KESTREL looked at his outstretched hands and saw that they were his own. Evidently the last transformation in the realm of reticulates had restored him and Astron to their proper bodies. He shook his head to clear it of the last of the strange feelings. He had felt a robustness that had coursed through his veins with a pounding vigor. His basic needs for air, food, and sleep had been inherently satisfied and had not troubled his thoughts, even on the lowest level. The immortality of a demon's body he could well believe.
But to be facing an existence that stretched out forever with so little control over one's own thoughts! Kestrel frowned at the horror of it. It had been a constant struggle to keep from raising his sword stiffly over his head and plunging to certain death against any of a dozen reflective attacks. Eventually he would have succumbed. It was just too great an effort to remain on guard all the time-on guard against yourself and what your own thoughts might cause to happen.
Kestrel started to sit up and then hesitated as he became more aware of a gently rocking motion that pushed him from side to side. Looking about cautiously he saw that he was lying at the bottom of a concave wooden hull. Curved spars arched upward from under a keel-board under his back to gunwales well above his head. The last dying embers of a fire hissed in a smoky soup of bilgewater and soot. Below his feet he could see Phoebe's crumpled form and, beyond her, what probably were Nimbia and Astron stirring as well.
Kestrel looked skyward and groaned. The canopy was pale blue and lit by a small reddish sun, far smaller than what he was used to in the realm of men. Again they were somewhere else from where they wanted to be. For a moment, he lay on the rough wooden planking, trying to put his thoughts together. The strain of the last few moves had taken its toll on his mind, as well as on Astron's poorly equipped body. Having to think consciously of every thrust and parry, rather than rely on instincts learned over many years of getting out of scrapes, was as exhausting as heavy labor.
Kestrel sighed. Yes, the effort had been exhausting, but somehow rewarding as well. If not for the gong of the clocks on the final move, the rotarians he led might have captured the node, despite the odds. They had depended on him and he had been true to their trust. He had risen to what was his duty and discharged it well. If not for the clocks, then who knew what could have happened? Perhaps there might be some way to go back, despite what the djinn had said, after Phoebe was safely home-go back and rescue those that had put their lives in his hands without questioning that he would respond in return.
"It is worse than the desert," Kestrel heard Phoebe say as she rose and came to his side. Her depressing lethargy seemed to have vanished. Even with the unsure footing of the small boat, there was confidence in her tread. "Look, Kestrel, there is nothing in sight. In the realm of reticulates, we arrived at an oasis where we could eat and drink." She looked at him intently and smiled. "It is worse than the desert and I do not care."
Kestrel looked out over the gunwale and blinked at what he saw. They were at sea with no sight of land on the horizon. Kestrel whirled to look in other directions, but there was little difference. The only feature was a thin line in the distance, separating ocean from sky.
He glanced down the length of the long boat, but, except for Nimbia and Astron, he saw that the hull was bare. They had no sails, oars, food, or water. Near his feet, the last ember of the dying fire cooled to a soggy gray. Evidently they did have at least one leak.
Kestrel put his arm around Phoebe and attempted a brave smile. She smiled back and drew closer. "At least, this part is better than the last few moves," she said. "You hardly touched me when we were separated from the others."
Kestrel started to explain what had happened, but thought better of it. There would be time enough for that later, after they had reached safety. "How big a fire do you need to summon the djinn again?" he asked, waving at the charred splints at his feet. "Evidently in this place a blaze in a small wooden boat is not something totally bizarre."
"No, do not struggle with a demon now." Astron suddenly shook his head from where he was trying to stand near the stern. "Something is not right about the summoning. There is too much risk."
"What do you mean?" Phoebe said. "I have brought forth Camonel before and I can do it again. Do not worry, Astron. I have my full confidence now. Kestrel had faith in me and that was enough."
"I do not question the power in your craft," Astron said. "It is the words of the djinn that give me the suspicion. You have taught me, Kestrel, to look beyond the words to the meaning behind." The demon paused and wrinkled his nose. "How do we know that it was truly Palodad speaking through the mouth of Camonel? The one who reckons is a recluse, more concerned with the flipping of the imps in his own domain than delving into the working of other realms. He wants the harebell pollen grains as part of a bargain, it is true, but the insistence that I must accompany their delivery seems out of place."
