by David Grace
Mara brushed the folds of her gown and slapped the cloth to remove a dust stain here, a bit of dried grass there. Using a spell given to her by Hazar, she had flown to the edge of the Hartford kingdom, over the Guardian Mountains, all the way to Cicero. In spite of the speed of her travel a full day had passed since her delivery of the ring. Hazar might already have received confirmation of the delivery. Perhaps he had other spies who had reported her fleeing Alicon immediately after the transfer. Again, as she had done many times before, Mara cursed the day her mother had taken a Hartford for a husband, vain, self-important hypocrites that they were. Had Glora married one of the People and remained within the boundaries of the empire Mara would have grown up as a normal girl rather than as a special courier familiar with the Hartford ways and apprenticed to Hazar the Dread.
With a muffled rasp the door to Hazar's outer office slid-aside and a young acolyte stepped into the opening.
"Mistress Mara, Lord Hazar will now receive your report."
Nervously Mara got to her feet, then, taking a deep breath, walked boldly forward through the portal. With an air of self-importance the acolyte followed a pace or two to her left. The inner panel slid aside and Hazar scrutinized his visitor. He nodded to his clerk. The young man turned aside. Hazar reclined in a cushion-lined chair behind a horseshoe-shaped desk. Giving her a slight nod and a brief smile, he bid her be seated on the couch.
"Good afternoon, my lord Hazar," Mara began softly. "I return here having done my best to fulfill your commands."
Hazar's body displayed a sudden increase in tension. He had been expecting to hear the words "Good afternoon, Lord Hazar, I have done as you commanded." He sat up straighter in his chair and leaned forward a bit, both signs by which Mara discerned his unhappiness with her message.
"In what way have you failed to comply with my orders, to the best of your ability or otherwise?"
"My lord, I traveled across our empire through the Guardian Mountains and into the land of the Hartfords. I reached the village of Alicon at the appointed time. There I met the messenger as instructed. After receiving the appropriate passwords I tendered the ring and saved the money he paid me in a tightly stoppered vial. I give it to you now, containing, as it must, the residue of his sweat and fibers from his pockets. All these things I have done as you commanded. I did not, however, seduce this man and take from him samples of his blood and skin and hair. In this regard I failed, but, my lord, I would have failed more terribly had I attempted to complete my mission...."
"Go on, go on, let's hear your excuse."
"The man who appeared to receive the ring was Greyhorn himself. Clearly my wiles were not powerful enough to entrap a wizard of his experience. Had I tried to do so he certainly would have taken me prisoner. Then you would have had nothing, not even the tainted money, not even word that the ring had been delivered. Greyhorn might have claimed that the messenger had never arrived and demanded a second stone. Clearly it was better for me to return with my report than not to return at all."
"You're sure it was Greyhorn, then? Did you recognize him by his appearance?"
"No, my lord, he was in disguise. He wore the face and body of a young man of perhaps twenty or twenty-two years, brown hair, brown eyes, six feet tall--the guise of a strutting buffoon. It was a masterwork of subterfuge."
"But you, with your brilliant powers of observation, somehow penetrated this master disguise?"
"My lord, it could have been no one other than the wizard Greyhorn. The man to whom I delivered the ring removed it from its purse and slipped it upon his left index finger. Only a true wizard would put it there. The ring recognized its owner. I could see, even as we stood on the Street of the Artisans, that it had bonded itself to the wizard's flesh. Only Greyhorn would have done such a thing. Knowing that my powers were not strong enough to best him, I returned with his sweat and his coppers as fast as the spell would take me."
"Greyhorn himself, is it? In disguise? Your story does raise some questions. Still, I am not at all convinced that it was our friend who received the ring. No, someone else has it, I think. Someone who now wanders loose with great power in his grasp. I will investigate further. Leave me. I will notify you when you are needed again."
Hesitantly Mara arose to leave. When she neared the door she paused and looked back at Hazar for some hint to her fate. She saw a brooding, saturnine face, puckered lips beneath a drooping black mustache, a man whose concentration had already turned inward, away from Mara, to other questions more substantial than that of her life or death. She slipped out the door while Hazar brooded.
