Lyndon Hardy - Secret Of The Sixth Magic

The harbor was crowded; several ships lay at anchor in mid-bay, awaiting their turn for a berth. The piers jutted into the dirty water with regular-spaced precision from two arms of land that gently curved into an enclosing circle. A small opening led to the unprotected sea outside the bay. Through the gap, one could follow the shipping lanes to the heartland of Arcadia, which lay beyond the horizon.

A narrow road that ringed the shoreline was a tumult of wagons, dust, and shouting drivers. Small boats pulled by oars and even a few biremes slid over the glassy water, dashing between the waiting ships, moving people and messages too important to delay onto the crowded shore.

Two smaller islands poked above the bay's surface, one covered with trees except where it had been cleared for an elegant estate, and the other rocky and bare, pockmarked with the dark entrances to deep caves that came to the water's edge.

All around the ring of shore, the land sloped abruptly upward to a circle of hills. Jemidon's eyes followed the landscape as it rose. Rough-planked shacks stood adjacent to the wagon road. In the tier behind, single-storey mud-brick boxes painted white crowded together. Above them, the larger structures of brick and iron marked the exchanges and countinghouses that distinguished Pluton from all the other islands in the chain. On the topmost slopes leading to the hillcrests were the manor houses of the wealthy-polished stone, fine-grained woods, and patches of cultivated greens towering over all the rest.

But his search would not take him to the hilltops, at least not initially, Jemidon thought. The advice of all the other passengers was to seek out a divulgent when he first came ashore. Information was a commodity on Pluton like everything else, and he could find out whatever he wanted if he could afford the price.

Jemidon patted his now much lighter purse and frowned. If not, he would have to hope that he could find an old acquaintance who would be disposed to offer him aid.

Augusta! How would she have remembered him? One of the merchants on shipboard had mentioned the name in connection with something called the vault in the grotto. Could she be the same? Unbidden, the whispers of memories flooded back…

"But I can wait no longer, Jemidon. Please try to understand," he heard the voice from the past say.

"We have forsworn all others, Augusta." Jemidon remembered his reply. His heart had been pounding and his palms sweaty, but he had tried to show an outward calm. "You do not care for this Rosimar's rough manner. I can see it in your eyes."

"But he is already an acolyte, Jemidon. The guild on Pluton has offered to teach him the mastery of magic there. And he has asked me tp go with him. Pluton, Jemidon, Pluton! Center of the islands and focus for trade. Why, in a single day there will be more excitement than this outland has in a year."

"And is that so important?" Jemidon asked softly. "When I am with you, the rest does not matter."

"Ah, Jemidon." Augusta smiled, placing her hand lightly on his. "Your sweet words are always a delight. But one must be practical as well. You are only a neophyte; the training of an initiate takes three years more before you can pass to acolyte, let alone a master. I know that within a year I would be longing for the silks, cold fruits, and prestige that the woman of a master magician could command. Rosimar gives me that promise; from you, I can see nothing for a long time to come…"

Enough, Jemidon growled at himself. He covered the old hurt and pushed it away. It would do no good to dwell on opportunities already lost. He was now seeking the robe of a sorcerer, tracking down a trader and a slave girl. He would find out if the Augusta of the vault in the grotto was the one he knew only if he must.

He wrenched his attention back to the courtyard in front of him and scanned its interior. It was large and noisy, crammed with stalls and partitions around the periphery. The scene reminded him of the bazaar that had flourished on Morgana a fortnight ago; but here the structures were more permanent, made of stone and wood rather than canvas and paper. Each was decorated in gaudy colors. Hawkers at the entrances called out what could be exchanged inside. With long ceremonial daggers, they pointed to hastily chalked lists on panels that swung out over the milling throng. From time to time, scurrying messengers flitted through the crowd to erase an entry or change a price.

"For the name of lady Magma's lover," one called, "I have been offered twelve tokens. Does anyone on Pluton desire to know it more?"

"Gold from the west in exchange for grain," another shouted. "Two brandels per bushel. Trade now while my purse is still full."

"A barge for the southern kingdoms will sail on the tide," a third said. "How much for a one-hundredth share?" At the far end of the court, on a board flanked by pages in silken hose, were listed the trading rates for metals and staples around the world. Gold, silver, wheat, stone, spices, and slaves all had entries scripted in bold black numerals. Below the board sat the changers, huddled between their huge scales and weights. Next to them were the assayers, with rows of reagent bottles and shelves crammed with specimens. Jemidon saw a richly dressed merchant exit from the freshly painted cubicle directly ahead and perfumed ladies duck to enter an equally elaborate facade to the left. He looked down the row and walked toward an entrance smaller than the rest. It had no hawkers outside, but the faded panel of fare was crammed with entries in a small, nervous script. "Tomorrow's departures," the first read. "The true age of the high prince," the second said. "The size of Procolon's fleet," the third proclaimed.

Jemidon ducked through the low opening and saw a room crammed with furnishings. Stools short and tall were pushed against shelves sagging from the weight of leather-bound books. Scrolls of parchment lay unwound on the floor, weaving a coarse tapestry between small chests and smooth boxes bolted shut with massive locks. Two oil lamps on the far wall shone above a high table with chairs on either side. Hunched over a ledger like a mantis watching its prey, a thin and gangly figure mumbled as he scanned entries and made small notes with a quill.

"Tomorrow Gandis will pay twenty tokens for the name of Trocolar's latest partner. And since I bought it from Brason for sixteen, that is a profit of four. Sixty-seven tokens for the week. Two thousand eight hundred and twelve in all. Ah, if only the election were another month away, Cumbrist would not have a chance. Three thousand at the most; he could not be worth a brandel more."

"I seek information," Jemidon said when the other did not look up. "And I think I will not be able to afford the surroundings that the other divulgents seem to offer."

The man behind the table jerked to attention. His elbow bumped the bowl of ink onto the sawdust floor. "Calm yourself, Benedict, calm yourself, or it will be Cumbrist for sure." He breathed deeply as he watched the ink sink into the ground. Then, focusing on Jemidon, he motioned to the empty chair. "I am Benedict, pansophical divulgent," he said. "Ask me anything and I will know. Gossips of the guilds are a specialty. Futures of the exchanges with generous guarantees. For a copper, the use of the seat is yours."

Jemidon halted just as he was lowering himself into the chair. He pushed it aside in irritation. "An unthinking way to treat a potential customer," he growled. "It makes one want to try somewhere else."

"You will find none charge less than a copper," Benedict said. "Everything on Pluton has a price. And besides, you need look no further. Anything you wish to know, I will tell."

"Then what of a trader called Drandor?" Jemidon asked. "How much for where he is now?"