Secret of the Sixth Magic Page 6

  As he watched, Jemidon felt the numbness of the past week dissolve away. The trader’s actions were somehow a tantalizing fascination that kept him watching, even though he was getting soaked to the skin. He felt buoyant, a sense of chains being snapped, of being cast adrift and sailing away. He listened harder to the wind whistling past his ears, ran his tongue over his lips to taste drops of rain, and rubbed the wet sharpness of the coin about his neck, using all his senses to experience what was happening. But the drifting was somehow internal as well, an irresistible tug that snapped anchorages hidden far away and started huge monoliths lumbering free to seek other resting places.

  For a long moment, Jemidon puzzled about the strange feeling, but then a movement on the path that led up the face of the cliff distracted his attention. Golden curls, plastered down by the rain, bobbed above the edge. He recognized Delia struggling upward on the slippery stones, tripping over the tatters of her soaked gown.

  “Jemidon!” she cried. “A stroke of luck in my favor! You must help me. Drandor is distracted, and now is my chance.”

  Jemidon’s eyes ran over Delia’s wet gown that followed closely the curves of her body, but she ignored the stare. She ran forward and grabbed his arm.

  “Quickly,” she said, “quickly, before he releases them to come after. I must get to the harbor. I plan to sail with the flotilla of the high prince.”

  “They left with the tide hours ago.” Jemidon felt the sense of drifting fade and then vanish altogether. All was rock-solid, as it had always been before. Her closeness eclipsed the attraction that had pulled his attention to the trader. For the second time, she was asking for his help. To know her better might produce sweet rewards.

  But she was indentured. Drandor probably could produce some document of sale. And Canthor would not care about the apprehension in her eyes. Maintaining the reputation of Morgana to the traveler would be his only concern. For Jemidon to get involved would mean risking expulsion, being forced to leave before Farnel could teach a single thing more.

  “To gamble in the token markets of Pluton was foolish. Yes, I admit it,” Delia filled the silence. “But many others have I seen rise from the streets to manor houses on the seacliffs. And even those who lost and had to sell their freedom to pay their debts did not fare so badly, if their masters were kind.

  “My first acted with discreetness.” She lowered her eyes. “And the whip of the second was easy enough to avoid, if you made no errors in totaling the sums in his countinghouse. But when his own fortunes crashed and he could not choose to whom his properties would go, it was Drandor who carried me away.

  “And from the first, he has licked his lips in anticipation. Nightly he heats his tongs and pinchers and oils his chains. He leaves crude sketches of my scarred face and maimed limbs for me to find in the morning.

  “With him, it is a game. Evidently his partner, Melizar, prevents him from acting rashly with their joint property without due cause. And so he hints, threatens, and tells me his fantasy a bit at a time. Then he waits, waits for my reaction, for some protest, a falter in carrying out a command—any shadow of an excuse for him to justify feeding his desires.”

  Delia stopped and shuddered. “And by the laws, it has worked. I can stand it no longer. I must be away.”

  Jemidon reached for Delia’s hand, but then dropped it as his thoughts tumbled. How could he help? Save for the harbor area, he was as defenseless on Morgana as she. To whom else could they turn? Farnel would not want to get involved with a complication that had nothing to do with his art. And any other master or tyro would be interested in them only as the recipients of some degrading spell.

  “You are legally bound,” he said, but then stopped when he heard a low growl that carried to the cliff top, despite the wind and rain.

  “They are free for the hunt!” Delia exclaimed. “He has discovered my absence far sooner than I thought.”

  The short hairs on Jemidon’s neck bristled. “Come,” he said in sudden decision. “We will go down the slope, back the way I came.”

  “Wait, there is more.” Delia did not pause to thank Jemidon for his aid. Instead, she ran to the cliff edge and dipped back over the rim. A moment later she returned, struggling with the lattice and the imp bottle that Jemidon had seen in the tent a few days before. “My passage from the island. Any captain will gladly trade a berth for items that can fetch a goodly sum elsewhere.”

  “They are not yours to take.” Jemidon hesitated. “And they will only slow you down.”