The wizard sat in his chair hunched forward over the edge of the desk while he turned the possibilities over in his mind. How unlike Greyhorn, he thought, to pick up the item himself, in disguise yet! But Mara had a point. Who but a powerful wizard or an idiot would dare wear the bloodstone? An idiot? Could Greyhorn's nephew be that much of a fool? Of course, that had to be the answer. And Mara had ruined his plan! She had fled like a frightened ground hen instead of destroying both the stone and the nephew, and the uncle as well.
Something must be done about the girl. He'd be fair about it. He'd give her a chance. He would double-check his theory with Greyhorn--but he knew that it would prove out. If only someone else had enchanted Zaco he could be rid of the girl now--but no, no, restrain yourself, Hazar, he told himself. The girl controls Zaco, and Zaco the powerstones. Yes, he would have to wait until his scheme was complete and Zaco no longer necessary, then he would take care of her. He had never trusted her, in any event. Too soft, too weak. The Hartford blood in her was the reason. Blood can't be changed, as the old saying went, only spilt.
Hazar crossed the room and pulled back the drapes which concealed the lens. Automatically his hands performed the strokes while his lips whispered the incantation necessary to summon Greyhorn.
Hundreds of leagues away Greyhorn sat sprawled in his workroom, defeated and frustrated. All his attempts to trace Grantin had been to no avail. The ring was gone, gone forever, and there was nothing he could do about it. In the back of Greyhorn's mind an idea began stirring:
"Call Hazar on the lens. Call Hazar on the lens." The merest unfocusing of Greyhorn's eyes conjured up a wavering transparent vision of Hazar's face. Greyhorn took three deep breaths, composed himself, and walked over to the plate. Reciting a four-word incantation, he passed his right arm, palm outward, across its face. Hazar's visage immediately appeared.
"Yes, Hazar, what do you wish?" Greyhorn asked irritably.
"I merely called to confirm delivery of the item. It meets with your satisfaction?" "As a matter of fact, Hazar, it does not. There has been a difficulty with the ring, and I find that the one you sent is not suitable for my use. I need a replacement."
"You are the most unique of sorcerers, Greyhorn. You are the first I've ever known to complain that a powerstone does not sufficiently augment his talents. Certainly you don't need two of them."
"No, one would be sufficient, if I had one that was satisfactory. As I said, the one that you sent me is not suitable for my needs."
"Oil, really? Specifically in what way does it not fit your requirements?"
"The ring does not comfortably fit my finger, and because of its nature I find it impossible to adjust the band."
"How unfortunate. Hold it up to the lens and let me see. Perhaps I can diagnose the trouble."
"That would not be convenient."
"No, I expect not, since the ring now adorns the finger of your nephew Grantin. I am surprised at you, Greyhorn. I didn't think that you were this weak. Had someone told me that you would let a little thing like a finger stand in your way I would have thought him crazy. Are you too tenderhearted to recover your own property?"
"As we both know, Hazar, a powerstone ring is not that easy to remove from an unwilling donor."
Hazar shook his head in mock sadness. "Very well, Greyhorn, if your magic isn't powerful enough to immobilize a worthless, ne'er-do-well young pup of a
nephew I'll give you a spell which, if you catch him unawares, will stiffen him up harder than a frozen oak tree. Once it takes effect, he'll be unable to resist"
"I don't need any spell from you!" Greyhorn snapped. "I've got a freezing spell for every day of the week."
"Well, then ... ?"
"If the truth be known, the problem is that my worthless nephew is no longer here. Early this morning I crept up upon him ready to do the deed, but at the last instant he awakened. Our ancestors' blood flows in his veins as it does in mine. When augmented by the power of the ring, even an imbecile like my nephew becomes formidable. The plain fact is that before I could reach him he managed to formulate a spell of miraculous transportation. He shot out of the library window like a stone from a sling. The last time I saw him he was tumbling out of control, heading for the Guardian Mountains. No doubt he's already smashed himself into a bloody pulp and the bloodstone has even now turned to sand. So, you see, you'll just have to send a replacement."
