THE passage through the flames was a confusion that Jemidon could not understand. When they parted, he struggled to pull his senses back into focus on patterns that his mind comprehended. In the distance, he saw morning-blue sky with pink on the horizon. To his right stood rows of tents behind emblazoned standards; on the left, squads of armored men were converging into formations. Directly in front, about a dozen startled men-at-arms scrambled to their feet as he emerged from their breakfast fire. Evidently he had arrived in the camp of the archmage on a day of battle.
"Take me to the archmage and quickly," Jemidon said. "He must send a large djinn to the place whence I came." His heart raced with urgency. There was so little time.
"It looks human enough," the sergeant said to his men, after a moment of shock. "And the little imp with him has already disappeared. Surround him carefully. If he resists, we will see if he is full of blood or green ichor."
"The archmage," Jemidon growled. "There is no time for petty debate. What I have to tell him of Melizar will be well worth his time."
Jemidon felt a sudden prick of pain at the nape of his neck. He saw the drawn blades close in from all sides.
"Yes, the archmage it will be," the sergeant said. "He has a standing order to report anything out of the ordinary, even if it occurs just before the rebels attack."
One of the men brought forth hinged bracelets of iron with a short chain in between. For a moment, Jemidon tensed, but then he forcefully emptied his lungs. "Anything to speed the process," he said, thrusting out his arms. "Travel behind the flame is but the least of what I have to tell."
In a moment, in the middle of a cluster of six, Jemidon was hurrying across the campground toward the group of silken tents with high pennons snapping in the morning breeze. He darted his eyes to either side as they trotted along. To his left, expanding almost as far as he could see, men-at-arms were dousing the last of their morning fires, slipping on their byrnies, and adjusting swords at their sides. Sergeants barked orders. Horse-borne pages waving standards called for where each group was to position itself in line. The faces of the men were grim. Tight-lipped, they did not engage in easy banter. When the eyes of their comrades were not watching, they cast furtive glances toward the hill to the north.
Jemidon looked out over the gently rising landscape. The foreground was empty. Cracked branches and trampled greenery indicated where the army must have marched the day before. Farther up the slopes was a motley of colors and glints of flashing metal that ran to the summit and stretched far to either side. It was the rebel army, packed shoulder to shoulder and marching in lockstep down the hillside. Jemidon tried to estimate the number, but gave up after he counted more than a dozen rows, He squinted to see the ragged end of the line on the east and saw that oceanside cliffs defined the other edge.
Behind the slowly moving wave, at the very top of the hill, were the smoldering ruins of Searoyal, a pile of jumbled rubble, where once had stood a walled city that could be seen leagues out to sea. Among the tumbled stones flapped the shabby canvas of the metamagician's tent. The sun glinted painfully from huge cubes of metal scattered to its left. Their covers gaped open into featureless interiors, like empty crates tipped on their sides. The tops of unneeded siegecraft were just visible over the crestline.
Jemidon glanced back at the men-at-arms. They all wore mail and carried shields of gleaming steel. Besides the standards of Arcadia, he saw the pennants of Procolon across the sea and even those of the southern kingdoms mingled with the rest. Barely two rows thick, the royal forces formed up, their thin line stretching to match the length of the one that approached.
On his right, Jemidon saw richly surcoated nobles emerge from their tents, testing the weight of their armor and slashing broadswords through the air. Squires tightened the girths on nervous horses and added the final polish to shiny helms. Behind the line of canvas, Jemidon could hear the pounding of the surf. He smelled the salt in the air. The royal forces were making a last stand; they had their backs to the sea.
In the center of the row, at the entrance to a modest tent beside the pavilion flying the royal colors of Arcadia, the sergeant pushed Jemidon's shoulder to duck and enter. Inside, along the opposite wall, had been erected a crude table of crates and planks. Along one side of the makeshift structure was a queue of pages that snaked through another opening at the rear. Seated behind the boards was a slight man in a robe of deep purple. His face was narrow and topped by fine yellow-brown hair. Wrinkles crept from the sides of eyes that had not known sleep for many hours. The furrows of concentration above the nose were no longer shallow with the smoothness of youth. Jemidon grunted as he looked at the robe. Along one sleeve were the logos of all five of the crafts.
