The Accidental Magician

by David Grace

  Wheezing heavily. Castor pushed himself back from the box and stood up straight. A momentary wave of dizziness rocked him. He shook his head, clearing it, then paced across the overheated kitchen to the caldron where the midday stew was already beginning to boil. A few feet from the kettle Castor hesitated, then changed direction and headed for the cutting board. His tread made no sound except for the occasional clicking of his toenails against the stone floor. He raised his right arm toward a six-inch-long knife hanging from a peg on the wall.

  A stunning buffet sent him spinning across the floor. "Just what do you think you're doing, you furry little sneak?" Cockle growled.

  Castor turned and forced his eyes to refocus. Cockle stood aroused and belligerent in front of the preparation table. A roll of illusion-plant leaves hung from the overseer's mouth. His pale, sparsely haired belly protruded from the inadequate confinement of his shirt.

  "I was merely going to trim the tendrils from the wort root," Castor said in a voice that seemed to him too calm to have issued from his own lips.

  "For Lord Hazar you trim the tendrils. Everyone else takes what they get. That stew's for the guards. They'll eat whatever's in there and like it. And while I'm giving you a lesson, here's another: guards like wort root. As a matter of fact, they love it better than meat or anything else. They're always begging me to put more wort root and less meat into the stew, so you go back to the bin and get five or ten more. And don't never go near those knives again without asking me first. Well, what're you waiting for? Get to work!"

  "There aren't any more. The bin's empty."

  "Buster," Cockle shouted, "do I have to do everything around here? Have you let us get low on supplies again? What's this about no more wort root?"

  An old Ajaj, crippled in the left leg, limped painfully forward. Head down, shoulders bent in what appeared to be a permanent cringe. Buster approached the kitchen steward. The grizzled white fur around his muzzle twitched with fear.

  "Send somebody out to the depot to get some more, you old fool! It'll go hard with you if you don't return in time to finish dinner. Here, take this smart aleck with you." Cockle placed a meaty hand on Castor's shoulder and shoved him across the room, then grunted and ponderously reseated himself upon his overseer's stool.

  "Yes, my lord, of course, my lord," Buster responded. "Come along. Castor."

  Buster led Castor down the hallway and up the flight of stairs which separated the scullery from the alley near Hazar's quarters. With a nod from Buster the doorkeeper slid back the portal.

  "Where are we going?" Castor asked once they had left Hazar's apartments behind.

  "To Topor's supply depot," Buster replied. "Don't you know where the food bins are?"

  "Until today I was a senior empather. The closest I got to Lord Hazar's food supply was the luncheons given to me during the term of my duties."

  "Well, then, a bit of a lesson's in order, isn't it?" Buster limped along the outer ring road at a brisk pace. "This street we're on is called the First Circle, although it's not a circle at all but a series of five straight stretches which parallel the five-sided walls beyond. The five first lords, Hazar, Nefra, Topor, Bolam, and Zaco, retain for themselves the quarters bordering the city's five gates."

  "Why are the most powerful Gogols housed at the edge of the city instead of its center?" Castor interrupted. "It doesn't make sense."

  "It doesn't make sense to a Gray," Buster responded. Already he had lost some of the feeble appearance he projected in the scullery. Now, by indefinable means, his gait had become stronger and his visage had taken on a sly, hardened aspect. "A Gray thinks only of security, of safety. The higher the status of a Gray, the deeper his tunnels, the thicker his walls, the more he hides himself from the outside world. The Gogols, on the other hand, think in terms of power.

  "He that controls the gates controls the city. Also, if worse comes to worst, he who lives on the outside wall can flee. Ah, that's heresy to our people, the thought of fleeing one's home, running out into the open country. But not to a human. The lords' main enemies are within the city, not without. There now, up ahead, the street to the left, we go that way."