"Not at all, Greyhorn, not at all," Hazar replied with a sharp edge in his voice. Irritated now almost to the limit of his control, Greyhorn crept closer to the lens. His eyes narrowed into mean, angry slits, and out of Hazar's view his hands began to sweep back and forth in a potent spell.
"You will send me another ring or your plan will fail. Not only will I not cooperate, I will spread the word of your scheme. I and my henchmen will turn our powers against you. You agreed to deliver me a ring, and you owe me a ring."
"I agreed to deliver you one ring in exchange for your cooperation, and one ring I did deliver from my hands to those of your messenger. If your own nephew played you false and stole the ring right under your nose, then it's your loss, not mine. We have a bargain, and you'll rue the day you fail to live up to it. With or without your help I will rule Fane."
"Not without the ring. Give me my ring!"
"Your ring. Very well, your ring you may have. Not another ring. Not a second ring. But your own ring, the one stolen by your nephew. Yes, since you are unable to protect your own property, unable to control your own family, I'll get you your own ring back for you. I assume you don't mind if Grantin is damaged in the process?"
"I'll boil him in oil when I get my hands on him. I'll smash his fingers and then make every square inch of his body itch."
"I'll take that for authority to handle him my own way."
"Bah! This is pointless. He's hours dead, long gone."
"Don't be too sure, Greyhorn. In the hands of a sensitive, even an idiot sensitive, the ring is capable of amplifying the most subtle desires. Unless he had some wish for death the odds are high that the ring maneuvered him through the peaks more or less unscathed. I will inquire of my spies and agents. You, for your part, will keep your associates in readiness. I will delay the attack. It will begin in ten days."
"Not without my ring it won't! If I don't have a ring in ten days, I will rouse the Hartfords against you. Make it the one Grantin is wearing, if he is still alive, or another ring. I don't care. But you have ten days to deliver."
"If your nephew is here I will find him, and in much sooner than a week. Farewell, Greyhorn, and remember our bargain."
Hazar's image vanished instantly, as if he had detected Greyhorn's attempt to lay a spell against him. Greyhorn scowled at the empty lens. A few more long-distance discussions and he would complete his spell. Upon the proper final incantation he would turn Hazar's insides into mush and finish the scoundrel once and for all. But not before he got his ring!
Hazar pulled the drapes across the lens and opened the door to his chamber.
"Derma, come in here!" Hazar shouted to his secretary.
The young man who had admitted Mara crossed the threshold and entered Hazar's office.
"Yes, my lord, how may I serve you?"
"Derma, check all of our spies, agents, operatives, associates, friends, and sycophants in the border regions from one end of Grenitch Wood to the other. Report back here at once if anyone has seen a young man, possibly a Hartford, six feet tall, with brown hair and brown eyes, someone with a slick tongue and a shifty eye, who might well be wearing a bloodstone ring. Don't just stare at me, go now, and come back as soon as you have news!"
Derma mumbled a hasty "Yes, my lord," then turned and raced through the outer office.
Hazar felt the fatigue and frustration deeply now. He knew he needed to relax. Summoning another messenger, he put out a call for Lord Bolam's staff to send to his office a particular girl who had pleased him often these last few weeks.
Two hours later, relaxed and dissipated, Hazar was realigning his clothes when Derma knocked on the door.
"Yes, what is it?" Hazar called.
"My lord Hazar, I have news."
"Enter."
The door slid back and Derma hurried into the room.
"My lord, one of the outposts on the edge of Grenitch Wood has received a report that a young man such as you described has this morning entered the dog settlement known as Catlet. They believe he is still there now."
"Excellent, Derma, you have done well. Congratulate the captain and his cats on my behalf. Go find Rupert. Send him to me at once."
A few minutes later Rupert pounded into the room, sweating heavily and out of breath. Again ensconced behind his horseshoe desk, Hazar was the picture of calm, snakelike power.
