Master of the Five Magics Read online

  “Then how shall you dispose of our problem?” interjected the short and corpulent man on Periac’s left. “Will you rip the earth apart and have Bandor’s forces swallowed up whole? Or perhaps you can enchant each of our blades so that they can cut through his mail like a knife through butter?”

  “My good lords,” Periac said in the same rolling tones of salesmanship that Alodar had heard so many times before. “On one hand you belittle the scope of my skills and on the other you allude to the fantasies of the romances. My craft is neither trivial amusement nor total omnipotence. Like all things, its true worth lies between. And if we are to use thaumaturgy for our great gain, then we must all understand what its capabilities and limitations are. Understand them well, else why would the fair lady call me here?”

  Periac paused and Alodar saw each man settle back into his chair, resigning himself to hearing the master out. “Thaumaturgy,” Periac began, “is the most clear and straightforward of the five arts in its execution. Unlike alchemy, magic, and the rest, it requires no great erudition or dedication to effect its results. Here in Procolon we regard thaumaturgy as we do masonry or smithing. With it we forge large works of metal or stone from small models in our shops. We increase the yields of whole fields while carefully tending only a part. We purge the body of plague and mend it whole again. But the true potency of thaumaturgy is limited only by the cleverness of the man who understands its basic concepts, the principles of sympathy and contagion.”

  “Sweetbalm, we are gathered here to plan our military strategy, not listen to an apprentice’s first lecture,” interrupted Festil.

  “Let him speak, Festil,” Aeriel cut him short. “Perhaps he is unaffected with the blindness that a feat of arms will somehow yet save us.”

  “Two principles,” Periac continued, stroking his goatee. “Sympathy and contagion. The first simply stated is: like produces like. By manipulating objects in a simulation we can cause corresponding effects to occur on a different scale in time and distance. My gondola soars in the air in response to the movement of a small sliver.”

  “So then,” challenged Festil again, “why not build a small model of Bandor’s camp and smash it with your fist and save us the wounds and sorrow of tomorrow?”

  “Because there is another important ingredient of any spell and that is a supply of energy, a force or power to do the work. It does no good to smash a model, unless I control the forces necessary to level the tents as well. Without a spinning flywheel to draw upon, the gondola would not lift in response to the rising splinter. Without the heat of the fire in Bandor’s camp, the missiles launched at our catapult could not have been diverted to the mark. Practitioners of my craft seek ways to channel energy, but alas, we cannot create it.

  “Not only is energy needed but, in most cases, much more than common sense might dictate. The coupling between the simulation and the actual is not perfect and there are always some losses. The more closely the two resemble one another, the better the connection and the less the energy waste. The best coupling is provided by things which were indeed once part of a single whole. Or as the principle of contagion states it: once together, always together. In principle, we could use any object for control of the gondola, but a small piece of it works better than any foreign substance. And in like manner, a wound is most effectively sealed if a drop of blood is mixed with the gelling starch, and a bit of flesh with the molding wax.

  “So, lord Festil, with the wave of my hand I cannot topple the belfries that will thunder towards us, for it would take too much energy. Nor can I, say, render any man invisible or pass through solid walls, for I cannot simulate these things. Nor yet can I strike at an enemy far away without something of him to bind in the spell. But I can apply my craft in the fair lady’s service with as much imagination as I am able.”

  “And if thaumaturgy is so straightforward then, master Periac,” Festil continued, his tone still hard and unconvinced, “what need have we of any of your services at all? Why cannot one here at the table perform the craft for the queen as well?”

  “There is that little matter of the spells which bind the simulation and energy source together and then subsequently release them,” Periac said. “To safeguard the means of our livelihood, we must naturally protect their nature, passing them on from master to journeyman but to no one outside of our craft.

  “And as I have already said,” Periac persisted before Festil could stop him again, “success is not merely a matter of rote application of the well proven. Rather it depends upon the skill of the master to see through surface distractions to the deeper similarities around him. To recognize subtle and time-worn connections that form the true basis of our art.”