"I do not know the workings of your kind." Kestrel shook his head. "So I cannot speak to how well your conjecture hits the mark. But if not this Palodad, then who else would speak through the flame?"
"Gaspar," Astron said. "He is the one who stands to lose, if we are successful in our quest. Without the pollen, we cannot expect any more of Palodad's aid. He is the one who is tracking down all those with allegiance to the prince he wishes to destroy-the one who would want my return far more than any other.
"And even though Phoebe controlled Camonel to effect our rescue, the djinn is free to act in matters that she does not explicitly proscribe."
"From what you have told me of Gaspar," Kestrel said, rising to stand, "it is unlikely he would have the skill for such complex charades. Indeed, you even said that his posing of the riddle was a surprise to your prince." Kestrel tugged at his chin and looked out over the featureless sea. "There is also the matter of the outside influence in the realm of reticulates. Given the confining nature of the protocols, what would start the barter with the chronoids in the first place? Why would even the reflectives continue when the unpredictable results from using the engines began to interfere with their plans? Who was responsible for the torrent of exchanges at the end? It is as if there were someone else behind all of this, someone far wiser than Gaspar manipulating him as well as other things."
"Prydwin!" Nimbia sat up, suddenly alert. "It all fits together when you think of it. It is his creations that have been coalesced. Although I can think of no reason why he would wish it so, because he knows the details of their creation, no one could cause the merging any better than he. Who else would be concerned about what happens to harebell pollen, if not one of the fey? Suppose that the prince of the lightning djinns did not have a free will of his own, but was under the domination of my kinsman?"
"Yes, Prydwin," Astron said. "You may very well be right. Most of my kind have little concern for the workings of other realms. Except for cataloguers such as myself, they dwell instead on instant gratifications that forestall the great monotony. Far more plausible is a being from somewhere else manipulating events for his own personal gain."
"Then what is our plan?" Phoebe asked. "Unless I can control a demon, we are marooned here as surely as we were before."
"Do not misunderstand," Astron said. "Despite appearances, we have made progress on our quest. First we learned that it was the realm of the fey in which we must look. There we successfully acquired the pollen grains that Palodad desires."
"And in the realms of symmetry," Nimbia cut in, "we heard Palodad say that their physical design somehow was important to the answer of the riddle."
"Only if indeed it was Palodad," Astron said. "Of that we cannot be certain." He shook his head. "No, it is the one who reckons whom we must contact directly to be safe," he said. "No intermediary agent will do."
"Then tell me of his mental signatures," Phoebe said. "When we relight the fire, he is the one I will seek."
Kestrel saw Astron's membranes flick down over his eyes and his nose wrinkle to the side.
"It is not quite that simple," the demon said after a moment. "I doubt I could accurately describe the character of Palodad's will. He is old, old even by the standards of my kind and his thoughts-" Astron trailed off and shook his head. "Mankind would probably call him mad," he continued, "and I am not so sure that I do not agree."
Kestrel saw Astron clench his fist and suppress a slight shudder. "No, I must be the agent, as we have agreed before. But in light of our suspicions, I must return unaided-return and seek out Palodad directly, rather than rely on the intermediary of any of my kind."
"Would it not be better to take the pollen with you when you go?" Kestrel reached behind his back and patted his pack. "With nothing to offer, what would be the motivation for Palodad to aid us any further?"
"I cannot carry the harebell pollen through the flame, Kestrel," Astron said, "at least not in my-my present state. Remember the reason that Elezar directed me to your realm was to secure the aid of mankind to perform the cartage. Even the most powerful of djinns has difficulty with objects that do not possess minds of their own."
"Then clasp me somehow to you," Kestrel said. He looked at Phoebe and smiled. "I have already experienced three realms other than my own in aiding in the adventures of a wizard. One more can hardly make any difference."
"I am not a mighty djinn." Astron shook his head. "Although I require the flame of anvilwood and not simple pine or fir to pass between the realms, skills in weaving or transportation I have none. We must somehow find the tree most similar in this realm so that I can return alone."
Kestrel thought for a moment and then looked at Astron intently. "How can you be sure?" he asked. "With so many fetters of logic about your stembrain, how can you be sure?"
