Lyndon Hardy - Secret Of The Sixth Magic

He scooped up the outline as it fluttered to the floor and pinned it in line with the others already filling the walls in Farnel's small hut. A bed of straw, hearth of smoke-blackened brick, and bowl-cluttered table were at the far end. The coarse blankets under which Jemidon slept on the floor were pushed into a corner. On the longest wall, thin planking supported by tiers of stone sagged under the weight of bound parchment and furled scrolls. The rest of the space was a jumble of wadded paper and stacks of properties used in illusion making-model dragons, silks and furs, cameos of billowing clouds and stormy seas, glass trinkets, and sun-bleached bones.

"Yes, yes, I know." Farnel slid from his high stool and stepped over the pile of swords, axes, helmets, and other weapons lent by Canthor to aid in the suggestions. "Your sojourns to the bazaar indeed provided the focus for the path we should take. And your knowledge of the historical event has been most complete. The agony of the commander before ordering his followers to their death gives me sufficient scope to project something of a deeper meaning.

"Still, I am uneasy. We started so very late, compared with the others. They have had time to polish their presentations to a high luster, while we are not quite done with a complete structure from end to end. Had we been, I would have shown a rough outline to the other masters in the hall this evening. Already they are deciding which to reject and which to keep for presentation to the prince. And when the high prince comes, there will be no time left for more auditions. He is here for about a week only. If one is not ready for him, there is no point in continuing further."

The master scratched the back of his neck. "Yet there are signs of hope. Even Gerilac must have some concern that I am competing again. He was almost civil as he sat next to me at the council meeting when we had our morning meal."

"Perhaps he begins to wonder what profit comes from my evenings in the bazaar," Jemidon said. "I have noticed Erid and the others cautiously following me from time to time. But it will do them little good. Tonight will be the last. I have only one more tent to visit, that of a trader named Drandor, at the end of the row."

Jemidon paused and wrinkled his brow. "He is a rather peculiar sort, to hear the others talk, not connected in any way with the affairs of the prince. But they also say the trip is worth it, just to see his pretty assistant, if nothing else."

"I admit the value of your trips," Farnel said, "but sometimes I wonder if so many have been necessary to achieve the same result. Ordinarily a tyro's evening is spent practicing the charms his master has taught him during the day."

"I have been studying," Jemidon protested. "And if there were more time, I would try to expand your outline into more detail and select the charmlets that will be used. Then we would feel more confident about the final 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.