  Castor turned his head and saw that at the angle where two walls of the inner pentagram normally would be joined there was a street which ran through the walls toward the center of Cicero. Two Gogols guarded the lane but let the Grays pass unmolested after Buster executed a gentle bow. Once out of sight of the guards Buster resumed his monologue:

  "The guards know me as Hazar's scullery clerk and so let me pass without interrogation. Look to the right and left and you'll see a bit of Cicero's past. There and there," Buster said, pointing, "see the roughly chiseled stone, the crudely cut blocks? At one time there was a gate here, five gates in this ring of buildings between the First and Second Circles, and five more in the next, on into the center of Cicero. "But the system proved unworkable, too much internal strife. Every lord and deacon and subdeacon and acolyte strove to control a gate and then use that position as a springboard to move outward until at last one of the five main gates themselves was under the wizard's sway. For two hundred years the energy of the Gogols was dissipated in internal struggles.

  "Twenty years ago Hazar's father, for a brief period, accomplished a combination of all of the outer lords against all of the inner deacons. Thus they forced the destruction of all of the gates save their own. Now, as a courtesy, the residents of the inner walls are allowed guards in the corridors leading toward the center of town, but two guards only and no gates at all. The whole city is now under the sway of the five lords and the five lords alone. For the first time in decades the Gogols have the energy to turn their eyes outward and make new plans for conquest."

  Buster halted at the junction between the First Spoke Road and the Second Circle.

  "Now we go left, around the Second Circle, until we come to the next passage toward the center. The street we just left was the First Spoke Road. There is a Second, a Third, a Fourth, and a Fifth Spoke Road between the First and Second Circles. Do you notice the pattern of these streets, by the way?"

  "Five streets, five gates. It seems rather straightforward," Castor remarked.

  "There's more to it than that, friend Castor. Notice, the five outer gates break the walls at their points. The Spoke Roads penetrate inward at the centers. The next Spoke Road, the Sixth, between the Second and the Third Circles, again breaks the points of the pentagons, and lastly the Eleventh through the Fifteenth Spoke Roads between the Third Circle and the Central Plaza penetrate at the centers. In this way there is no one straight path between the outside of the city and its center. Neither an invading army from beyond nor a fleeing populace from within has an easy route.

  "Come, now, I've babbled too much. Hurry. Cockle becomes most unpleasant if his whims are frustrated."

  Picking up their pace, the two Ajaj quickly traversed the remaining byways to reach the center of Cicero. A huge circular building occupied the middle of the large paved area known as the Central Plaza. Like everything else in Cicero this structure was divided into five compartments. Limping more noticeably now, face twitching in an occasional grimace of pain, Buster led them around the plaza to a doorway overhung with a banner bearing the image of a loaf of bread. The Grays approached the guarded entrance. There Buster identified himself as Hazar's servant. A human clerk rudely questioned the Ajaj concerning their purpose, authority, and needs. Finally they were admitted and issued wicker baskets with straps that could be attached across their shoulders.

  Around the room were bins, barrels, jars, and boxes. Here reposed the fruits of the agricultural Grays' toil. The lords of the city and their household retainers, staff, and guards were allocated a full half of all of the foodstuffs. Next, a fourth went to the inhabitants of the second ring of buildings, an eighth to the subdeacons of the third ring, and the balance to the guildless, patronless laborers of the tenements which dotted the central circle.

  Castor marveled at the sheer, vicious
efficiency of the system. The more powerful the lord, the more food was available to those in his service. Each individual, therefore, aspired to advance within the ranks of his own house. The head of each house desired to advance into the service of the lords in the next circle outward. Those who failed to cooperate ate poorly in good times and in lean times starved.

  Castor and Buster filled their baskets, hoisted their loads, and, after allowing their supply of wort roots to be recorded by the warehouse clerk, trudged back through the streets toward Hazar's quarters.

  "How long have you been here, Buster?" Castor asked after a long silence.

  "How long? A lifetime . . . forever. How long is that?

  "Have you ever thought about . . . about doing something about all this?" Castor asked.

  "Doing something? Bringing down the Gogol empire with my two bare hands? An Ajaj would, have to be insane to even consider such a notion."