"Fetters? What do you mean?"
"And how can you know the inner thoughts of a demon." Phoebe laughed. "Even the best of wizards can only guess."
Kestrel started to answer, but then shrugged. A crooked smile came to his face. "It does not really matter," he said with a wave of his arm. "I doubt we will be able to find the proper wood surrounded by-"
Kestrel stopped and stared out over his outflung hand. Between the bobs of the waves, he thought he caught sight of a mast and sail just at the horizon. Impulsively, he began to wave his arms. "Look," he shouted. "Look to port. It is a ship, a large ship, sailing our way -what luck, what incredible luck indeed."
His feelings flipped with a suddenness that made him giddy. He pulled Phoebe close and gave her a hug. "I have sampled enough of what you are like, demon." He laughed. "Sampled enough from a fresh perspective that I have seen parts that even you are unaware of. But first let us attend to our safety in one realm before we take on the challenges of another."
"Over there on the starboard." Nimbia suddenly pointed. "There is one-no, two more, in addition to the first."
Kestrel took his eyes from the ship to port gradually drawing closer. There seemed little doubt that they had been seen. He looked to starboard and shook his head in amazement. Near the stern was another tall mast, and directly abeam was a third. There was such a thing as luck, but this was incredible. How could they have been placed in the precise center of a circle of ships in a totally featureless sea?
Kestrel looked at Phoebe, but she did not seem to care about the coincidence. She was jumping up and down as much as he. The boat rocked with each leap, and Nimbia stumbled as she tried to maintain her balance. Astron reached out and grabbed her awkwardly by the shoulder. Kestrel saw the demon's nose suddenly wrinkle with the contact. The eye membranes flicked into place, and he quickly withdrew. Nimbia smiled and reached out in return, grabbing Astron's retreating hand.
Astron held his arm out stiffly like a stick figure drawn by a child. Nimbia steadied herself and closed the distance between them.
"The retriever of harebell pollen, the swordsman leader of the rotators, and even the gentleman-in-waiting for a queen of the fey," she said. "One has difficulty remembering that you are a merely a djinn from beyond the flame."
The crook in Astron's nose sharpened. "I am a demon, you know full well," he said slowly. "But the power of my brood brethren is not mine to command. I am but a cataloguer, serving as best I can."
"And to whom is it that this service is rendered?"
"Why, to my prince, of course," Astron said. He paused and looked away from Nimbia's gaze. "And, of course, to the success of the quest of Kestrel, Phoebe, and-and Nimbia as well."
"And when the quest is over?"
"I have not thought of it," Astron said. "It is not the nature of demonkind to think of what lies beyond the present. It leads to brooding on the inevitability of the jaded senses and the ultimate despair of the great monotony."
"But as I have observed, you are no common demon," Nimbia said. "And for me, the end of the quest poses the greatest uncertainty for us four. The two humans will no doubt return to their own kind." She waved her arm in Kestrel's direction. "And you, if you so choose, will flitter back to some depressingly plain patch of mud in the void of your realm. But what of Nimbia, a queen of the fey? There is no place to which to return. Ever so much worse than before, there is no one with whom to share. Who will serve me with distinction in a manner of which I could be proud?"
Astron wrenched his hand free of Nimbia's grip. "Your words prick at my stembrain," he said. "It is difficult to maintain rational control." For a long moment he stood silent; then his membranes cleared and the muscles in his face relaxed. He looked at Nimbia and spoke softly. "Do not be deceived," he said. "I am no weaver of matter; no wings of great lift sprout from my back. I am only a cataloguer whose power derives from the few facts that no other has learned. There is no special destiny for one such as I."
"In the realm of the fey and, I suspect in others as well, one is measured by his deeds, rather than his inherent potentials, whatever they might be. I remember tasting your inner doubts when you rescued me from Prydwin's sentrymen, demon. And I have seen you lead hundreds of rotators with clumsy hands and little regard for your own safety as well." Nimbia reached out and touched Astron gently on the cheek. "There is much more that you can learn, cataloguer," she said, "much more you can learn of yourself."
"Avast, you in the dory," a deep voice suddenly boomed across the waves. "Reduce your efflux so that the others will sail away."
