JEMIDON flexed his back and peered around the corner. He saw only pitch blackness. Except for the soft splash of distant oars, there was no sound. No one had pursued them. For over four hours, they had waited for the chaos at the other end of the tunnel to die away and the last survivor to leave.
"Let's hope that in the confusion at least one boat was left," Jemidon said as he straightened to full height. "Come, I think it is safe enough now that I can get you out."
"But what has happened?" Augusta asked in the darkness. "Does one faction now rule the island?"
Jemidon frowned. He was a good deal less confident than he was trying to appear. Twice he had rescued her from an immediate danger. But he had done little to free her from her ultimate fate. Now it was more than Trocolar's minions they had to fear. No faction on the island would aid the ones who disrupted the election with the magic sword. Likely as not, they could become the common focus for the frustration and anger, an outside enemy that everyone could hate, a catalyst for uniting into a new order out of the destruction of the old. And what could he accomplish now that he could not before? With an invisible shrug, Jemidon ignored Augusta's question and started down the passageway.
Cautiously he fingered the cold and damp walls and stepped over the rough variations in the rocky floor. Still limping, he guided Augusta back to the landing above the vault. In the entranceway, he stumbled over a lifeless body. He moved to the side, but ran into another. He felt Augusta tense to scream and put his arm around her shoulder.
"It is to our good fortune," he said. "Surely one of those who remain has a flint and steel."
Positioning Augusta near the wall, he gave her a reassuring pat and then, on all fours, began to explore the floor of the cavern. After several minutes of distasteful groping, he found the necessary tools on one of the victims. Soon a single torch illuminated the arching ceiling with its flickering glow.
"Half the wealthholders of the island are gone," Augusta gasped, "Look, there is Cumbrist and next to him Benedict, his principal rival. Beyond them, I think I see even Trocolar among the rest."
Tears welled up in her eyes as she looked at the form barely an arm's length away. "Poor Rosimar," she said softly. "He came for my sake and now he will play the hero no more." She sank her head on Jemidon's shoulder and shook with a spasm. "And he was bound, with not even the slightest defense. When I freed you, I should have thought of him as well."
"You have seen enough." Jemidon tugged her away. "Let us go to the cliff edge to see what remains."
The torchlight cut through the darkness down to the water. Only two skiffs were left. Even Jemidon's raft was gone. Sprawled over the side of one, with hands dangling in the water, was a trader with a dagger in his back.
"Luthor." Augusta squinted through the gloom. "He wears the embroidered leggings from his last trade. And look at the tide. I have never been here when it was so high. Quickly, Jemidon, we must leave."
Jemidon nodded and started to move along the edge of the cliff toward the rope ladder. He looked back at the carnage and saw the sparkles of light that reflected from links of mail and broken blades. Would any of Melizar's equipment still be there? Or perhaps even the body of the stranger?
Jemidon stopped and frowned. He and Augusta must flee. Clearly that was the best course of action. Any other was folly. But other currents also swirled in his mind. Slowly he placed one foot on the ladder and then hesitated again. Flee into what new uncertainty? His thoughts tumbled. How had anything he had done led him any closer to what he truly wanted? The Postulate of Invariance was only a beginning. With more information, who knew what he might be able to deduce? The urge to explore, if only for a little longer, began to well up inside. He could not put the feeling away.
"The secret may yet be here," Jemidon said half aloud. "Outside is more peril and, if we are lucky, another flight." He returned to Augusta and drew her close. "I cannot abandon the quest. You saw how Melizar so easily changed the laws. It seems he has discovered a greater magic than the five we know. Call it a sixth magic, something governed by a metalaw different from all the rest. And perhaps among the bodies there is some clue that will explain more. It does no good to understand what was done unless I also know how."
"But the tide," Augusta protested. "We have waited long enough." She looked about the landing at the bodies and shuddered. "I cannot remain here while the passageway submerges."