"To Standall." The seated master set down his pen and ripped the parchment from the roil. "He is to use the ticklesprites only if lord Feston's elite guards falter. We call too much upon the demon world, as it is."
The page at the head of the line took the message and disappeared through the opening. As the rest moved up, the master thought a moment and then hastily began scribbling another note.
"Melthon should continue trying the formula," he said, "for the chance that alchemy might return. He is of no help otherwise, and the attempt cannot possibly hurt."
"Archmage Alodar," the sergeant said in reverent tones. "I realize that all of us must make the final preparations for battle, but something has transpired that I thought you should know." Alodar looked up from his writing as Jemidon was jostled forward. "He stepped from a flame just as a demon would, although, as you can see, he is quite normal in form."
"Not wizardry as well!" Alodar muttered. "If this is a portent that it, too, withers away, then indeed we truly are lost. It is the only craft left that we can use."
"It remains unaltered as long as Melizar desires to conquer two universes," Jemidon said quickly. "He needs the means to travel between. And the laws do not just wither away. They are replaced abruptly by others. The Maxim of Perturbations instead of the Maxim of Persistence. The Rule of the Threshold rather than the Rule of Three."
Alodar looked at Jemidon and his eyes narrowed. "What babble is this? Neither magician nor sorcerer any more can ply his craft."
"In place of those arts, there are two others. By the perturbations, Melizar has brought down the walls of Searoyal. With animations, he has enslaved the rebels to his commands."
"Indeed, the minds of the people are clouded. That we have learned from the few who have been captured," AJodar said. "All our men are on guard to avoid any inducements that pull at their sight. And we abandoned the fortress and chose to fight on the plain, rather than be crushed by tumbling rock."
"With thaumaturgy and alchemy gone, Melizar probably will unleash even more strange forces against you," Jemidon said. "You should prepare for them as well. His powers come from understanding metamagic, the Postulate of Invariance, the Axiom of Least Contradiction, and the Verity of Exclusion."
Alodar's frown deepened. He rubbed his hand across his chin and, for a long moment, pondered what Jemidon had said. Then his eyes brightened; with a casual wave, he sent the pages away. "As good a course as any for the final preparations. Why not a gamble rather than filling chinks in a weak and tottering wall? Sergeant, release those fetters and be on your way. This man indeed might have things of value to tell us."
"Everything I will share," Jemidon said as the bracelets fell away. "Everything that I have learned. But first I need a djinn. We must send one to Melizar's domain and save Delia from the fumes."
"A djinn? For your own personal use?" Alodar shook his head. "To save the life of one, when here thousands are in peril? You saw the forces arrayed against us outside. Wizards and demons will be our only hope to even the odds. And we have conjured all that we dare. Any more and the careful balance forged almost two decades ago might no longer be secure. It wilf do us no good to avoid one jeopardy, only to fall prey to another."
"Everyone knows full well how you became master of the five magics," Jemidon said. "That is not the issue here."
"You should understand that the battle today is no less important than the one on the Bardinian plain," Alodar replied. "This Melizar has swept all before him. The kingdom of Arcadia has crumbled. And with the moving pictures that twist the mind, devil-borne agents have stirred up the peoples of Procolon and the southern realms. The baronies are just barely able to keep order with all the troops they have. The one I hold dearest, Aeriel, strives to coordinate a defense across the sea. The balance is a precarious one. If Melizar wins here, the world will erupt in revolution. Everything will be his."
Alodar came around the table. "If you have something to offer, then help us defeat this strange one. Save the many. After victory, we will offer aid to the few."
Jemidon heard the sound of horns outside, the beat of drums, and the staccato march of men. How long had it already been? How much longer could Delia survive the fumes? He touched the changer at his waist and looked back into Alodar's unflinching eyes. It was clear the archmage's mind was set; he had a goal and would not be deterred.