Kestrel turned his attention from Astron and Nimbia and looked over at the ship approaching from portside. It was nearer than the others, and details of its superstructure could now be discerned. A single short mast stood in the middle of a deck that was both wide and long. A lateen sail billowed in a stiffening breeze that had not been there before the arrival of the vessel it propelled. The broad bow and even broader beam were wider than those of any barge that Kestrel had ever seen. It seemed hard to believe that the small area of cloth presented to the wind could be adequate for a hull easily the length of two score men.
Even more remarkable. Kestrel thought with a start, was the fact that he understood perfectly the words that had been spoken. Except for a slight accent, they sounded like the speech of an Arcadian from across the sea in the realm of men. This, then, was not another creation of Prydwin; but if not, how amazing that the language turned out as it did.
"Reduce your efflux," the voice repeated. "You have impressed me as much as you will. I regard you as wealthy. To spill more luck to the winds will up my assessment not a quantum more."
Kestrel looked up at the deck, puzzled. He saw a rotund man wrapped in pinkish silks and a purple sash pulled tight into an overflowing girth. Bushy black hair, as dark as night, tumbled out of a small turban down the sides of his face into a curly beard. The deep-set eyes squinted cruelly into the reddish sun. The smile wrinkles looked shallow and seldom used.
Three or four others dressed like the first huddled about their leader, each one holding high a small cage of gold that contained some small white-furred rodent contentedly munching away on greens. The neck of each man was bowed under the weight of at least a score of chains. On every chain hung small trinkets; some were mere gauze bags tied with ribbon, others intricately veined leaves pressed flat on slabs of slate.
"Why, you carry no plenuma," the black-headed one continued as the two vessels drew quite close, "no plenum chambers at all." He reached for a monocle of colored glass hanging from a chain about his own neck and quickly cocked it into his eye. "By the rush of entropy, it is in spontaneous discharge from all four of you-spontaneous discharge, as if you had been building pressure for a lifetime and using none of it until now."
He waved over his shoulder to the center of the ship. "All right, I withdraw my words. I am most certainly impressed, more certainly than I have ever been before." He paused and intertwined his fingers across his expansive girth, rocking back and forth silently as if enjoying a secret joke. "But mark you," he said after a moment, "I am not so awed as to forgo absorbing the flux for myself. And if you do not have plenum chambers, let us find out how good are your wards against the sucking chambers of Jelilac, the most fortunate."
A man much smaller than Jelilac suddenly vaulted over the gunwale of the larger ship and, with hardly a glance to see where he was going, landed firmly in the dory between Phoebe and Nimbia. He carried what looked like a bowl of soapy water in one hand and a large pipe in the other. Without spilling a drop or hesitating to catch his balance, he adroitly settled into a squatting position and submerged the pipe into the bowl.
Kestrel noticed that he had as many chains about his neck as the rest, perhaps even more. All along the arms and legs of his silken tunic were embroidered tiny leaves of clover, and each of his fingers was wrapped in bows of red ribbon.
"Luck begets luck." The newcomer noticed Kestrel's stare. "It is the third tenet." Then, without further comment, he began to blow on his pipe, causing a bubble to form in its bowl. His first few puffs on the pipe seemed easy, and the glassy surface expanded with rapid jumps. But when the bubble had reached the size of a fist, Kestrel noticed that the veins in the pipeman's neck began to stand out and his cheeks redden from the effort to force air down the stem of the pipe. It reminded him of the sport of the fey, but it was somehow different, and he suspected the effort served a practical utility.
As Kestrel watched, the surface of the bubble began to darken and take on what looked like a tough, leathery texture, far less elastic than any balloon. By the time the pipeman had finished, he had created a sphere perhaps the size of a person's head with a dark opalescent surface that light just barely shone through.
The piper dropped his grip on the pipestem. With a grunt, he removed the bubble from where it still adhered to the bowl. Then he quickly stretched out his arms and touched the orb to the hem of Phoebe's cape. There was a sudden spark of light that jumped from the draping material into the interior of the sphere. For an instant Kestrel saw what looked like a churning maelstrom of dense red smoke within the confines of the globe; but as the light vanished, the image faded away.