"Then you go ahead," Jemidon said gently. "You have traversed the tunnel many times, and I am sure you can manage alone. Wait just behind the portcullis that opens onto the bay. At most, I will be a few minutes behind."
Augusta started to say more, but Jemidon drew his face into a mask of rigid determination. "Every minute we delay, the water rises higher," he said. "You help me best by making haste."
Augusta nuzzled closer for a moment and then sighed. "I am not so much the dreamer that I would offer also to stay," she said. "But take care, Jemidon. The events spin too fast. I seem to need your comfort more and more."
She disengaged and descended the ladder. With the precision of an oarsman, she maneuvered the empty skiff away from the cliff and toward the narrow opening in the far wall. As she disappeared from view, Jemidon saw her wave a final kiss.
Jemidon cleared his head. Now he must hurry to find out what he could before the tide rose any higher. He would first explore the other passageways, then whatever remained among the wreckage on the landing floor, and finally the vault itself.
Quickly he crossed back over the bodies and debris to begin. He entered a side tunnel and examined the ceiling and walls for any trace that Meltzar might have left behind. Falling into the pattern of the scholar, he investigated to the end of the passage and then started to explore the next, losing track of the time.
An hour later, Jemidon emerged from the last, as empty-handed as when he had begun. He turned his attention to the floor of the cavern and located Holgon's body sprawled across Melizar's toys. In the torchlight, he examined each one-the broken bladder, the sprung trap, and the painted blocks of wood. They felt quite ordinary, and no arcane symbols were anywhere to be found. Nearby was the broken sword of magic; when Jemidon grasped it, only the sense of cold steel greeted his fingertips. The shocks of electric pain were gone.
In frustration, he rubbed the worn coin about his neck. There was nothing here that told him anything more than he already knew. Somehow, with greater ease than the simplest glamour, Melizar had changed the laws, replacing the substitute magic with yet another,
Jemidon gripped the broken sword tighter, twisting its strange, unbalanced feeling back and forth with his wrist. Perhaps later, in the light of day, there might be something else that he could not see now. Yes, that was it-take an example of each form of magic and study the connection at a better time. He placed the sword hilt where he could easily find it again and then scooped up a handful of dominoes that lay next to the guard. He looked around for some example of traditional magic and saw Benedict's coinchanger reflecting the torchlight from a few feet away.
Jemidon stooped and pried loose the divulgent's stiffening fingers from the device, which was still strapped to his waist. He cut it free and experimentally tripped one of the levers. A pile of worthless tokens fell into his palm and bounded onto the cavern floor.
Jemidon continued his search, but found nothing more. Finally he knelt by the side of the shaft leading down to the flooded vault and peered into the inky blackness. Impulsively he gathered the tokens he had spilled and dropped one of the coins into the opening. Almost immediately, he heard an answering splash.
The water level was halfway up the shaft, he decided. There was no way to see what had happened below. Exploration was impossible. If any secrets were in the vault, they would forever remain there. One by one, he dropped the rest of the tokens into the dark water, trying to visualize the imagery of their grave.
As the last one left his fingers, he bolted upright with a sudden thought. The tokens in the vault were totally submerged and inaccessible. It might work at that. It offered no bearing on the riddle of the changing laws but was useful, nonetheless. Why hadn't he thought of it before racing after Rosimar with no idea of a detailed plan?
With a rush of excitement that blotted out the pain in his leg, Jemidon decided what he must do. He had learned all he could. There was no reason to remain. Now the feeling of urgency returned. He must get out ahead of the rising tide, out to safety so he could tell Augusta what they could do.
Quickly he scurried around the landing, gathering up his loot. Balancing the load precariously, he descended the rope ladder to Luthor's skiff. With no hesitation, he pushed the trader the rest of the way over the side of the boat and kicked the wares to the bow. "Forgive my disrespect," he muttered, "but if the grotto is ever used again, you will be given the proper rest."