  Another tame Gray, just like the rest. Clenching his jaws together to prevent an angry response, Castor grimaced and trudged ahead.

  "Of course," Buster continued, a sly smile splitting his lips, "I never claimed to be very sane. I sometimes think the pain in my leg has affected my brain."

  "Meaning?"

  "I mean," Buster whispered, "ever since a group of the lords' children crippled me for a few minutes of sport, I have been crazy enough to believe that I'd like nothing better than to plant one of Cockle's wort stickers between Hazar's bony ribs."

  For an instant a smirk of pure glee flickered across Buster's face, to be almost as rapidly replaced by a subservient expression as the bound wooden door of Hazar's scullery slipped into view.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The stout bound timbers of Shenar's front door produced in Grantin their own particular brand of magic. For perhaps half a minute he stood immobilized before the portal, unable to overcome the deep sense of foreboding which chilled his bones. From somewhere far back in the corner of his brain a thin voice screamed, "Get away while you can! Danger!"

  Nervously, he turned to study the meadow, now flooded with the tawny blanket of dusk. Across the stream beyond a dense thicket of scratchberry bushes the squeal of prey in flight echoed through the early evening air. No, there was no refuge for Grantin there. The throb of the bloodstone returned its pulsing beat to his index finger and, to a lesser extent, his whole left arm. Reluctantly he turned to the door. Gathering up all of his courage, he propelled the knocker with two sharp thrusts.

  There was no immediate response. After a minute's delay Grantin gave the door two more sharp raps. Almost instantly, as if the castle's owner had stationed himself just beyond the portal, a peephole opened. Shenar's high-pitched voice called out.

  "Who are you, arid what do you want?"

  Startled by the sudden response, Grantin's own voice shot up an octave in pitch. He squeaked out his answer.

  "Is this the manor house of the great wizard Shenar? I've come to seek his counsel and aid on a professional matter."

  "Shenar has no time for the inconsequential problems of penniless vagrants. Be off with you!"

  "I'm not a penniless vagrant, and this is a problem for only a great magician like the renowned Shenar."

  "The wizard is very busy with spells of great importance. Briefly state your request so it may be decided if your errand is worthy of taking the time of the great Shenar."

  Suddenly Grantin's tale about seeking relief from disturbing nightmares appeared flimsy and shopworn.

  "Well, I ... you see, I fell afoul of a great wizard, a matter involving his daughter, and . . . well, we need not go into the particulars. In any event, to vex me he pronounced a spell which now infests my dreams with horrifying nightmares. I have not slept well in days, and if I do not gain some relief soon I will shortly die."

  "You dare bother Shenar for this, this petty trifle?"

  "My death from malicious sorcery is not a petty trifle," Grantin responded with mock anger.

  "It's a petty trifle to Shenar. Be gone before he hexes you himself."

  "Wait, wait, there's more. My uncle is himself a great wizard, Greyhorn of the Hartfords. Shenar would earn his undying gratitude were he to rid me of this spell. Greyhorn . . ." Grantin detected the glint of the peephole being slid closed. "Wait, wait, one more thing--I can pay, I can pay. Look." Grantin held up his left hand, placing the bloodstone two inches in front of the now half-closed spyhole. "This ring, an ancient family heirloom of great antiquity and untold value, will be Shenar's if he succeeds in curing me of this spell. Look, look, see how it flashes with color. A finer stone has never been quarried."

  The peephole slammed shut with a metallic clink. Shrugging his shoulders in despair, Grantin turned to leave before further arousing Shenar's ire.

  Behind him sounded a scrape. A slight vibration passed through the soles of his feet. Turning his head, Grantin saw the great door slide open. Silhouetted in the glow from the room beyond, an imp in a baggy gown waved Grantin inside the manor. Grantin advanced and the dwarf slid shut the door behind him. He studied the creature with frank curiosity. An aged face on what appeared to be, even beneath the gown, a shrunken, misshapen frame.