Phoebe immediately stumbled. Kestrel reached out just in time to break her fall on the hard planking of the small boat. "Just exactly what do you think you are doing," he shouted angrily at the piper. "What is that thing, anyway?"
The piper looked at Phoebe's sprawled form on the deck and then hefted the sphere at his side. "I suppose it does seem a bit uncivil," he said. "Certainly for this exchange, you deserve at least the most basic of talismans in return." He reached into his pocket with his free hand and offered Phoebe a necklace like one of the many he wore about his neck. What looked like the preserved foot of a small animal dangled from the lower end.
"Only good for simple accidents, I admit," he said. "But then Jelilac covets each dram. It is the way of all who wish to live more than the briefest of moments in the realm of the aleators."
Kestrel grimaced. Understanding the language was almost too good to have happened. Without it, perhaps things would have proceeded more slowly and given him time to size up better the situation they were in. He reached out to grab the offered talisman but the piper easily whisked it out of his reach. With a deft and fluid motion, he flung it over Phoebe's head, where it settled in a perfect position about her neck. "For the lady," the piper said. "And watch your manners, or Milligan might decide that you end up with nothing at all."
Kestrel reached out a second time for the piper's leg, but the little man was too swift. As Kestrel's hand closed on air, Milligan had touched the globe to Nimbia's tunic, and a brilliant arc jumped to it as before. Nimbia teetered, but Astron was slightly quicker than Kestrel had been. Not hesitating to avoid contact, he steadied the queen so that she did not fall.
"Hmmm," Milligan said. "Perhaps it would be better to give this one a chance at food and drink. If you concentrated on subsistence alone and depended on the others for protection, you might get enough to share." Again he reached into his pocket and withdrew another pendant necklace, this one an ebony lump of wood carved in intricate whirls.
Kestrel lunged out at Milligan from behind, but the little man quickly turned and held the sphere chest high to absorb the force of the rush. The spark that jumped from Kestrel's outstretched hand sent a stab of pain up his arm. He felt a sudden tugging sensation all over his body and then a rushing away of some essence that he could not quite identify. A wave of discomfort swept over his senses; in a weakened stupor, he sagged to the bottom of the dory. With clouded vision, Kestrel watched the sparks dance from Astron's body as it had the others. Only dimly was he aware of a leather thong that pierced a small heavy stone being placed over his slumping head. Offering only the most feeble of protests, he let himself be hoisted by a crane up to the deck of the larger ship. He clutched his hands to a growling stomach, suddenly quite aware that he had not eaten for what seemed like a very long time.
"Your contributions have mellowed Jelilac's temper," Kestrel heard Milligan say some hours later. He shook his head and willed himself to focus on the little man standing before him. He felt a second talisman being hung about his neck and then a third. Looking to both sides, he saw Phoebe and the others rousing as well. They had been piled in a tumble about the single mast of the sloop.
"Ordinarily, with ones so destitute as you, the only choices he would offer would be trials with long odds indeed," Milligan continued. "But the idiocy of such a great concentration and not even the slightest of wards has him most amused. As it is, he needs to refine a rather mundane procedure before landfall at the casino. Surely at least one of you four will survive."
Kestrel staggered to his feet and looked about quickly. Except for the helmsman and Milligan, none of the crew were above deck. The dory in which they had arrived was battened to the port gunwale and a long ladder lay at its side. The glassy calm sea looked the same, although the other ships were no longer visible. Off the port bow in the distance was a sliver of brown above the horizon that indicated the first signs of land.
"We are travellers from afar," Kestrel said, "and understand little of what you speak." He ran his tongue across the dry roof of his mouth. "But decency anywhere would demand that you offer at least some food and drink."
"Offer subsistence, offer it freely from one to another." Milligan threw back his head and laughed. He waved his arm in a wide, flat circle out to the horizon. "Do your eyes not see the vast expanse of waste-salt water every where and only tiny pinpoints of land. There is no food to offer to another. Even one such as I has had occasions of hunger, despite all that I carry about my neck."
Kestrel started to respond, but the doorway leading below deck suddenly slammed open, and two seamen appeared, carrying a long table between them. "Ah, spinpins," Milligan said. "JeliJac is feeling mellow indeed. He must think that crown is certain to be his."