In a few minutes, Jemidon was at the tunnel opening that connected to the outer chamber. The water level was far higher than he had seen it the week before. On his first passage, only the narrowest part near the center had been confining. Now, even at the entrance, he had to duck his head. Cautiously he paddled forward and peered into the receding darkness. The tide was still rushing in, and each stroke of the oar was an effort. The ceiling hung oppressively close.
As he stroked, Jemidon concentrated on the small knobs and folds protruding from the tunnel wall ahead, measuring his progress as these landmarks slowly passed by. He ducked to the side to miss a low monolith and then peddled furiously to avoid an outcrop that narrowed the passageway from the left.
For a moment, he stopped rowing and let the stream blunt his forward momentum. Perhaps it would be better to return to the landing and wait half a day for the next tide. But who knew what would transpire outside in twelve hours? He had sent Augusta ahead to wait in the outer cavern. He must increase his effort in order to pass through the neck of the tunnel before it was too late.
Jemidon resumed his rowing. He sucked in lungfuls of air and concentrated on delivering powerful strokes to either side. For a few minutes his pace increased noticeably, but then another low dip in the ceiling forced him to duck and wait for the obstruction to pass. When he continued, his burst of energy was spent. He felt fatigued and winded. His wound and the confinement in Trocolar's dungeon were taking their toll. It seemed he could just barely make progress against the force of the water.
The ceiling sank lower and the walls closed with unrelenting menace. The skiff jammed into a narrow restriction, and Jemidon had to use his good leg against the wall to break free. He ducked beneath a projection and found that he could no longer sit erect. With each passing moment, he hunched lower and lower, barely avoiding blows against the top of his head.
Eventually rowing became impossible. Jemidon switched to pushing his oar along the wall, as he had seen the oarsmen do before. He adjusted himself to be as comfortable as possible, lying chest down on the keel, propped on one elbow while he pressed the oar against the wall. His progress slowed, as more and more frequently the skiff became jammed between the confining rocks. And with each foot forward, the ceiling sloped lower; with each passing second, the water rose to meet it.
The gap between the side rail and the ceiling diminished to less than a foot. His forehead beaded with sweat as the truth of his situation began to sink in. He was not moving swiftly enough. There would be too little room. Before he reached the narrowest constriction, the boat would jam against the ceiling, and he would be trapped.
Jemidon groped around the bottom of the skiff, trying to trigger a fresh idea. He saw the pile of Luthor's leggings and, behind them, a coil of the flexible tubing, animal intestines wrapped in cloth and stitched together into great lengths. He frowned and looked at the ceiling. He visualized the skiff pressed firmly against the rock and cold sheets of water spilling over the rails on both sides. With a shudder, he convinced himself of what he must try.
He pulled one pair of trousers from the pile and looped shut the waist and one leg with some of the twine that held the bundles together. He inhaled deeply and blew into the open leg, as Holgon had done with the pig bladder. Again and again he emptied his lungs, until the leggings bulged like a misshapened balloon. Then he collapsed the hem in his fist and forced the end of the tubing through the constriction. With the last of the twine, he bound the end of the pipe into the opening, sealing it shut. It did not hold much air, but that was all that he could muster. Finally, he grabbed the other end of the coil in his right hand and pushed one of his feet into the gap above the railing.
Struggling awkwardly, he worked his calf through the opening and then his thigh. The splintering wood dragged against one side of his leg and the rough rock ceiling against the other. With each wiggle, he felt the resistance increase.
Using both arms for leverage, he forced his other leg out and then, with a burst of strength, shoved himself clear to his waist. He inhaled deeply, preparing for one more thrust to push him free. He looked around the skiff a final time and blinked in surprise about what he had almost forgotten. Scattered on the keelboard were the sword hilt, dominoes, and Benedict's changer. If he escaped without them, then it would have all been in vain. He might as well never have come into the grotto. But there was not time to pack them away, and he could not carry them all when swimming. Then one, just one, part of his mind demanded. If he could take one, from it there still might be some clue with which to continue. But which had the best chance of assisting him toward his goal? he argued with himself. The water continued to buoy the skiff upward. The railing pressed harder and harder against his chest. Each breath became a painful effort that could not be ignored. Jemidon waved his arms in indecision and then impulsively grabbed the changer. Now both hands were encumbered, but he had made his choice. He pushed his knuckles against the keelboard, trembling from the effort, and somehow squeezed the rest of the way over the side.