"Very well," Jemidon sighed. "First the battle and then the djinn. As long as the one immediately follows the other. I will aid all I can." He squatted to the ground and began to speak quickly. "I was on Morgana when sorcery failed. It happened the night of the grand celebration."
"No, from the very beginning." Alodar glanced at the sand running from a glass as he reached for a pen. "Leave out no detail. The most insignificant might be important."
Jemidon sighed again. "My father wanted me to be a thaumaturge," he said. "He gave me his last gold brandel for the testing fee."
"And so mobilizing all the alchemists to manufacture sweetbalm in preparation for the battle was to our deterrent." Alodar paced around the confines of the tent, his hands behind his back. "They had to stop their normal productions to convert their facilities, and in the lull, when no formulas were being written, this Skyskirr changed the law. What you say is hard to accept, Jemidon, even if it explains what has come to pass better than the tale of any other."
"Exactly so," Jemidon said. He had wanted to rattle off everything at once. Each heartbeat seemed an eternity, but the archmage would not be rushed. He had asked questions about all aspects of Jemidon's quest, details from the very first, the apprenticeship to the alchemist, the initiates' examination at the inland guild, the graphical representation for the charmlets shown to Farnel. And with each answer, Alodar had grown more introspective, seemingly concerned with something else besides the working of the metalaws.
"And these uncouplings. You say that I cannot perform them." Alodar rubbed his sleeve with the logos. "The power has been awakened in you and no other of our kind."
"As it would appear," Jemidon said. "The Verity of Exclusion prevents a practitioner of the arts. And, by the random factors, I have tested its truth hard enough for myself."
Alodar nodded. "And now what do you propose?"
"Well, I would-" Jemidon paused. In the rush to save Delia, he had thought of nothing else. "I would challenge Melizar with manipulants of my own," he said after a moment. "I am a metamagician as much as he, I would bring about a decoupling. Direct the enactment of rituals, incantations, and formulas that are our own. Have the laws move in a direction that favors our cause rather than his."
"And which direction is that?" Aiodar asked. "Have you studied the lattice? Are you sure it would not mean the end of wizardry instead?"
"If we could get a look, we would know," Jemidon answered quickly. "Perhaps by using a sprite to fly where Melizar has set up his camp and snatch the lattice away."
Alodar frowned. "From what you have said, Melizar proceeds methodically from a plan he has worked out in great detail. And for each perturbation, he pauses and carefully calculates the response that returns the rush of events to the course that he desires.
"This is no mere examination for a robe, Jemidon. Far more than that is at stake. How could what you propose have even the smallest of chances? Why would you succeed now when you have failed so often before?"
"But I am a metamagician." Jemidon scowled. Despite everything else, the anger and frustration began to bubble as before. The words of the archmage were familiar ones that he had tried for so long to dispel. "I am a metamagician. That is why I was unable, why I could not succeed, why I could not get the honor and respect. But now I understand what has to be done. Better than any other. Give me the means. I will show you. It may be your only chance."
"You state that you were prevented," Aiodar said. "Because of something external, you were unequal to the task. And how convenient for you that is. Most of us do not have such luxury. We must look inside instead and understand what are our strengths and weaknesses."
"One cannot overwhelm a metalaw," Jemidon said. "It would be futile to try."
"And was it a metalaw that sent you after graphic abstractions instead of memory drill in Farnel's hut? Did a principle of the universe compel you not to list the simple incantations on paper before the thaumaturge's test? After the third failure with the alchemist's formula, what fundamental rule prevented you from assaying for purity? How carefully did you plan your actions before the stumble in Rosimar's guild?
"And most important, consider this. You have shown a remarkable ability to deduce the underlying principle from the observed effects. With your skills, you have found three metalaws. But if that is indeed your talent, why did it take so long? Why so many years until a stranger hands you the clues? Why not suspect after your first failures that something else was wrong? Why were not they the key that opened this inner box of which you speak and tumbled out the answers?"