  “You state so well the limitations of your craft, master Periac,” Festil persisted, “that now I wonder if perhaps one of the other four might not serve us better in our plight.”

  “They have their shortcomings as well,” Periac said. “For example, the formulas of alchemy have no guarantee of coming to the same result with each use. Only one time in hundreds does one end with a solvent that can dissolve more than the glass in which it was formed. The massive factories on Honeysuckle Street produce mostly waste, repeating and repeating the same steps in order to form some modest quantity of healing balm or sense-enhancing philtre.”

  “There is truth in what you speak,” Aeriel said. “We are here because Kelric, the court sorcerer, entranced himself to find what great wealth might lie undiscovered in the kingdom. In his vision he saw Iron Fist and a formula of alchemy of great merit, one with high yield and hence potential for large profit. With it, the queen can hope to replace the wealth which used to come from the royal mines, now thrust as deeply into the mountains as men can go.”

  “But what details did he see?” Alodar blurted. “What did he say of the passageways and chambers underground?”

  The fat man on Periac’s left rose to protest the interruption, but Aeriel shot him a hard glance that settled him back in his seat. Alodar looked about the table and marveled at her control. Except for Festil, she clearly had the respect of the group and all deferred to her lead.

  “No detail could he see,” she said, “and the only words that came from his trance were that the Iron Fist must loosen its grip before the formula could be found. It may be that the castle will have to fall because we have yet discovered no grimoire in these mute walls.”

  “And as for sorcerers,” Periac continued as if no interruption had occurred. “With one at court you know well the difficulty of dealing with them. Reclusive and obstinate their art must intrinsically pervert them from a decent relationship with their fellowmen. Why else do they deliberately play upon our fears of enchantment when we plead for some small illusion or prophecy?

  “And magic is no better. The rituals performed in seclusion sometimes take several lifetimes. Except for such useless trinkets as the ceremonial dagger I see on lady Aeriel’s side, it would take many a castle’s treasure to afford what magicians have to offer. Their swords that never dull and mail that does not break are far better, true, than the alchemical salves which rot away, but who among you has ever seen the like?

  “Finally, there is wizardry,” Periac said, raising his hand and counting his fingers into his palm one by one.

  “Yes, what of that?” the fat man said. “The talk of the bailey floor is that Bandor is possessed by a devil and pushes this attack for no mortal cause.”

  “I cannot accept such groundless whisperings,” Festil cut in. “Revolt against the crown has happened before. But traffic with demons, like a baseborn craftsman? No noble of Procolon would think of it.”

  “Judge not all of wizardry by the few poor examples we have seen among us,” Periac replied. “The wizards we judge as wise know that their wills are of insufficient strength to dominate any but the simplest of imps. They travel with carnivals and the like, content with pushing their sprites through idle tricks as one would a trained mouse. Their lot is far better, however, tha
n that of the foolish who have dared to struggle with true power and ended as the hoop-jumper for the demon instead. It is fortunate that their cruel masters soon tire of the bizarre acts they force upon them. The crumpled and abandoned shells whimpering for bread are better off as beggars than when they were the submissive slaves to powerful djinns.

  “But it was not always thus,” Periac said, sweeping his upraised index finger in Festil’s direction. “The sagas of our past tell of men of great will and courage who struggled with the strongest demons and bent them to their bidding. The power they could thereby command made them much respected throughout many lands. No, my lord, you would not judge a wizard of long ago as a mere craftsman.”

  Festil scowled, but Periac turned his attention to the queen and continued. “But as to lord Bandor, I must say in truth that possession would be most unlikely. He conducts the siege with coherence and precision, not with the mad acts of contradiction that a fiend would force upon him.”

  “For a master of a single art,” Vendora said, “you seem well versed in the rest as well.”

