The Accidental Magician

by David Grace

  Just beyond the Hall of the Fabricators, the Street of the Artisans cut away from the main road. The new avenue formed a round, bulging loop which rejoined the highway a hundred yards ahead.

  Grantin turned to his left, elbowed through the crowded passage, then entered the first of the artisans' alcoves. Here stood the stalls of the leather workers. Belts, coin purses, coats, and saddlery abounded. Toward the end of the cul-du-sac stood the wares of a small subgroup of the guild, the taxidermists. Here were displayed stuffed dogs, boars, and occasionally a well-established citizen's favorite relative.

  At one of these booths Grantin chanced to pause and examine the handiwork of a master craftsman. Grantin's eyes were arrested by a small, spindly, mean-faced, squinty-eyed old man who stood in a menacing position. Lank, stringy, black hair drooped down either side of a long, narrow head. The mop framed a sallow face from which protruded a thin, beak-like nose and a pointed, out-thrust jaw. The eyes were narrow and stared menacingly ahead. The figure's right hand was raised, index finger pointed forward, as though the old man had been frozen in the midst of a vengeful, bitter threat.

  So menacing and clearly evil was the creature that Grantin pulled the finger and pinched the cheek to assure himself that the villain was indeed dead.

  "A true work of art, is he not, sir?" the taxidermist whispered in Grantin's ear.

  Grantin jumped back, startled, then relaxed as his eyes focused on the artisan.

  "For a fact he does seem most unusual," Grantin allowed. "Is there much of a market for items such as this?"

  "Oh, yes, sir, to be sure. A rare find is old Theleb. Notice the narrow, beady eyes, the blackened teeth, the thin-lipped, leering smile, the hand caught the instant before the fingers clench, then open again to fling poison into the face of his enemy. Oh, yes, indeed, Theleb would make a fine addition to any manor house. Why, equipped with a simple spell from almost any medium-grade wizard, his presence would keep away poachers, trespassers, burglars, footpads, mendicants, and tax collectors. And for you, sir, whom I see to be a man of rare discernment and high standards, I would be willing to part with Theleb for the price of a mere two golds and four silvers."

  "Two golds and four silvers for this stuffed old reprobate!" Grantin replied in amazement.

  "Why, sir, in the first year alone Theleb would save you that much in flowers trampled by ill-mannered children. Surely you recognize a bargain such as this when you see it."

  "That vile-smelling old heathen isn't worth a--" Grantin snapped shut his mouth. The blue eyes seemed to hold an even more malevolent cast. Had Grantin noticed a slight twitch at the corner of the mouth? And was it not the index finger which formerly had been pointed outward?

  "Careful, sir, I am a true craftsman if I do say so myself. Much magic is wrapped up in my creations. Though he may be dead, Theleb is still a sensitive man and sometimes given to extremes of conduct."

  "Perhaps you are right. On second thought Theleb is probably worth every iron of two golds and four silvers, perhaps more. Alas, I have but a few coppers in my pocket, and those reserved for a modest dinner."

  "Well, sir, don't let that stop you. Never let it be said that Adolf the taxidermist was a difficult man with whom to deal. I see you wear a crude, but somewhat interesting, amulet. I might be induced to trade Theleb for the necklace and five silvers, the coin to be paid one year from today. Further, if you are not satisfied at the end of that time, you may return Theleb for a full refund."

  "Ah, Master Adolf, you do present a tempting offer. Unfortunately my castle is not nearly grand enough to warrant such an imposing figure. In fact, if the truth be known, the roof leaks, and the fine old fellow would no doubt be drenched in the first rain."

  "Sir, you do yourself an injustice. I am sure that your manor would do honor to my creation. If the only thing that stands between us and the bargain is the five silvers at the end of the year, why, then, forget them. Let no man say that Adolf is not magnanimous with his art. Here, take Theleb in fair exchange, an even trade across the board for your amulet. Merely throw the old gentleman across your shoulders and take him home. To show my true colors, should he mildew, stain, or rot at any time during the next ten months, I will take him back and happily give you a full credit of two golds in satisfaction of your purchase price."