Kestrel looked more closely at the table as it was positioned crosswise on the deck just in front of the mast where he stood. On one end was a simple maze, a box of wooden partitions divided into compartments, each the height of a hand. Doorways were cut in many of the walls connecting the confinements together; some were empty, but in most were standing geometric arrays of tiny bowling pins. A single doorway pierced the perimeter. Near it lay an intricately carved spintop and a pile of string.
A third seaman appeared from below deck, carrying a small vertical frame on which, near the top, was hung a blade of shining metal. At the bottom were two sheets of wood paneling between which the sharp edge apparently dropped. The panels were plain and unadorned, except for a hole about the size of a finger that had been drilled through them both. The seaman positioned the apparatus near the spintop and clamped it to the table. He ran a string from a hinged release mechanism for the blade and tied it about one of the pins standing in the maze.
"The principle is quite simple," Milligan said as he moved to the ladder at the side of the dory. Struggling with its long length for a moment, he thrust it into a vertical position and twisted its orientation with a flip, so that the topmost rung fell against the mast.
"Even the simplest child knows that one's luck decreases by walking under a ladder," Milligan said. "The effect can be reversed only by quickly retracing one's steps the other way."
"We have such a tale from whence we come," Kestrel said. "But it is the nonsense of ancient crones, nothing more."
Milligan frowned and was silent for a long moment. "Minions of the crazed Byron," he muttered while he clutched at the talismans about his neck. "Minions of Byron, and not one, but four." His eyes narrowed and he looked at Kestrel keenly. "No, that cannot be. You are attempting some sort of a deception to free yourselves from your plight. No fatalists could have accumulated such auras as yours. You struggle for the crown, just as does Jelilac and the rest."
Kestrel frowned in turn. Very little of what Milligan was saying made any sense. He looked down at Astron as the demon stirred and struggled to sit. Kestrel wished that he were fully alert. Some of his deductive observations would be quite useful about now.
"Anyway, the reversal raises an interesting question," Milligan continued. "It is one that Jelilac stumbled on to, the kind of insight that makes him a true contender to be archon over us all. The throne has been vacant since Sigmund's luck suddenly turned sour. Soon we will all assemble to judge which aleator now possesses the greatest power." Milligan looked down at his chest and stroked three of his talismans. "Although, under the right circumstances, who is to say what will happen in the casino where the die is cast? Yes, who is to say which is the most deserving, the most faithful to the tenets of our creed?"
For a moment, Milligan stopped speaking, his eyes burning with secret thoughts. Kestrel looked back over the bow at the land steadily growing on the horizon. He eyed the two battens that held the dory and scanned the deck for signs of any other useful gear. With so few crewmen on deck, the right circumstances were the ones he was interested in as well. He began to think more clearly. Perhaps it was best to keep Milligan engaged in conversation until the others were fully alert. Then they just might manage an escape from whatever Jelilac had in store for them.
Kestrel glanced at the ladder and then back at the table. The construction for both was rather crude and unvarnished. He could see that more than one type of wood was used in each. On the other hand, perhaps such a risk was not even necessary. A fire on deck could serve just as well. That was a possibility worth exploring before attempting the longer odds of an escape.
"What do you have carved of anvilwood?" He smiled innocently. "I am a collector and most interested in any small figurines that you have to show."
MiUigan broke out of his reverie. "Anvilwood?" He laughed. "There is none here on Jelilac's barge, to be sure. You must indeed be from an islet far away. Every aleator who has stopped sucking his thumb is taught to avoid such a luck drainer whenever he chances upon it." He stopped and laughed again. "It would just be the perversity of luck that such as you would be desirous of finding some. Throughout the realm, prisoners convicted of the worst crimes are sent to uproot the trees when they are discovered and hack the branches to bits. For others, the risks in touching are just too great. The only piece that I know of is at the casino for the trials to be archon. And even that Jelilac and the others will strive to destroy, if given half the chance."
Kestrel frowned. They would have to get away after all-and then, from the sound of it, journey to one very special place. He looked up at the ladder. Perhaps it could serve another use. They would need oars, even if they managed to drop the dory over the side. He glanced back at Milligan. The little man seemed to enjoy talking. For the moment it probably was best to keep him occupied.