  Periac smiled and tipped his head with a slight bow. “What I have said is the depth of my knowledge, my fair lady. Each craftsman guards with pride what is his own and deals reluctantly with the others. For more, you must consult with the proper practitioners. But, to the point, there are none of them here to aid you, only I. And to escape Bandor’s trap, I can indeed be of service.”

  Alodar tightened his grip on the chair and the lords about the table leaned forward in anticipation. Periac saw the increased interest and paused to heighten the effect.

  “If Iron Fist is to fall, and I see no way that we can prevent it,” he said at last, “then we can save much bloodshed by raising the white flag.”

  “Never,” thundered Festil pounding his fist on the table. “This stronghold has never fallen and it shall not fall now. Or if indeed we cannot hold, we will defend the walls to the last man for the honor of our fair lady.”

  “I think, my lord,” Periac said, “that our fair lady’s honor is better preserved by subterfuge than by singing sword. If we surrender, you men-at-arms will become captives, yes. But we lowly tradesmen might be allowed to go our way after performing for our captors some of the same services we have done for you. The queen can slip out with us and then return to Ambrosia unharmed.”

  “And do you not think that every cart that leaves this place will be searched from axle to highpost once the fair lady is found missing in the keep?” Festil said. “And how could anyone miss her beauty, no matter what maid’s dress you cast her in? Her doom would be sealed on the spot, once such a scheme was exposed.”

  “Her beauty is renowned, yes,” Periac said, rubbing his hands together with deliberate slowness. “But with my craft we could alter that. A small simulation, a wax head, and then in an instant it would be over. A bulbous nose, thrusting chin, slanting brow, and pox on the cheeks. No one would choose to look at her. And then once safely away, we can restore her countenance to what it was before.”

  “You mean to apply a disguise,” Vendora said, “as if I were an actress playing the part of an old crone?”

  “I do not speak of makeup, my fair lady,” Periac said. “The face I would give you would be as real as the one you have now. The sores would ooze real pus and no putty or paint would stick to a searcher’s hand. They could not detect it.”

  “Then how surely can you undo what you have done, master Periac?” Vendora said with the softness missing from her voice.

  Periac rubbed his hands together more forcefully. “I am a skilled practitioner, my fair lady. My eye is still good, my hand firm and my memory sharp. I doubt that anyone would notice a significant difference when we were done.”

  All eyes turned to the queen to await her response. She touched her hand to her cheek and then back to smooth her hair. Alodar held his breath trying to imagine the same gold dusted to dirty brown atop a pockmarked and misshapen face, painful to see. He thought of his resolve of the night before and how strong it might be if Periac’s transformation were indeed so.

  Suddenly, before the answer could form on Vendora’s lips, another page burst into the room, blood streaming from his nose and ears. “The south wall,” he gasped. “Scaling ladders, too many of them. We could not hold. Flee, my fair lady. Flee as best you can.”

  “Quickly, my fair lady, this way.” Festil bolted from the table and motioned to the rear exit from the chamber. “The rest of you, to the bailey floor. Secure the keep from the intruders.”

  The assemblage exploded for the doorways like pieces of shattered glass. The advisors scrambled by Alodar, and he hesitated as he watched Festil usher Vendora and Aeriel out the other way. In an instant he made his decision. As the curtains swished shut, he rushed after the departing queen.

  He sprang into the passageway beyond the conference room and saw the three descending a long spiral staircase like the one he had climbed in the morning, but narrower and with no windows to the outside. As they disappeared from view, Alodar plunged down the stairs. Down and down he sped, just able to catch sight of Vendora’s flowing gown around the curve. He glanced over his shoulder and saw Periac about the same distance behind, racing after.

  More openings whizzed by on the inside, but the outside curve remained featureless and unbroken. Only an occasional torch on the wall prevented total darkness. Around and around the stairs wound, until Alodar completely lost his sense of direction.