  "Adolf, you make a tempting offer. Theleb might well serve as a grand adjunct to my poor home. I am almost of a mind to accept your proposal. Let me do this: I will go through yonder passageway and relax myself with a cup of wine and, perhaps, a hot sausage or two. When I am refreshed and unburdened, like as not I will return and accept your kind offer."

  So saying, Grantin smiled at Adolf, curtly nodded in Theleb's direction, and then, vowing to exit the Street of the Artisans without again passing the taxidermist's shop, pushed onward into the next marketplace.

  This new bulge in the street was filled with the stalls of the pottery makers and stonemasons. Not merely purveyors of goblets, cups, and plates, the members of this guild made anything and everything which might be constructed of clay or stone. Grantin saw not only household crockery and decorative statues but also pendants, rings, bookends, tiles, and simple mechanical parts.

  One by one Grantin traversed the markets of the Street of the Artisans. He passed through the shops of the glass-blowers, toy makers, painters, and scribblers. By half past the ninth hour he was tired, footsore, and hungry. Ahead of him still lay the metalworkers, jewelry makers, clothiers, weavers, rug makers, cartographers, and woodcarvers.

  On one side of the glassblowers' market reposed three food stalls and a modest, though appealing, tavern. A few chairs and tables had been set beneath a great awning in front of the public house. Serving the diners was a young woman, nicely rounded in all the proper places. At one table she set out a jug of frosty purple-black wine.

  Grantin detected a dry, rasping ache in his throat. No doubt the dust from the market also had found a home in the lining of his nose. Yes, there was no question that Grantin needed a tonic to refresh himself. Perhaps also a bite to eat would be helpful before completing his uncle's errand.

  Grantin edged through the crowd and found himself a comfortable seat beneath the tavern's striped awning. Behind him at the far end of the dining area, the serving girl joked with one of Alicon's substantial citizens. She turned to re-enter the building. A moment later another female came to the patio and headed for Grantin's table.

  This new waitress was far different from the first. Her face was square and solid. A wart adorned her right cheek an inch below her eye. Her bust was flat, her hips wide, her legs like the stumps of two trees. The woman's age was indeterminate, somewhere on the far side of thirty-five but not so old as fifty.

  "You wanted something?" she asked Grantin in an almost accusatory tone.

  "A cup of throttleberry wine and perhaps some dinner if your menu is to my pleasure. What do you have to offer?"

  In half an instant the waitress had appraised Grantin's form, clothing, and demeanor. She replied in a flat tone:

  "Hot fried gruel and salt crackers."

  "Gruel is not to my taste. If that's all you have perhaps I should seek dinner elsewhere."

  "We also have sliced steak cooked in wine with boiled tubers and peas, but such a meal comes dear, four coppers--plus tip. On the other hand, for merely an extra iron we could add some of the trimmings from the roast to the gruel."

  "How dare you suggest that I appear to be a man who could afford only gruel! I'll have the meat and all the trimmings, and don't forget my throttleberry wine. Be quick about it or there'll be no tip!"

  The waitress anxiously nodded her head. Perhaps thinking of her tip, she even gave Grantin a slight curtsy which caused her ear-length black ringlets to bounce like corroded springs.

  Now the sun was nearing the horizon. Its rays shifted from gold to a deep orange red. By some trick of perception, the shadows appeared tinted in shades of bluish green. The air was filled with the scents from the food booth
s. Around Grantin swirled the fragrance of good eating and vast comfort.

  The waitress, one Flourice by name, soon returned with a clear crystal goblet of plum-colored wine. Grantin examined the rays of the dying sun through the fluid, then treated himself to a healthy swallow. Bittersweet, with a sharp, full, fruity flavor, it slid down his throat in thin, burning rivulets. In its wake the wine left the spicy warmness for which it was so renowned.