  “Then I will carry them myself.” Delia juggled the bottle under one arm and tried to swing the lattice across her shoulder. “If Drandor must face his partner’s wrath for their loss, then so much the better.”

  A second growl rolled through the air and then another. Jemidon shrugged, rushed to the lattice, and flung it across his back. He grabbed Delia’s hand and jerked her about to follow him across the cliff top. She took a cautious step, and immediately they both fell in a splatter; the rain had given the granite a treacherous slickness.

  “The imp!” Jemidon shouted. “Shake the bottle and disturb his sleep! His light will guide the way.”

  Delia rattled the jar, and a weak flickering pulsed from its interior. “Patience, master,” a thin voice called. “In a moment, I will be ready to do your bidding.”

  Jemidon ignored the imp’s babbling and peered into the darkness. Like the bow of a great ship, the monolithic plug of granite on which they stood pushed defiantly into the sea. On the side adjacent to the bazaar, the wall was steep, although generations of patient hammering had pounded a path to the broad and gently rolling top. The other side was more sheer still, and a descent at night carried too much risk.

  “Yes, the way I came,” Jemidon said. “The cliff top slopes back into the interior of the island. We will pass close to the dwellings of many of the masters and tyros; but with all of them at the presentation hall, it probably will not matter.”

  Jemidon climbed to his feet and started out at a fast walk, one arm over his shoulder holding the lattice and the other guiding Delia to follow. He heard Drandor’s voice closer than before and barks of excitement. He began to trot and then, jumping over a large crack, broke into a run. In a moment, they were racing down the slope, dodging jagged ledges as best they could and skirting boulders too large to vault.

  The wind tore at Jemidon’s cape, and he squinted away the rain which dashed into his eyes. He felt the cold chill of the water, despite the exertion. Behind, he heard the gasps of Delia’s breath as she struggled to keep pace and the flail of her feet when she tripped and scrambled for balance.

  The time ticked away. It had taken a small part of an hour for Jemidon’s leisurely ascent, but the return seemed far longer. He wanted to charge forward even faster, to sprint at top speed until they could reach some cover. But the small slips and stumbles impeded their progress. The race through the blowing rain progressed in agonizing slowness.

  Finally the way leveled off, and the soggy crunch of pebbles underfoot indicated that they had intersected a path used by the sorcerers. Jemidon slowed, but Delia plunged onward, the change in terrain catching her by surprise. Her feet skittered on the wet stones, and she fell, pulling Jemidon with her. They collapsed in a tumble of arms and legs. The lattice clanged loose, and the imp bottle squirted free to roll down the road.

  The rain diminished for a moment. The full moon shone through. Arms around each other, the two panted deeply, trying to regain their breath. Jemidon looked back to the cliff top and choked in surprise. There, framed in the moonlight, were three silhouettes. If he had not recognized one as a man, he would not have believed the scale. Drandor had been small, but even so, a dog on all fours should come no higher than his waist, not halfway to his shoulder. The mastiffs’ limbs were not long and spindly like a racing hound’s, but muscled and full. Their heads were all snout beneath slight ridges that marked the eyes and ears. Jemidon saw the trader point in his direction, probably at the imp light,
and then let go of the rein. The larger mastiff howled. With a surge of strength, it jerked its huge body to charge down the hill. The other answered and quickly followed behind.

  Jemidon pulled Delia to her feet and randomly selected which direction to flee down the trail. They sprinted by the lattice, and Delia bent to scoop up the imp bottle as they passed.

  “Not that!” Jemidon shouted. “The rain is washing away all of the scent. When the moon clouds over again, that light is all they will have to track us by.”

  He looked back over his shoulder to gauge how much time they had to find a place to hide, and his heart sank. The dogs seemed to skim down the slope in great bounding strides. They had already covered half the distance between them, while he and Delia had moved hardly at all. Jemidon ran for another few steps and then halted, shaking his head.

  “It will be to no use,” he gasped. “They will run us to ground in the end. Whatever we do, it may as well be here.”