There was barely a handbreath clearance between the water level and the rock, but Jemidon began kicking away from the skiff.
He glided into the dark water, turning his head to the side for gulps of air and then floating forward, propelled by his kick. With each gasp, he saw the ceiling press closer and then finally felt it drag along the top of his head. He tipped his neck lower until his chin bore down on his chest; then he felt the ribs of rock scrape along his back. He could proceed no farther without resorting to swimming underwater. He took one last gasp of air and then thrust the end of the tubing into his mouth. Holding it in position with his hand, he angled downward and continued his glide.
In what seemed like too short a time, Jemidon was out of breath and he sucked on the tube. The pressure from the leggings was not great. He gasped for air. He felt his lungs expand, but sensed no great satisfaction from the musty smell that filled his mouth. He pulled himself through the water, not quite believing that he had received any nourishment at all, but somehow managing to complete another two dozen gliding strokes.
Again he gasped for breath and received the tainted air from the tube. He banged against one of the tunnel walls in the darkness and angled slightly to the side. He reached upward and felt the ceiling scrape across his knuckles, in contact with the water and just inches from his head.
Onward he stroked, trying not to think of what would happen if the leggings finally collapsed or the hose was too short. In a mindless daze, he paddled through the darkness. Time lost all meaning. Despite his efforts to concentrate only on his swimming, the sense of panic slowly grew until he could contain it no longer. After countless gulps of air, he missed a stroke and floundered, slipping deeper into the water and rolling on his side. And as he tumbled, the tube jerked from his mouth. Quickly he reinserted it, but coughed as he inhaled water. He tried pinching off the opening with his hand while he prepared to draw again and then felt a sickening release of tension as he jerked the hose about. It had extended to its full length, and he had pulled it from the leggings at the other end. The air he had in his lungs would be his last.
Jemidon somehow maneuvered back into a horizontal position and touched the side of the tunnel for orientation. With a spasmodic kick, he floundered a few feet more down the passageway. He tried to resume a smooth stroke for one final try, but his bubbling thoughts swept all coordination away. Like a child splashing in a bath, he jerked forward in uneven spurts. His lungs emptied past the point where he previously had gulped more air. He gnashed his teeth together to resist the desire to exhale. It seemed he could feel each thrusting limb pumping air from his lungs like a piston and replacing it with a foul odor he must expel.
Jemidon began to feel dizzy. Strange dots of light appeared before his eyes. His diaphragm began to twitch against his will to hold it firm. In a last desperate test, he thrust his hand toward the ceiling and felt the same cold wetness. He was still submerged, and there was no more air.
Reason snapped, but surprisingly, Jemidon suddenly calmed. The dark spots of light grew into fuzzy images-his sister, the golden coin, Delia, the robe of the master. They all began to shimmer and wave in his dimming consciousness. Almost without knowing what he was doing, Jemidon rolled over on his back. He placed his palm upward in front of his face and walked his fingers along the rock as his kicks became mere twitches, moving him barely inches at a time. Finally he stopped moving altogether, letting his fingertips splash in meaningless patterns on the water's surface. With an inward sigh, he released the tension in his body and prepared to sink into oblivion.
Water's surface! He choked suddenly. With a gasp, he instinctively thrust his head upward and inhaled the sweet air. There was a sliver of open space between the water line and the upsloping rock. He had passed the narrowest constriction. Now each length forward would give him more room to breathe, not less. The tide was still rising, and he must not tarry, but at least he had a chance. He would not drown. He would keep the rendezvous with Augusta after all. Lying on his back and inhaling deeply, he slowly floated through the rest of the tunnel into the outer cavern. As his senses returned, he noted almost with amazement that in his left hand he still tightly clutched Benedict's changer.