  Grantin finished the beverage just as the innkeeper ignited the torches which surrounded the patio. New sounds now textured the twilight--the sputtering snap of the flames, the sizzles and tiny squeals of the night moths who flung themselves into the fires, there to be incinerated and fall to the earth in broiled husks. At the end of the evening, Grantin knew the innkeeper would salvage mounds of the little bodies and add them to his larder as a protein extender for the gruel.

  Grantin turned back to the steaming sliced steak and side dishes which Flourice had now set before him. He popped a small morsel into his mouth. It was excellent-- hot, rich, juicy, and full-bodied. Grantin reached for his goblet and, to his dismay, found it empty. Detecting Flourice at a table a few feet away, he waved his hand, then pointed to his glass. In a moment she set another portion of wine to hand.

  Four coppers for the dinner, two more for the wine, perhaps one more for Flourice herself . . . but what matter, he had more than that in his pouch. Where would he sleep that night? A worry for a later time. No doubt something suitable would suggest itself.

  Grantin speared another forkful of meat, washed it down with a heavy swallow of the tart, sweet wine, and reflected that his life was not so unpleasant after all.

  Chapter Eight

  Though Pyra had long since fled the sky Castor still sat at his window and gazed at the moon-tinted crooked shadows below. An unseen ghost-storm was building, gathering its energies like a dirty psychic wind. Castor could feel its power barely held in check. The forces derived from the Gogol city of Cicero half a league away. If something were not done, and soon, the maelstrom would sweep up everyone, humans and Ajaj like. What could he, one lone Ajaj, do to prevent the catastrophe?

  Reluctantly he rose, swung the window grate into place, fastened it, then pushed the granite slab across the narrow door. He set out his warning bells and pronounced his spell of protection. Convinced that all was secure, he crawled into his sleep niche and slid closed the curtain.

  Castor lay on his back, hands crossed at his shoulders where they could be quickly moved to guard his throat in case of attack. Tonight, sleep eluded him. Perhaps it was tension brought on by the decision maker's warning. The fur along his neck rippled as if in a static field. Castor twisted uneasily on his thin mattress. His arms and legs distracted him with sudden itches. With conscious effort he ceased his movements and willed his breathing to a regular steady beat. At last a heavy suffocating sleep seemed ready to descend. Castor welcomed it, concentrating his attention on counting the purple-black star bursts which sparkled in the gloom of his inner eye.

  Involuntarily he watched these flickerings. Almost against his will, he strained his pupils to focus upon their shape and distance. What were these strange lights within his brain? His body now heavy and constricted, Castor kept alive a spark of consciousness for the sole purpose of pondering that question. With a start the answer came to him. The itches, the tingles, the chills, the points of light behind his lids could have but one explanation: he was the victim of a powerful and deadly spell.

  Fighting silken bonds, Castor struggled back to a state of full awareness. With great effort he found that he could still move his arms and legs, although they felt as if they were made of lead. He rolled to his left and tumbled from his sleeping niche in an ungainly sprawl. He lay on the stone floor for a moment, then, gathering his strength, struggled to his feet. Using the wall for support, moving only a few inches at a time. Castor managed to reach his strongbox hidden beneath the flagstones of his parlor. For ten minutes his clumsy, blunt-edged fingers struggled with the inlaid bits of stone until at last the key piece came loose. Awkwardly Castor pulled up the metal box, mumbled his spell of release, and opened the lid.

  Inside were his papers of heritage listing all of his ancestors back to the founding of Fane and beyond. Beneath them lay two golds, six silvers, and three coppers, his entire life's savings. A prayer band saved against such time as he might form his triad and conceive an heir, and lastly, in a carved wooden box on a pillow of satin and silk a round-cornered cube of milky, green-hued emerald.

  This was his source stone, his inheritance, passed down from generation to generation of master empathers, the gem originally having been found, cut, and blessed by his remote ancestor Marmet, a crewman on the Lillith and an original slave of Gogol himself.

  Castor clasped his hands together, the stone in the hollows of his palms. He felt the psychic warmth spread through his hands. This was the source stone, the concentrator and amplifier of those energies normally controlled by the mind alone. Its particular shape, color, and lattice structure when brought into contact with Ajaj flesh enormously increased the user's ability to use the power of Fane.