The archmage raised his index finger and held it poised in front of Jemidon's face. "Perhaps because the answers were not so clearly cut. Perhaps because, deep inside, you knew that you had not fully prepared, that you had become bored, and that you did not exercise discipline, focus, concentration, or the planning that every master must have. Perhaps because, metalaws aside, you knew in your innermost being that you had not put forth the effort necessary to wear the robe. You preferred instead to dabble at the next in the hopes it would be easier."
"The metalaw is true!" Jemidon shouted and backed off a step. "I have felt the uncoupling. It explains the dizziness, the lapses of memory, and all the rest."
"Not all the rest," Alodar said.
"Why are you telling me this?" Jemidon cried. "You are the archmage, ultimately responsible for all the crafts in the world. There is a battle about to begin outside this very tent, and you spend your time speculating about the weaknesses of someone you have barely met."
Jemidon's chest pounded. The words were too sharp. He did not want to face them after all that had happened. He was a metamagician, and the honor and respect would be his.
"I asked you what you would do," the archmage said. "But more important perhaps is why. Is it for the robe of the master?"
"Yes, yes, I have told you that."
"And anything else?"
Jemidon caught his breath. The archmage had been striking at the old wounds that would not heal, and he had almost lost control. He squeezed his fists tight and looked Alodar steadily in the eye.
"And for Delia," he said. "Delia more than all." He paused a second and licked his lips. "We waste too much time. If you do not believe, I will continue on my own as best I can."
Alodar placed his hands behind his back and stared at Jemidon a long while in silence. Then he turned away and paced back and forth across the width of the tent with quick, precise steps while Jemidon seethed. The archmage stopped at the desk and fingered a magic ring that was now stone-cold. Finally he turned back and looked intently at Jemidon a second time. "I do believe you, Jemidon," he said. "I must. We have too few choices left. As staggering as the concepts are that you relate, they do explain all the puzzles with which we are beset.
"And so I have decided to give you command of the alchemists, magicians, sorcerers, and thaumaturges. Only the wizards must be withheld for their more critical tasks. What you submit has a kernel of merit. It will not hurt to add it to the feeble arsenal that we have.
"But there is more, more for you to be truly ready. If you are indeed to face Melizar, if, in the end, our fate does rest on your shoulders alone, then you must be a master of at least one thing-a master of yourself."
Alodar did not wait for Jemidon to say more. He went to the flap in the rear of the tent and ducked outside. Jemidon hesitated a moment and then hastened after. As he scrambled outside, he saw a shallow depression packed with men, probably more than a hundred robes crammed together with the implements of their nonfunctioning crafts. Near the far lip, a single squad of men-at-arms snapped to attention as they saw the archmage approach.
"You have all trusted my judgment in the past," Alodar said. "And there is little time to explain my decision now." He waved back at Jemidon. "Accept this one as your leader. Follow his commands as you would mine. He may send you into danger, but surely that is to be preferred to waiting passively for rebel blades to come slashing into your midst."
Jemidon squared his shoulders and stepped forward, but suddenly a great shout echoed from the plain. Trumpets blared an opening charge. "The archmage! Where is the archmage?" voices shouted. "Up on the hill behind their lines among the metal boxes! He must come and see. A circle of flame!"
Alodar did not wait for any reaction from the masters, He bolted around the side of his tent and headed for the battle line.
"I will show you my mettle," Jemidon shouted as the archmage disappeared from view. "I will prove the meta-magician I can be."
Jemidon waited a moment for a reply, but heard none. It was up to him to prove himself one final time. Grimly he turned back to the masters.
"You with the flasks and powders. And over there, the sad-faced ones mumbling in the mirrors." He pushed his way to the center of the masters and whirled with arms outspread. "There is not time to worry about resonances. The archmage commands. All of you follow me. We will get as close to the fighting line as we can."
Jemidon ran out of the depression, not looking back to see if any would eomply. But soon he heard the swish of robes and the clank of paraphernalia as he sprinted across the marshy ground around Alodar's tent. Apparently the word of the archmage carried enough authority that they followed without hesitation.
