But as you have said, we are not quite ready,' Jemidon replied. 'Only the barest of sketches with no substance behind any of them.'
'It cannot be helped.' Farnel waved away the words. 'Get the stool and observe what I have put together. Note the jumpy transitions and any other major flaws. If it holds together well enough, we will go to the hall immediately and demand to be heard.'
Jemidon climbed up on the stool. Farnel stood at the opposite side of the room, adjusted his robe, and then, without preamble, rattled off the glamour. With surprising quickness, the sketch on the first sheet seemed to spring to life; the mountain felt real, the distant thunder forewarned of the approaching storm. Jemidon saw the blur of troops and heard the oration on horseback and the yell as the two seas of men poured toward each other. In rapid succession, the images flitted by, each indistinct and lacking in detail, but somehow capturing the depth of feeling that ultimately would be there.
And through it all, Jemidon was keenly aware of his real surroundings. The hard stool was uncomfortable; the smells of yesterday's meal still hung in the air. In the periphery of his vision, the disarray of the hut had not gone away. He fell the freedom to engage or ignore the images as he chose. Idly, he broke focus and sought out Farnel to see how he gestured as he ran through the charm. Once Jemidon concentrated on looking, the sorcerer sprang into view. His eyes wide and staring, Farnel continued mouthing the charm.
Then, without warning, the master's eyes bulged even further. He grabbed at his throat, and a dry rasp escaped, instead of a sonorous tone. In an instant the spell was broken. The mountains, the lightning, the cavalry, all vanished in a flash. Jemidon saw only Farnel in his hut, the master falling to his knees and emitting retching sounds as he sagged.
Jemidon sprang from the stool and ran to where the sorcerer had collapsed into a tight ball, clutching his throat with one hand and holding his other arm tightly to his stomach.
'Farnel, Farnel, what happened?' Jemidon yelled. 'Why did you lose control?'
The sorcerer's eyes twitched rapidly from left to right. He lolled his head to the side. 'Gerilac,' he croaked. 'The reason for the restraint at the meeting. I should have known. A few drops of some depressant in the wine would have done it. Enough for me to lose my voice and falter. He knew the prince would come today and that it would be our very last chance to audition.'
Jemidon stepped back, giving the sorcerer room, and then helped him struggle up on one elbow. 'He fears my entry into the competition,' Farnel said. 'He fears it! Now more than ever, I must go on.'
The master rose to sitting, and Jemidon offered an arm to pull him up. The sorcerer wavered a moment and then lowered himself back to the floor with a groan. 'It is not done yet,' he said weakiy. 'I can feel the backlash stirring in my head. It will be several days before I can attempt another spell.'
'But the selection,' Jemidon said. 'You told me we must hurry or be too late to be considered.'
'You will have to cast the glamours. Gather up the outline. I will accompany as best I can.'
'The glamours! I do not know a tenth of what is needed and none had I practiced, for them to go well.'
'You said you had practiced,' Farnel growled.
'Studied, yes,' Jemidon said. 'Studied but not practiced. It is an entirely different thing.' The feeling of what suddenly was being asked of him began to brew inside. Of course he knew he finally must prove his capabilities to Farnel, but not like this, not until he was truly ready.
'It is only a quick skim-through,' Farnel insisted. 'Just set up the stage and cast a light Power of Suggestion. It is the first one that I taught you. The masters have seen many such outlines. They will be able to extrapolate to the quality that is there.'
Jemidon started to say more; but, from the look in Farnel's eyes, he knew that further argument was useless. Reluctantly, he gathered up the sheets and bound them to an easelboard. 'Rest on my shoulder as we go,' he said. 'Perhaps your strength will return enough so you can cast the charm yourself.'
Farnel coughed and waved Jemidon to the door. The sorcerer grabbed a torch and teetered after with a shuffling step. Without speaking, they started on the path.
After half an hour of stumbles and rest stops, they arrived at the wooden building that was illuminated by a ring of torchlight at the end of the trail. It was the largest structure on the island, larger even than Canthor's stone keep. Weathered cedar covered the exterior, a quilt of planks running in different directions, as new extensions were hastily added to accommodate the increased entourage that the high prince brought with him each year. Originally a two-storey rectangle of modest size, the hall sprawled in an ungainly array of annexes, corridors, and lofts. Jemidon and Farnel entered through the low door cut in the rear and ascended the half-flight of stairs that led to the stage. Behind the first few rows, the seats were not arrayed in a regular pattern. Instead, they clumped in groups of twos and threes, some with tables and lounges close at hand. Between each group, threading back and forth across the upslope, ran a confusion of partitions that blocked the view of one group from another, while not obscuring the stage.
'The Maze of Partitions,' Farnel croaked as he waved at the sprawl of paneling. 'Getting to a seat from the entrance in the front of the hall is like one of those puzzles you are always babbling about.'
Jemidon ignored the master's frustrations at the turn of events. He looked at the muted tapestries on the outer walls that absorbed even the echoes of midday to produce an unnatural silence. From a well at the foot of the stage, an almost painful light leaped up to hit the array of faceted mirrors overhead. Beams of white blankness reflected throughout the theater, into the recesses off the luxury boxes along the walls, and through the corridors to the more private suites branching in random directions. Besides the wellbeams, the hall glowed from a scatter of candles and oil lamps tucked into odd crannies, the ones closest to the tapestries above buckets of sand or water, in case they should catch fire. One stretch of paneling was streaked with smoky black from an apparent accident long ago. Others danced with frescoes and mosaics, pale reminders of popular glamours cast over the years.
Except for the masters sitting in the first row, the auditorium was empty. But Jemidon found himself imagining the scene on the night of the judging for the supreme accolade-what it might be like, once he wore the robe of the master…
In his mind, a buzzing chatter filled the air, despite the heavy wall hangings. From unseen alcoves, coy giggles danced above the general drone. Silks and satins paraded through the maze, and rare perfumes mingled with the heat-laden air produced by the smoking torches. Smoothfaced pages glided between the boxes, offering sweetmeats and wine, stoically ignoring the teasing caresses of the noble ladies,
When his face finally appeared in the multifaceted mirror, the voices abruptly stopped in all the small cubicles. Perhaps from backstage, the lilt of a simple melody radiated into the hall, deliberately soft so that everyone