Kestrel fingered the three talismans hanging about his neck. "This one looks something like a match stick." He held it out to Milligan. "Where we come from, it is a mark of great honor, since only a few we call wizards have the capability to build a flame. I suppose that here such skill is also a great rarity. No one such as yourself could hope to accomplish such a feat."
Milligan cocked his head to one side. "If it were not for the aura you possessed, I would agree with Jelilac and judge you most insane," he said. "Of course I can light a fire. Why, so could any child. It is not a question of ease, but one of law. On all corners of the great sea, a flame is prohibited under penalty of death."
Kestrel frowned, but Milligan continued. "The second tenet states that the entropy of luck always increases. There is no way it can be avoided. Each transfer from one to another, even each use that dilutes it back to the ether- all such transferals reduce its potency. The last thing that anyone would want is a flame that completely disorders its fine crystalline structure and renders it useless.
"Why, even an archon could become a pauper, if he approached too close to a fire. Without his luck to guard him, all of his great displays of state on the islands would be washed away by the next giant wave that sweeps across our sea. Even if he possessed the strange book of figures that Myra is reputed to have found, his ships would start to wander aimlessly, missing all of their ports. In the time of a single sigh, he would find that he had come to possess nothing, neither food for his next meal nor even clothing to ward off the chill. And each and every one who but an instant before stooped in the deepest of bows would shun his misfortune, casting him aside and letting him wander to his death, unheralded and alone.
"No, the object of us all is to find ways to increase our luck, to concentrate it into tighter and tighter confines that enhance its potency. It is the only way to survive, to move ahead, and to strive for the mantle of the archon. The fatalists cannot be right. Things should not be left to the will of the cosmos. Outcomes are determined by men with luck; he who has the greatest will certainly emerge the winner."
"I would think that skill or wit would somehow be important as well," Kestrel said. Cautiously, he placed one hand on the ladder and looked at the rungs. Perhaps, if the sidebeams were ripped apart they would serve well enough. He smiled inwardly and looked at Astron. It was something the demon probably would have thought of, and yet it came to him first.
"In the dim past, skill and wit did determine the outcome of many events," Milligan answered. "We contested by might of arms and clever strategies of state. But then, as our legends record it, wise archon Williard with overwhelming odds was defeated by a force a tenth his size when his horse stepped into the only squirrel hole on the field of battle. An errant arrow hit his second in command in the throat, and, without a leader, the army stumbled into a mire.
"Luck triumphed over all else; and from that day to this, everyone who strives for power concentrates on increasing his own luck and dissipating that of others. Skill and talent mean little to one who can select a marked token from a bowl of thousands with but a single thrust of his hand."
"Then what need do you have of this experimentation?" Kestrel asked. He placed his hand firmly on each of the ladder's sidebeams and strained outward while smiling in Milligan's direction. "If starting a fire is of no use, then whatever else of value can we be to you?"
"The means for accumulating and dissipating luck are not written in stone monuments for all to see," Milligan said. "It is only by centuries of trial and error that the methods that we use have come to light. Doubtless many more efficient techniques yet remain to be discovered." He waved his hand in a wide circle. "Luck is all about us, albeit at very low pressure. Certain actions seem to compress it into smaller volumes and increase its potency to alter events.
"As I have said, when one walks under a ladder, a portion of whatever one possesses leaks out into the ether. Immediately reversing direction prevents the loss before it can transpire." Milligan paused and ran his tongue over his lips. "But what if one circled back and walked under the ladder again in the second direction, the one that prevented the loss. Perhaps then the vector of transaction would remained fixed in a positive direction, each circuit under the ladder increasing one's luck, rather than dissipating it away.
"That then is the test. The first of you, I care not which, will walk once under the ladder and then spin the top through the maze. He will be what we call the control. The second will walk once and then immediately reverse before taking the test. The third, after reversing direction, will continue around the mast and back under the overhang a dozen times more. The last will not reverse directions at all but rotate the dozen times in the same sense as the first."
"What will the spinning top prove?" Kestrel asked while he slid his arms up the ladder to feel another rung.
"It is a test of luck, to be sure," Milligan said. "The spinning top caroms through the compartments in a manner that no one can predict, scattering pins at random. The count of how many are felled is the measure we wish to monitor. If all the pins are toppled before the one attached to the blade, then the game is stopped and you are lucky indeed."