For a few moments, Jemidon continued to float, savoring his close escape. Then he rolled onto his stomach and saw Augusta maneuvering the skiff in his direction, a single torch bound erect in the stern, lighting her way.
He waited, exhausted, for her to draw alongside and provided only feeble assistance to her tugs to get him on board.
"There is a large sloop nearby in the harbor," she said as she resumed rowing. "I saw it through the portcullis. We may as well head directly for it, rather than hide in the hope that it goes away."
Jemidon did not protest. He lay in a limp huddle in the bottom of the skiff, trying to recover his strength, while Augusta propelled them through the opening to the grotto and out into the bay. In a few minutes, they rendezvoused with the sloop, and eager hands pulled them aboard. Over the far rail, Jemidon saw two more ships with the same rigging and, beyond them, a flotilla of many more. On the shoreline, flames still danced among some of the smoldering ruins, although not as many as before. The sky was smeared with dirty browns and grays. A rain of ash covered the rail and deck with a fine powder of grime.
A row of grim-faced traders whispered among themselves near the main mast. The eldest noticed Jemidon and Augusta coming aboard and broke off from the rest to see what his men had found.
"It was a good thought indeed to wait outside after we departed the grotto," the trader said after he had scrutinized Jemidon for a while. "Even though the one called Melizar was able to sail for mainland Arcadia with the constabulary on the tide, not everyone responsible for what has happened has managed to escape. I recognize this one as one of the sword wielders, and the woman is a fugitive as well," the trader continued. "No matter who wins, there will be a reward for their dispatch. Save their heads so that we can collect a bounty, if one is offered later."
Jemidon tried to shake himself to full awareness. He remembered in a rush what he had concluded in the cavern. "Wait," he croaked weakly. "You need not bother with such insignificant tasks. I greet you with the news that you can again be a wealthy man."
"Tokens and scentstones," the trader said. "I have gambled and lost with both. A bounty will be enough. Even if it fetches only a bowl of gruel, your demise will be well worth the effort."
"But if you have holdings in Augusta's vault, you can have means once again," Jemidon rattled quickly as he struggled to his knees. "The tokens in her vault-what if their magic has returned, as if nothing had happened, the way they were before?"
"An easy enough tale to weave," the trader spat out. "No one could prove you wrong."
"Exactly so," Jemidon said. "And why indeed should anyone of wit choose to disagree? Is it not in your best interest that the value of the token be restored?"
The trader squinted at Jemidon with beady eyes. Slowly he ran a hand across his chest. "The tokens have not been restored to magic," he said. "There are probably some here on deck, and their tingle is gone. The masters of the guilds moan the loudest, because their craft is no more."
"Only tokens, and only those in the grotto."
"The token was the medium of exchange. How can it be that, buried under the slime?"
"As it was before," Jemidon replied. "Only rarely were they moved about as you conducted your trades. Far more often, it was pieces of paper that you exchanged-writs that certified the shifts in ownership and the new balances that corresponded to them. It is the ledgers all carefully kept that told the story of your wealth, not the pieces of metal hidden away."
"But I had no deposits in Augusta's vault." A second trader came forward. "There is no gain for me to consider as truth what you claim."
"Dump your tokens down the shaft to join the rest," Jemidon said. "When they hit bottom, consider their magic restored as well. Again the ledger books will reflect your true wealth. Things will revert to exactly as they were before."
"It is too illogical to believe," the second trader objected. "Magic restored to the tokens in an inaccessible vault-there and nowhere else!"
"The consequence of not accepting the possibility is to continue the way things are now," Jemidon said. "The riots, the barter, perhaps the end of Pluton as a port of trade. But if everyone agrees to accept the tokens in the vault as they were before, then what difference does it make what truly happens with steel disks buried under the water?
"Indeed, if you agree in addition to pool the tokens from all of those who died in the grotto and then divide them up among those of you who survived, you will in fact come out all the richer from what has happened."