As he cleared the pavilions, Alodar was not to be seen. Instead, up the gentle slope, he saw the two angry lines close on each other and the battle begin. The grate of steel shrieked from a thousand collisions. Like a pair of mating snakes, the two armies writhed across the tilted plain. The men-at-arms with thick shields and shining mail slashed their swords right and left, cutting through leather and hacking off the blades of scythes. But onward the rebels came; mindless of the hurt, unflinching under the rain of blows, they whirled their flails and stabbed with their poles, borne forward by their comrades who pressed from behind. In two or three places, the royal line thinned; and in one, a salient of brown broke through to circle from the rear.
Above the combatants' heads, the sky crackled and sparked. Pungent smells filled the air. Glowing sprites and tiny imps streaked down on bare heads, ripping away tufts of hair in their talons or dropping trails of itching powders in their turbulent wakes. Fox-sized devils sprayed their repulsive odors and radiated the feeling of unquenchable thirst and will-sapping pain.
Towering over them all, the larger demons roared in aerial combat against their brothers, who were commanded by Melizar's manipulant-wizard. Veinous wings of turgid green beat frantically for altitude, trying to elude glowing spheres of sputtering sparks which blackened on touch and sizzled away the pulpy flesh. From gnarled fingers shot bolts of piercing reds and violet that ripped the air into a hot incandescence.
Jemidon looked to the hill and saw on the rubble the circle of flame that had brought the page running to Alodar. Next to the tent, a huge djinn, far larger than the one that had carried Jemidon and Delia away, was twisted into an arch easily twice the height of a man. His cloven hooves and fingertips barely touched the ground. All along his scaly legs, his humped back with the furled wings, and his forehead and upper arms danced a deep crimson flame that shot high into the morning sky. Framed in the arch was the cloaked form of Melizar, the metamagician.
As he bounded over the terrain, Jemidon saw the royal flank farthest from the sea crumple and dissolve. A group of bondsmen swung with blades rather than with scythe and flail, trading the thrusts of the men-at-arms blow for blow. Because of their superior number, they had forced the corner back.
Jemidon frowned at what he saw. Most of the rebels' swords appeared to be made of wood. Only about one in ten was true steel. But all the weapons, metal or not, were clanging off the soldiers' shields as if they were of the finest temper. As Jemidon watched, one slipped underneath a slowly dropping guard and crashed against links of mail, popping ringlets and spewing blood.
"I would call the law something like 'same shape, same function,' " Jemidon shouted over his shoulder. "No doubt Melizar's replacement for thaumaturgy provides his minions with more than harvest tools." He glanced at another spot where the freetoilers had broken through and saw women and children behind the fighters, lofting blobs of a purple tar onto the backs of the men-at-arms. Everywhere it touched, the metal glowed red. Drops of molten iron sputtered to the ground. Burning sizzles mixed with howls of pain.
"Something to do with alchemy," Jemidon said as he signaled for a halt some twenty yards behind the struggling fighters. "Perhaps 'the base drives away the good.' No matter. I count no more than a score of each. Thaumaturges and alchemists, try examples of your craft. Work more of your magics than they. The others assist as best you can."
While the masters exercised their skills, Jemidon emptied the coins from the changer into his palm. Quickly he sorted through the collection and reinserted them in the slit in top. He held his breath as he fingered his old worn brandel last and saw it slip away. Working the five levers one by one, he emptied the sorted coins back into his hand.
Jemidon felt the familiar tension of the parting rope and imagined the creak of the fibers as they strained to breaking. For a moment, the line groaned and twisted, but then suddenly it was slack.
Jemidon frowned as he reloaded the changer. There was resistance. As Ponzar had said, metamagicians could struggle over the state of the coupling. Jemidon cast a hasty glance in the direction of the hilltop. It was too far to see more than the Skyskirr's outline, but he felt his presence nonetheless.
Jemidon grasped the changer tightly. He tried to visualize the rope again growing taut. Mentally, he tugged on the line, straining against a force he could not quite comprehend. He placed his feet wide apart and arched his back, swinging both fists to the side. Then he tried to bring himself erect, imagining the rope tied to his collar and tugging him from behind. His muscles tensed and then trembled from the effort. With eyes closed, oblivious to the noise and swirl of battle, he brought his arms forward and then his head. In his mind he saw the rope spring tight and, with a snap, burst in twain.