  “But what?” Delia’s eyes widened. “I have seen what has been left of the carcasses from the times before.” She pointed back to the cliff top. “See, Drandor is following so that he can savor what they will do.”

  For a moment, Jemidon watched the shadowy rushing hounds and the trader moving more slowly behind. He saw them disappear into blackness as the moon again winked out and he shook himself into action. He ripped off his cape and began to wrap it in a thick bundle about his left forearm. He felt a small, hard lump in one of the pockets; with a grunt of recognition, he removed the metal puzzle he had purchased from Delia a few days before.

  “Your hem,” he said in sudden inspiration. “Tear me a strip and then get low to the ground.”

  Delia opened her mouth to speak, but Jemidon motioned her to silence. In a brief moment, the mastiffs came rushing up to the bottle, howling at their discovery.

  The sky was now totally black. Only the glow of the imp cast any light. The chorus of clicks and pops of the rain against the pebbles of the path masked the noise as Delia ripped her gown. Together, she and Jemidon crouched to the earth and held their breath, watching.

  The dogs circled the bottle, and one gave it a push with its snout. The imp’s incandescence flickered brighter, bathing the heads of the hounds in a ruddy glow. Jemidon saw lips pulled back to expose long rows of ghost-white teeth, the canines slender and pointed, extending to the chin. Tiny eyes darted to and fro, cruel searchlights scanning for their prey. Clouds of steamy breath pumped from their nostrils into the humid air. The larger mastiff growled in frustration. It pushed at the imp bottle a second time and then put its nose to the ground, slowly sniffing the trail that led in the other direction.

  Jemidon and Delia lay perfectly still, huddled behind a low rock beside the path. Scarcely breathing, they watched the hound wander off in the dimness. The smaller one circled the bottle and shook its coat, holding its head high, testing the wind. It hesitated a moment longer and then turned in the opposite direction from the other.

  With a slow, deliberate step, one paw at a time, it walked down the trail, eyes scanning and ears cocked for any suspicious sound. Delia’s hand tightened on Jemidon’s padded forearm as the dog drew closer. He touched her hand in reassurance and then quickly began to wind the strip of cloth around the clump of metal. The hound drew abreast of the rock, just as Jemidon finished and ceased all his motion. He gripped the small wad tightly in his fist and tensed the muscles in his legs. He would have one chance; if he missed, there would not be another.

  The hound stopped and growled. It was a low and guttural sound, extending into the subsonic, seeming to vibrate even the boulder behind which they crouched. Cautiously, Jemidon rocked himself forward and raised his head. With a barely perceptible motion, his eyes cleared the horizon of the granite and he peered out onto the path.

  The hound was looking the other way in a sweeping scan of the darkness, its ears still tensely erect. Gradually it turned back full circle to stare in Jemidon’s direction.

  For a long moment, nothing happened. Jemidon and the dog stood frozen, separated by the obscuring rain. Then, in a sudden blur, the mastiff leaped forward. With a roaring growl, it vaulted the rock, jaws wide and front legs extended. Jemidon stood up to meet the onslaught. He took aim through the opaqueness and at the last possible moment hurled the cloth-wrapped weight into the gaping mouth. The mastiff plunged onward, grabbing Jemidon about the shoulder and tumbling them both to the ground.

  Jemidon felt a stab of pain as the teeth cut through his wet tunic and into his arm. He rolled to one side. With his protected forearm, he tried to pound on the dog’s nose. The first two blows skittered harmlessly aside, but the third landed on target. Instinctively, the mastiff snorted to clean the passage and then inhaled to test the result.

  Immediately, it released its grip and coughed, trying to dislodge the puzzle sucked into its throat. Jemidon whirled free of the flailing paws and stumbled back on Delia beside the rock. The hound steadied itself to charge, but only a muffled bark escaped from its jaws. Its eyes began to bulge. With great heaves of its chest, it sucked the wad of cloth deeper into its windpipe.

  Deliberately, it marched to where Jemidon had fallen, but each step was slower than the last. The mastiff faltered on one foreleg and then collapsed in a heap. With eyes staring in pain, it pawed the ground, struggling for air.