"Rupert! So you finally arrived?"
"Yes, my lord Hazar. At your command."
"Rupert, you remember that unpleasant business about the Ajaj?"
"Yes, my lord."
"You did not kill him as I ordered, did you?"
"No, my lord."
"Now, it's true he has supposedly recanted his heresy, but don't you think it would have been more of an object lesson to do away with him?"
"Yes, my lord Hazar."
"Are you a politician or a man of action?"
"A man of action, my lord."
"For a man of action you took a politician's way out, didn't you?"
"Yes, my lord, I suppose I did."
"Rupert, I have another job for you. A chance to redeem yourself. Do you want it?"
"Yes, my lord, I do. I think only of serving you."
"Yes, I bet you do, Rupert. Very well. This is a simple mission and one which I fully trust you to complete. I don't want to see you again until you have succeeded. Do you understand me?"
"Yes, my lord."
"Clearly?"
"I understand you very clearly, my lord Hazar. Whatever you command I will do."
"Very well. You are to travel to our outpost thirty leagues from the northern end of Grenitch Wood. You will seek out the captain of the guard in charge of the cats. One of his cats has spied an enemy in the town of Catlet. Have a cat guide you to this settlement. There you will find a young man, brown-haired, six feet tall, a Hartford, wearing on the index finger of his left hand a gold ring with a polished scarlet stone. This man must be immobilized, but not killed. The finger, the hand, or the arm then removed, whichever is most convenient, while he is still alive. After the ring and the member are separated fill a small container with a portion of his blood, then bring me the ring, the blood, and his head--no more. I caution you, do not kill him before you remove the ring or you will destroy it. Take care with this, Rupert. He is a dangerous man. If you give him warning, if you give him a chance, he will bring potent spells to bear against you. Fail me not!"
"I will not fail you. Lord Hazar. I will bring you the ring, the finger, the blood, and the head."
"Very good, Rupert. I am pleased with your obvious devotion to this task. Off with you, now, to the borderlands. Quickly, quickly--he won't remain there long."
Rupert bowed, turned, and sped from the room.
"I've got you, Grantin, I've got you now," Hazar mused to himself.
Chapter Eighteen
After a surprisingly pleasant cat-stew dinner Grantin retired to a rickety couch in Sara's two-room cabin. The strain of his crude sorcery and the deprivations of travel h
ad weakened him more than he realized. Now, safe and well fed, he fell into a deep slumber and did not waken until late the next morning. He even enjoyed a respite from the worst side effects of the powerstone. Grantin could barely remember the five or six nightmares which had terrified his sleeping brain.
Bleary-eyed, Grantin reluctantly regained consciousness. It took him several seconds to lever his body into sitting position. His limbs felt numb and heavy. Without a doubt he had to rid himself of the ring. Perhaps Greyhorn would yet forgive him if he managed to remove the bloodstone and return it to his uncle.
"So you've come back to the living, have you, Master Grantin?" Sara called from the front door.
"Aajh, I... cough, eeech, cough, cough."
"The same to you, I'm sure. Is this how you normally greet people in the morning?"
"I... eemch... I don't feel quite myself just yet."
"Are you sick?"
"No, not exactly. I suppose I may as well tell you. A curse was laid on me by my uncle. Demons haunt me while I sleep. Sometimes it makes it hard to get up. If I could only find the right wizard I'm sure he could lift the curse and bring me back to health again."
Sara studied Grantin carefully, a calculating glint in her eye. He refused to meet her gaze. Obviously he could not tell her the truth about the ring. The last thing he needed was another person trying to fix his hand under the blade of a meat cleaver. All for her own good, Grantin consoled himself. A bauble such as this would only lead her to a bad end anyway. Still, for some reason, Grantin's duplicity bothered him.
"There wouldn't happen to be such a wizard in this vicinity?" he asked, focusing his eyes on a point above Sara's left shoulder.
"Maybe, maybe not. Wizards there are, but wizards such as you need, that's another question. Certainly none that will do it for free. Can you pay?"