"And if the blade topples," Kestrel said. "What does that prove?"
"The finger you place in the hole will be severed, a most unlucky outcome," Milligan said. He looked quickly back at the maze on the table and then smiled at Kestrel. "The beauty of it is that you all have ten. We will be able to run some forty trials before we are done."
Kestrel decided he had heard enough. It did not matter if the others were fully alert or not. With or without oars, they must be away. "Astron," he yelled, "unlash the dory. Get it back over the side." With a grunt he twisted the ladder from its resting place and crashed it downward on the middle of the table, hoping that the force of the blow would break it apart.
The ladder bounced harmlessly off of the horizontal surface, however, the bottom end kicking up painfully into Kestrel's thigh. He staggered a single step and then sagged to one knee, his leg refusing to give him support. As he fell, he pushed at Phoebe, propelling her forward toward the gunwale where the dory was lashed. He rolled over on his back, expecting to see Milligan spring at him with some weapon, but he saw instead the little man feverishly fingering the brightest talisman which hung from his neck.
"Jelilac, Jelilac," Milligan screamed. "They are followers of Byron. Despite the great auras they once possessed, they follow Byron, to be sure."
Kestrel rose to kneeling and grabbed Nimbia about the shoulder. Crawling with one hand on the deck, he urged her in the direction he had pushed Phoebe. Looking forward, he saw Astron fumbling with the mooring knots, apparently not making any progress in getting them untied. Two seamen cautiously came forward, their fingers outflexed and reaching for the thongs of leather about Nimbia's neck. Kestrel staggered erect and pointed wildly into the sky. "Look," he shouted. "Not one shooting star, but two. Not to witness it is a great misfortune."
He held his breath for an instant, but the two sailors were totally unaccustomed to such a blatant deception. As one, they turned and began searching the clouds. Kestrel limped forward a single step. As he felt his Ieg again give way, he staggered against the nearest of the seamen. A ring on the sailor's hand scratched his cheek as he fell. Concentrating as hard as he could, he managed to grab hold of the loops and chains about his neck and pull the man to the ground.
Kestrel gathered up as many talismans in his hands as he could manage. With a back-wrenching yank, he snapped them from the seaman's neck. The sailor screamed. With an almost animal fury, he began clawing at Kestrel's arms to get them back.
Kestrel flung them in the direction of the dory; although several went over the gunwale, two landed at Astron's feet. Almost immediately the knot on the last fetter unraveled. The demon quickly reached down and grasped the bow in the cradle of his arms and hoisted it up over the low railing. Phoebe and Nimbia reached the stern and lifted it up as well. In an instant, the small boat splashed down onto the waves.
Kestrel crawled forward to the gunwale, blocking out the seaman who scrambled on the deck with him to retrieve the two talismans that remained. Kestrel reached to scoop them up a second time but grimaced as sharp splinters from the deck dug into his palm.
Astron bent down, grasped the talismans tightly in one hand, and then grabbed Kestrel by the arm with the other. Kestrel reached out for Phoebe and Nimbia. Without thinking further, they jumped together over the side.
The salt water stung Kestrel's cheek when he hit, but he paid it no heed. Lashing out blindly, he felt the side of the dory and grasped for a hold. Through sea-spattered hair, he saw Milligan leaning over the rail, cupping his hands to his mouth.
"There is little enough gain in what you have stolen," he yelled. "Basic enhancers and navigator's fetishes are all. They are organic and soon will decay. About enough to see you safely to the island in the distance and survive a wave or two, but little more. And there, if you stay out of the clutches of doubting Myra and her arcane devices, you will learn well enough the difficulty of finding food and drink with what little auras you now possess."
Milligan looked back over his shoulder and laughed. "Followers of Byron," he said. "With the spintop, at least one of you might have had a chance."
Kestrel saw the distance between the dory and the sloop begin to widen. From somewhere, a fresh breeze had begun to blow them apart. He tried to hoist himself a little higher to see the direction they should begin to paddle. Despite the aches and pains, he felt the cold of the sea and the renewed gnawing of his hunger. Basic enhancers and navigator's fetishes, he thought. Even if they were lucky, would so little be enough?