  Jemidon rose to his knees, just as another growl warned him to look behind. He whirled and flung up his left arm as the larger mastiff bounded over the rock. The hound bit into the cape-wrapped sleeve and surged forward, landing on top of Jemidon with a rib-jolting crash. Jemidon reached up with his free hand, but his shoulder was already starting to stiffen. His blow stopped short in a stab of pain.

  He locked his legs around the dog’s barrel chest and tried to tip the mastiff to the side. In response, it spread its front legs in a wide vee and settled its rear to form a stable tripod. Even through the protection of his cape, Jemidon felt the pressure of the teeth and the spasm of the jaw muscles as they gritted down harder on the cloth. The hound jerked Jemidon’s arm from side to side, with each tug pushing it backward and up over his head.

  For a second, Jemidon ignored the tactic. He concentrated on twisting his arm as much as he could in order to pry it from the viselike jaws. But the hound’s grip was too firm; in a moment, Jemidon’s arm was well extended above his brow. The dog then suddenly let go and dove for Jemidon’s exposed throat. Jemidon reacted instinctively and brought his arm flying back down across his face. In the last split second, he managed to interpose it as a barrier to the gnashing teeth.

  Again the mastiff began to work Jemidon’s arm aside. This time Jemidon clenched his muscles tight and tried to keep his arm between the foam-flecked mouth and the arteries pulsing in his neck. The beast growled at the resistance. It stopped the jerking back and forth and clamped its grip tighter. The sinews in its neck and shoulders knotted. Then, with a mighty heave, it flung Jemidon’s arm aside like a discarded bone.

  Jemidon pulled his arm back, but a massive paw stomped on his elbow, pinning it to the ground. Jemidon twisted to the opposite side, but he could not break free. He tugged and pulled, but he was held fast. The hound saw the end of resistance and howled with success. In desperation, Jemidon flung his other hand palm upward across his throat. The mastiff stared down at Jemidon, clicking its teeth in anticipation. Jemidon closed his eyes for what would happen next.

  Suddenly the hound barked with pain. It lurched backward and turned its head to snap at what had dropped onto its back. Jemidon opened his eyes to see Delia astride the huge beast, clutching a small, bloody dagger. The hound’s motion threw her to the side; but as she fell, she slashed again between the ribs. The thrust plunged true. In a burst of gore, the mastiff staggered and fell to the ground next to its strangled comrade.

  Jemidon rose to his feet. He looked at Delia and pointed at the blade dangling at her side.

  “It was to be my last resort, if Drandor had his way,” she said vacantly, still
not comprehending what she had done.

  Jemidon nodded. He looked back to the dead hounds at his feet. Impulsively, he opened the jaws of the one closer. “Fifty-six teeth,” he said slowly after a moment. “No wonder they looked so savage.” He dropped the head and frowned in thought. “A latticework can be from any smith’s shop and an imp from across the sea, if from nowhere else. But there is no breed from which could come such as these.”

  Jemidon stared back into the blackness. “Drandor,” he said. “We still must flee. He cannot be far behind.”

  “And the lattice and the bottle,” Delia answered.

  Jemidon grunted and gathered his remaining energy. He ran to fetch the array of wires and beads. “Wrap the imp in what remains of my cape,” he called back. “The trader probably knows these trails less well than I.”

  “Where do we go?”

  Jemidon began a shrug and then stopped with the reminder of pain. The cuts in his shoulder were not deep, but they would have to be attended to. And the fight with the hounds had been exhausting. He had no more ideas. “To the hut of Farnel, the master sorcerer,” he said as he started to jog down the path, one arm dangling at his side. “We can hope he is already back from the feast.” He stopped for a moment while she caught up with him. “I guess I will have to ask for additional favors sooner than I thought,” he said.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Sorcerer’s Gamble

  JEMIDON pounded wearily on the rough-hewn door. The rain had stopped. Dawn was breaking over the high hills to the east. Now, with the light, they needed a shelter in which to hide. Because of Jemidon’s injury, they had had to move slowly, and Drandor had remained fairly close behind.