The eyes of the first trader widened at the mention of additional wealth. "The rates with the other commodities would be fixed as before," he said slowly. "I could buy from Tobruk and pay my debt to Demson with the usual exchange of writs."
"And I could take the cargo from the ship that lies just outside the harbor," the second mused. "And credit the captain's account with some of my tokens so that he could buy from others for a return voyage across the sea."
Jemidon quickly scanned the faces of the other traders. On some, the hints of smiles indicated their acceptance of his scheme to recover their fortunes. Others were blank with confusion, and a few were drawn in stiff lines of rebuttal. He sighed. It would take longer than he had first thought. But even arguing for hours was better than how the traders had suggested they pass the time.
Jemidon slumped down on the deck. Seventeen traders in all had needed convincing, and the last had been the most stubborn. But finally they all had agreed on the merit of his idea. They could find no better alternative.
"Call the rest of the faction together," the first trader instructed the rest when the last had decided. "We must send signals to the others so that they, too, can quickly agree. With that soft-voiced Melizar sailing with most of the mercenaries, almost everyone will have the sense to see that this is the only way to restore order" to the isle."
"What about Trocolar's assets?" Augusta asked. "I am in his debt for the pumps in my vault. And he threatened to make the sum due immediately rather than over a period of years, as is the custom."
"Trocolar!" the trader snapped. "He was the one responsible more than any other. His wealth will be pooled and divided just like the rest. And I doubt that anyone will be interested in carrying out his plans. The prudent will disassociate their inclinations from his faction as much as possible. I was a member of that faction, but my votes will be cast in another direction. There is little chance that one of his followers will garner anywhere near enough to win a position on the council."
"Then, Jemidon, you have saved me indeed!" Augusta exclaimed and hugged him close. "With Trocolar dead and none to follow in his steps, I can continue to run the vault as I did before."
"And with considerably more influence." The second trader eyed Augusta critically. "The other vaultholders may still hoard gold and other metals that we will need for minor exchanges, but only you will receive the holding fees for all the tokens on the island. Congratulations, mistress of the grotto; your future prosperity seems assured."
Augusta tightened her grip on Jemidon. "The week is over, and your indenture is fully expired," she whispered. "It will appear unseemly for one partner in the vault to be the property of another."
Jemidon looked at the group of traders. On every face was an expression of self-importance. Once they had all agreed, they were no longer paupers, but holders of great wealth and power. Augusta was no more the fugitive, but again the prestigious vaultholder. The fires on the shoreline, the dead in the grotto, and the realities of the outside world melted away. As long as there were tokens, the rest did not matter.
"But Melizar," Jemidon said after a moment. "The power that is at his command cannot be ignored. It is not for a peaceful intent that he leads men-at-arms into the rebelling wheatlands."
"The mainland can be far away, if we choose to ignore it, Jemidon," Augusta replied. "Concentrate instead on what I have just offered-a partnership in what will become the wealthiest vault on the island. It is not something to be dismissed lightly, even by a dreamer."
Jemidon felt Augusta press against him. Even through his fatigue, his pulse quickened. Perhaps this was to be the end of his quest. He had vindicated his worth with his first love. Now she was his for the taking.
After all, why had he pursued the robe of the master? Were not the arts the means to the end, the paths most likely to lead to success, despite his failures along the way? Now he could have them all-the gold, the nods of peers, the bows of servants, and adoration in a woman's eyes. A mantle of black was no longer necessary. There was no need to restore the art of sorcery, no reason to rescue a slave girl to prove that it could be done.
Or was there? Jemidon looked down at Benedict's changer. He pressed a lever, and a shower of brass and silver spilled into his hand. A single gold brandel gleamed on top of the pile. He picked it up and compared the sharp contours of the embossing with the dull indistinctness of the coin about his neck.
Jemidon stiffened. He ignored Augusta's suddenly questioning eyes. Did anything that she offered wipe away the guilt of his sister's death, the humiliation of failing the initiates' examinations time and time again, the frustration over the formulas that would not work, and the slight shake of Farnel's head when the glamour did not complete?