"Look at that!" a thaumaturge exclaimed. "The incantation works, the one that has failed ever since the craft went away. I feel the prick in my own arm, just as I have stabbed the doll."
"And sweetbalm," an alchemist said. "Only a trace, but the healer of wounds, nonetheless."
Jemidon turned to watch a wooden sword splinter on a downsweep. Farther away, a glob of tar solidified in midflight and bounced harmlessly from a shield. A great cry of confusion went up from the pressing rebels. The men-at-arms answered with a cheer. With tired arms, they held back the attack, for an instant stopping the onrushing momentum.
Jemidon smiled. "Perhaps we should try for the other two crafts as well," he said. "A simple ritual like the Neophyte's Cadence; and for sorcery we can use the Song of the Shifting Sands, just as Canthor did. Send someone back to the dunes and-"
Jemidon stopped and clutched the changer. He felt the hint of a tug and then a growing strain. He jammed his fingers under the levers, cradling the device close to his chest. A dull pain shot through his head. He closed his eyes and sank to his knees, curling into a ball. Walls of force around his mind seemed to ripple and tear apart into sinuous tendons. Like stubby fingers in massive gloves, they probed his thoughts, sending numbing jabs into deep recesses of his awareness. He felt his hands twitch on the changer and then, with an involuntary spasm, his left hand fell away, trembling with fatigue. In his mind he saw the coarse fingers surrounding him, fumbling with his own, prying them loose and pushing them aside.
Almost in helpless fascination, his other hand hurled free. A shower of coins tumbled into his lap. Simultaneousty, he felt the laws decouple and accelerate away. With a rush, they sped to the next vertex in the lattice, back to where wooden swords and obnoxious tars held power, but they did not stop there. Like a peg counting score in a card game, the fabric of existence plowed onward, taking the laws several more steps away.
"Catapults," Jemidon heard someone suddenly yell. "They are using the siegecraft. Hurling missiles on friend and foe alike."
Jemidon shook himself out of a daze to see stones streaking across the sky. In a heavy shower of gravel, colorful pebbles and rocks cascaded down upon the line of fighting. Like hailstones hitting a slanted roof, they bounced from upraised shields and skittered across the ground. A few careened in Jemidon's direction and he saw the pale green of epidote crystals, not individual rocks, but conglomerates of smaller pebbles loosely held together by a sticky glue.
Jemidon felt the laws recouple. Instantly he realized what would happen next. "To cover," he yelled, "and stay away from the rock!" He glanced about quickly and dove for a small hummock that he hoped would be free and clear of the deadly rain. And as he did, in a series of loud pops all down the battle line, the grenades exploded into jagged shrapnel and high-velocity shot. Small missiles propelled apart from one another whistled through the air, tearing through flesh and ricocheting from metal that stood in its way. Men and maces, shields and swords, shirts of mail and leather vests, all danced along the ground, battered back and forth by the blows that struck from all sides. In an instant, the discipline of the lighting line vanished into a pool of wounded and dying men.
For a moment, the rebels in the rearmost rows were silent when they saw the carnage in front. But they quickly realized that now only a few remained to oppose them, isolated men who staggered dazedly among the bodies of their fallen comrades. With a triumphant yell, the rebels clambered over the bodies and headed for the wizards who still directed their imps with harassments from above.
Jemidon staggered to his feet. The battlefield was dissolving into a rout. Some of the wizards bravely stood their ground, concentrating on the demons they commanded, while others kicked over their fires and bolted back toward the sea. A flurry of pages exploded from the royal pavilion. Knocking shoulders, they jostled the king and the high prince on jeweled litters, tugging against one another which way to go.
Jemidon looked up the hill. Melizar was still framed in the arch of fire. But he saw others as well. Coming out of the red background beneath the demon's span were more Skyskirr with heads bowed and moving slowly toward the metal boxes.
"To the metamagician. He still is the key," Jemidon shouted, "Charge through the confusion of the rush. There is nothing left but to confront him as best we can."