  Finally the staircase ended and joined a level walkway that continued to curve about the keep. Alodar increased his speed and closed on those in the lead. He raced around nearly half the circumference and then saw a flash of copper from the top of Aeriel’s head as she disappeared into a square-cut hole in the stone floor. He ran to the opening and peered inside, motioning Periac to hurry and catch up. A second staircase spiraled into a room below, where Festil was busily straining at a large lever hinged on the wall, while Aeriel and Vendora descended.

  “Why, it’s the first chamber,” Alodar exclaimed. “The one with the iron slab on the floor.”

  Festil looked up, unable to budge the giant lever from where he found it. “Quickly, man,” he said. “Help me here so that we can seal them out.”

  Periac caught up with Alodar and together they descended into the room. All three tugged at the lever, and slowly it began to move. Alodar glanced back up at the opening through which they had come and saw a giant stone slab, held against the ceiling on metal tracks, sliding in response. It rumbled across the opening and thudded into place, sealing off the entrance from above.

  Festil and Periac collapsed to the ground, holding their sides and panting from the exertion. The two women leaned against the walls, chests heaving, unable to speak. Alodar glanced about the chamber he had visited two nights before and saw no change. A square-cut slab of iron, rusted red from the dampness, sat in the center of a featureless floor. The circle of round walls had no structure except for indentations for the lighting oil and the four archways that radiated to the castle’s corner towers. Only the lever which closed the exit to the keep seemed to serve any purpose.

  Alodar moved about the room, glancing into the long dark tunnels radiating from it. Three were pitch black, giving no clue as to what lay beyond. But as he looked into the fourth, he saw a procession of many torches and heard the jingle of mail. Even in the distance, he could recognize Feston’s bright surcoat reflecting the torchlight.

  Soon Feston and the group he brought with him were in the chamber and fanning out to explore the entrances to the other passageways. “My fair lady,” he said, “thank the amulets that you are safe and not in Bandor’s grasp. We may yet win praise for the sagas on this day.”

  Vendora pushed herself from the wall and straightened to a free standing position, brushing down the disarray of her gown and readjusting the aquamarine to its proper position.

  “How stand our forces now, lord Feston?” she gasped, still gulping air between her words.


  “Not well, my fair lady,” Feston replied, “but not so badly that there is not hope still. The battle rages fiercely on the bailey above, and I think in the end it will be to no avail. But we have secured the lower levels under each tower, just as you have done with the keep, and we find no sign of Bandor’s forces here to peril us. The bulk of our defenders are left above, alas, to fend as best they can, and we could not prevent some craftsmen coming down into these fortifications along with men-at-arms. But we have secured most of the food and I think, judging from these walls, lack not for water. It will be a long while before Bandor can begin to hope of reaching us.”

  “With the queen so neatly bundled up,” Aeriel interrupted, “why should he even care? Do you propose no more than to await our fate just as we have done for the last forty-three days? I am not trained in matters of war as you are, my lords,” she said, “but it seems to me that these chambers and passageways serve a better purpose than to pass the time. I think aloud and without deliberation, but do not these walls and interconnectings at least give us an element of surprise? When Bandor eventually takes full command of the castle above, he will find the five entrances to us, and probably can do no more than station guards at all positions to await what we would do next. He must split his forces into fifths, and we can concentrate ours to strike at one—and at a time of our own choosing.”

  “Necessity imparts sharpness to your thoughts, lady Aeriel,” Festil said while rising slowly to stand besides his son. “Quite surely I believe you have hit upon the intent of the castle’s original design. If the walls were to fall, the towers would still have to be taken; then with underground communication, each could aid the others so that all might stand. But on balance, my son’s plan seems a good one. We have not the towers, but only the chambers underneath them. In addition, the blood of Bandor’s vassals now runs hot with victory and lust for rape and plunder. Our salvation may be a surprise thrust, as you say, but I think it wise to sit until our captor’s zeal cools in the careless boredom of guard duty before we try.”