"No, they are not enough." Jemidon surprised himself with the intensity which the words blasted forth. "The prestige, the power, the wealth-I want them, yes. But if I could trade them all for my own self-respect, then gladly would I deal. I have the knowledge, the intuitive skills, and the deep understanding of the arts that few will ever possess. Dullards ten times my inferior have succeeded. By the laws, then, why can't I?"
Clumsily, Jemidon pushed Augusta away. With a booming thud, he crashed his fist down upon the rail. The taste of victory soured in his mouth. What did it matter that he had escaped the cube if he still must carry his burden?
"Gently, my sweet." Augusta wrapped her arms around his waist from behind. "The poisons of your exertions have not yet run their course. Be calm and fight inner demons some other day."
"But I am not a master," Jemidon exclaimed. "I found the reason for the vanishing of sorcery and then I let it slip away."
"No man can be a master solely from desire," Augusta said. "Each must have inherent aptitudes, as I am sure you have amply learned. But put the thought from your mind. You have shown me skills that I have found in no other."
Jemidon gently pulled Augusta's arms from around his waist and turned to face her. He attempted a smile; but despite her words, he was not comforted. For a long moment, he pondered all that he had experienced.
"I have learned much, Augusta," he said at last, "and solved more than a single riddle-the vanishing of sorcery and magic, and their replacement by new arts heretofore unexpected." He held out his hand and began to coil his fingers into his fist, one by one. "But there is more still unanswered. First, why have I had the feeling of drifting? From where does it come? Second, it may indeed be that my tongue is ill-suited for sorcery, but what forced me to trip and stumble when attempting the simplest of rituals in Rosimar's guild? Third, the skill of Melizar-how does the stranger change the very fabric of existence to move from one law to the next? Somehow, with certainty, he can direct where reality is to go."
Jemidon started speaking faster as he realized where his thoughts were leading him. "And lastly, the Postulate of Invariance. If there is one metalaw, can there not be others as well?
"Yes, yes, Augusta. There is a way for me to be a master yet. I need to learn just a little more of how to guide the laws to ones that fit. My quest goes on. It is of Melizar I must learn more. From him, I will extract what I need to know."
Jemidon looked into Augusta's eyes and stopped. He sighed and then spoke softly, almost not believing the words as they came forth. "The cold one travels to the wheatlands; the high prince must be warned. And, and-there is a slave girl who must be freed. The reasons are too great, Augusta. I must be gone."
"You speak nonsense," Augusta said. "How can such a course compare with what I can give you here?"
"It is nonsense," Jemidon agreed, shaking his head. "I do not fully understand the feeling, but I know it cannot be denied." He touched the cold, unresponsive metal of the changer and felt a longing swell. "I must follow the nodes of the lattice until I find one that is meant for me. I must return, Augusta, return home to the wheatlands, to discover what Melizar means when he speaks of contradictions."
Augusta looked intently at Jemidon, searching for some hint of doubt, but he stood unmoving, his decision firmly made. Finally she drew him close, turning her head away.
"Indeed, there has been change in you, my gentle one," she said at last. She looked back at him and smiled weakly, batting away a tear. "But no matter; I am still mistress of the grotto and will have a wide selection from which to choose."
Her cheeks trembled as she struggled to broaden her smile. "You will need the means for your passage, shelter, and food. Let me refill your purse for services rendered."
"There is no great need," Jemidon said. "As a scholar, I can-"
"Hush." Augusta put her finger to his lips. "One of the traders here, Martin, I think, has said that in three days' time he sails for the Arcadian mainland. No other leaves before him, And I am sure he will be happy to take you along, provided you have the means to pay your way."
"Augusta, if it were not for the master's robe, I-"
"You stomp and shout about riddles and robes," Augusta said, "but I wonder. How much of your quest is for them and how much for this slave girl whom you mention the last of all?"