Jemidon ran forward and picked up a shield from the ground. He ducked to the side to avoid the downswipe of a rebel racing past. Scrambling on hands and knees, he retrieved a sword. Just in time, he parried a blow that sent steel grating down his blade to the hilt. "Masters, rally to me," he yelled. "Men-at-arms, ready your weapons and coalesce the craftsmen into a group. Isolated, they are certain to fall."
Some of the masters hesitated. The rebels running through their midst cut two to the ground, despite widespread arms and empty palms. Most turned to run, but a few came forward, dodging blows and scrambling to Jemidon's side. The men-at-arms formed into a disciplined line, curving around Jemidon and the others. With swords drawn and shields locked, they began to run up the hill.
Up ahead, the onrushing rebels dissolved into an undisciplined mob. Like angry bees, they swarmed onto the isolated remnants of the royal forces, hacking away at those who still stood and charging after the ones who ran for the sea. A few saw Jemidon's sprinting squad and tried to reform; but for most, their eyes were on the struggle around the royal pavilion and the glint of plundered jewels and gold. A few blows were struck in token resistance, and then the rebels backed off to attack more promising targets with smaller risks. Like a great ship sailing out of harbor, Jemidon's wedge parted through the confusion of the battle and headed up the hill.
As they grew closer, Jemidon could see Melizar's own guard become alert. About twenty men in mail, all heavily armored, formed into a line to contest the advance. Behind them were two of Melizar's manipulants, staggering in drunken circles from the heat among the metal boxes, but still managing to stir pots of tar. A third chipped away at a boulder of orange-red realgar, dropping the shards into globular molds.
At the hillcrest, Jemidon saw Melizar accept the decoupling keys from other Skyskirr as they passed through the portal. With his tinkly laugh, the pilot directed them to the boxes and watched them crawl slowly inside the massive structures twice the height of a man.
Jemidon ran his wedge into the waiting warriors. With a stash of axe and blade, his squad began hacking at limbs and crashing into upraised shields. The two men on either side of Jemidon went down, and then another on his left. As Melizar's guards surged through the opening, Jemidon bolted into the gap with a pirouette, feeling the numbing jolt of blows against the shield as he squirted past. He ducked by the slow-moving manipulants and sprinted for the ring of flame. Flinging aside the sword and shield, he grasped the changer at his waist. With grim determination, he steeled himself for the confrontation. A magician and two alchemists managed to slip around the flanks and scrambled to his side.
Melizar slowly turned, while Jemidon tensed in readiness. The metamagician gestured lo his manipulants and they stopped stirring the tar. One picked up a small pipe from the ground and whistled a short tune. Immediately, the air swirled into violent funnels. Jemidon heard strangled cries and turned to see each master spinning in a vortex, his feet off the ground and arms flung wide. Jemidon tentatively reached back to grab at one of the limbs as it spun past, but an outstretched palm slapped his own with a sting.
A bubble of panic began to form in Jemidon's stomach. He clutched at the changer and ground his teeth. Without someone to work the arts, he was powerless. Regardless of where he might shift the laws, it would do no good unless there was someone to exercise them when he was finished. He had done it again-rushed off to the confrontation without any semblance of a plan.
"So it is you." Melizar stepped back from where the djinn crackled and burned. "My misgivings were properly placed. You are far more than a bungler, one who merely adds grains of sand to the joints of my grand design. Far more than the likes of a Drandor, who gave even his skull to my other manipulants when I found him again." The Skyskirr laughed and waved his hands back toward the portal and then down to the plain. "Far more, and yet not enough. You were able to decouple the laws when my attention was distracted to my own 'hedron. But it was nothing to wrench control back from your grasp. And now it is almost finished."
Melizar pointed back at the portal. A cool breeze tainted with wisps of brown filtered through the opening. A high-frequency shriek bubbled from around the djinn's limbs. Jemidon saw the muscles twitch and tremble. Beads of dark sweat dripped onto the ground.