  Now Castor squatted on his parlor floor, legs tucked beneath him, hands joined in front of him as if in prayer. He concentrated his attention first on freeing his body from the immediate effects of the spell. In a few minutes the power of the stone enveloped him. Urging his consciousness through the lattice of the gem, he reached outward in ever increasing circles until he located the source of the hex that sought to envelop him. Castor detected the huddled, chanting figure of the Gogol assassin on the ridge above the Ajaj city.

  Emboldened by the power of the stone, he focused all his energies upon Rupert's form. In spite of the chill night air sweat had begun to bead the killer's forehead. Tendons strained in his arms, wrists, and legs. Clearly Rupert was aware that his power was insufficient to achieve his goal.

  As long as Castor held the stone he would be safe, but how long could he do so? A few hours? Perhaps a day or two? Even if he survived he could not spend his days in hiding with the stone always within easy reach. If nothing else it was dangerous to experience too long a contact with the gem. Its powers were great. Like fire it could burn as well as warm.

  Perhaps a fast and sudden bolt of energy at the base of Rupert's skull or the muscles of his heart. Quick death and another deacon of evil down the well. Castor steeled himself to form the killing bolt, but in vain. His teachings were too strong, his empathy with life too great. He could not take a life, even one as corrupted as Rupert's. Instead he constructed a softer blow, one which would stun the sweating Gogol but no more.

  From his crevice Rupert struggled, calling forth every particle of energy which his skill could attract, but all his talents were unable to breach the shield which had suddenly enclosed his victim. Rupert readied himself for another straining attack but was unable to complete his chant. Without warning a numbing daze overtook his mind, and he fell over like a stone.

  With great care Castor assured himself that the assassin was truly unconscious. He then replaced the source stone, secreted all his treasures, and unbarred his door. Navigation was easy by the light of Dolos' full moon. He retraced his steps to the decision maker's home. It took several minutes for his calls and raps to bring a response from within.'

  "Who is it? Who calls at this time of night?'

  "It's Castor on an urgent mission. I must speak with Obron at once."

  "It's late. Come back in the morning."

  "This will not wait until morning. There's a Gogol killer in the hills above our homes."

  A moment later a scrape of stone signaled the opening of Obron's door. Castor entered. Behind him the stone returned to its place. Obron and the other two members of her triad stood on the far side of the room, backs against the wall, a glowpod in each left hand and a knife, a spear, or a club in each right.

  When the light was sufficient for Obron to make out Castor's features, the weapons were lowered and the
decision maker came forward to greet her guest.

  "Castor, I thought that we had finished the matter of the Gogols. What has happened to make you shake us from our beds at this time of night?"

  "It appears, Obron, that your warning was most accurate. Tonight as I prepared for sleep a Gogol spell enveloped me. It was only with the greatest effort that I was able to overcome the assassin. For the time being he sleeps in a cleft at the top of the ridge. By the second hour he will awaken. A decision must be made before then."

  "Castor, you put us all in a most unfortunate position. You offend our masters, and even when requested by your own brethren to cease these efforts still you persist. Now, having brought down the vengeance of our lords, you come to me for advice."

  "Not advice, Obron. I do you the courtesy of telling you what is taking place. As for solutions, there are at least three:

  "One, I can continue in the future as I have in the past, kill the Gogols who attack me and, sooner or later, die at their hands--"

  "--And bring ruin to all of us in the bargain," Obron interrupted.

  "To continue: secondly, I could dispose of the assassin who haunts me and flee to the east, seeking sanctuary with the Hartfords across the mountains."

  "And again bring ruin on your brothers, for we all know the penalty which will be exacted against us if even one of us is so impolite as to shirk his duty to our masters and leave the village without their permission."

  "Thirdly," Castor continued, "I can retract all that I have said, keep my protective spell strong, and at the same time admit the error of my ways. In this way the village, and perhaps even I myself, will be spared the ultimate penalty for disobedience.