"A new use for the demons," Melizar said. "One that tries the strength of even the djinn. On his left side are the laws of your domain; on the right are those of mine. The shriek is their discord as they meet at the boundary in his scaly hide. But through the portal comes the refreshing breeze that allows my manipulants to shed the torpor of hibernation.
"Through it, I have received the other pilots, one by one. They tried in concert to move the laws from where I had locked them; but my sojourn here, where, except for you, there are no others, has made me strong. A mere step in the portal was enough to resist all they could try. And now, as I have commanded, they surrender their keys so their lithons might not be crashed together or stripped bare by the buffeting storms. I have conquered them all. And without the means to decouple, they are powerless. I can crush their bones and mix their marrow with common dust. They have no means to shield away the disgrace. All except for Utothoz. His lithon, curiously, does not respond. But even now my manipulant is directing the window there. I will keep it open until he can step onto the rock. It cannot take long to search, and then I will have the last of the pilots' keys."
Through the opening, Jemidon saw Ponzar's lithon grow in size in a sea of brown. Tendrils of hazy vapor snaked through the portal. He began to gag on the smell that was growing stronger even in his own clean air. Behind him, down the slope, Jemidon saw the rebels in the row of tents, pulling away the silken panels and shouting with each discovery of hidden wealth. Here and there were pockets of resistance still, a few wizards about the archmage and a company of reserves standing their ground in the surf. But the outcome was clearly decided. The battle could last only a little more time.
The whirling behind Jemidon intensified. He saw the three masters flung on a puff of wind into the nearest of the open cubes, bouncing off the walls. Then suddenly strong gusts swept him from his own feet. He felt his changer rip from his belt with the slash of an airborne knife. With no way to control his motion, he jerked across the terrain, bobbing like a butterfly, but heading unerringly for the box. With a mighty billow from the rear, he slammed into one side, head pointed toward the ground.
He saw that the cube was mounted on a small platform with legs of unequal length that provided a level base on the slope. He grabbed at the bottom edge of the cube, trying to resist the blast of air pushing him toward the opening on top, but the wind increased to a roaring gale. Churning dust mingled with the stink of the Skyskirr vapors, blinding his sight. He was stretched into a painfully thin line, feet directly overhead. The muscles in his back and shoulders knotted from the strain. He tightened his grip as best he could; but, like bark pulled from a tree, his fingers slid from the smooth surface of the cube.
In a rush, he was hurled high in the air over the top of the container. Then the gale slowed almost as abruptly as it had begun. He plunged back earthward into the gaping opening now directly beneath him.
Jemidon saw the three masters scramble out of his way as he crashed into their midst, but he paid them little heed. He jumped and grabbed the upper edge of the box, frantically swinging his leg in a wide arc, attempting to find some purchase so that he could climb back out. But the top was too high. He could not hook his foot over the edge. In final desperation, he chinned himself and looked out on Melizar's smiling face.
"The cube is an excellent idea from the practitioners of your arts," the metamagician said. "Of course, your magic no longer works. My manipulants have had to build one based on the law I have moved into its place. And the device is not quite the same. The walls are as thin and light as bread, rather than built of thick metal that cannot be moved. Each contraction is less, a few arm lengths at most and not a halving. But it is as strong and sure as the original. In the end, the result will be the same. Think of it while I go for the first feast of my victory, the marrow of the one whom your kind label as king."
Melizar tipped back his head and laughed. With a flourish, he pointed to one of his manipulants, and the lid of the box suddenly rotated on its hinges. With a swoosh, it slammed onto Jemidon's head and began to push him down into the inside.
He looked about quickly, savoring the last sights, whatever they might be. The masters and men-at-arms who had followed him up the hill were all scattered in bloody disarray on the slope. Melizar was turning to march triumphantly down the hillside. The pillage continued in the royal tents. Manipulants were slumped to one side of the cube, exhausted from the heat. The portal on the other side opened onto Ponzar's lithon, and Delia was just a small distance away. Heavy brown vapors spewed through and contaminated the air.
With a gasp, Jemidon released his grip and fell to the bottom of the cube as the lid slammed shut. In the sudden darkness, he felt the vibration that meant the start of the contractions.