  "I have the honor of addressing . . . ?" Grantin said, nodding at the midget.

  "Shenar, grand wizard extra ordinaire, at your service, young man. You say this ring will be my payment for ridding you of a few nightmares?"

  "Yes, I--"

  "A moment, a moment. Let me examine my fee more closely." Shenar grabbed Grantin's left hand. Squinting and straining, his eyes barely two inches above the ring, Shenar studied the ornament from all angles. After a thorough inspection he clasped the band with his right hand, holding Grantin's palm in his left, and attempted to twist the ring free. After two or three fruitless attempts Shenar nodded his head sagely and let go Grantin's hand.

  "The ring seems to be rather firmly affixed," Shenar suggested.

  "As I said, it is a family heirloom. When it was passed down to me by my uncle he imparted a special enchantment to the band to restrain me from parting with it for some casual purpose. Naturally, for a wizard of your great powers, the nullification of this minor charm will be no problem at all, a trivial exercise at best."

  "You seem to hold little respect for my powers, young man," Shenar responded slyly. "First you ask me to formulate a spell to rid you of a nightmare curse, and now willy-nilly you suggest I perform a second incantation and rid you of this ring. And all this for one fee? Two spells should require two payments."

  "You have a brilliant mind, to be sure, learned Shenar, but I view this problem from a slightly different angle. The second spell, that of loosening the ring, is not for my benefit but for yours, for in so doing you free your property, the ring, from a site, my finger, inconsistent with your ownership. Without the second spell the first cannot be compensated. In a sense, it is I who bend myself to your needs by making my person available for the formulation of the enchantment of removal."

  "Well, young man, there do seem to be several ways of looking at the situation. Perhaps a solution to this dilemma will present itself. But where are my manners? You are a guest in my home, and I keep you standing here in the entranceway. Come, come, let me show you to quarters where you can spend the night. Tomorrow morning perhaps another solution will present itself."

  Waddling forward, Shenar led Grantin to a brass-bound door. In a trice the wizard had unlocked it and, waving his hand, bid Grantin follow him down stone steps to the chambers beneath the house. To Grantin the doorway appeared no more inviting than the entrance to the pits of hell.

  "Oh, there's no need to go to any trouble for me. I can sleep right here on this lovely rug."

  "Nonsense, I insist. If you want me to help you with your ring--I mean, your nightmares--you must let me show you my hospitality. Come along." Shenar began to walk down the steps. Grantin reluctantly followed. Reaching the bottom of the stairs, Shenar continued forward. At the end of the passage he threw back the last door and wa
ved Grantin inside.

  "There you go, young man, right in there. Now, don't be shy. Go right ahead, and we will talk in the morning."

  Through the doorway Grantin could see bars marching across the center of the room. He stood rooted in place two feet in front of the portal.

  "But... but... that is, ah ..." '

  "Let us have no delays here, young man. Go ahead with you now." So saying. Shenar reached for Grantin with his open right hand. Because of his meager height the wizard's palm approached Grantin's body near the seat of his pants. When his hand was a few inches distant a spark leaped from Shenar's fingers and buried itself in Grantin's rump. With a cry more of surprise than of pain he leaped forward. His vision flickered, and Grantin found himself behind the row of bars. In a flash Shenar closed and locked the door.

  "There, my young friend, you see how easy it was. Now, you just spend a pleasant evening, and in the morning I will get to work on that ring." Smiling, Shenar nodded politely toward Grantin's fear-ridden face, then, turning lightly on his feet, ambled back down the corridor.

  How could this have happened to him? Without even so much as lifting a finger he had allowed a madman to imprison him. In frustration Grantin grabbed the bars and vainly attempted to rattle them loose from their sockets. In a few seconds his fury was spent, and, sick at heart, he turned to examine his new home. Only then did he spy a Fanist's gray form. With a startled gasp he leaped backward flat against the wall.

  "Hello," the native said.

  "Hello," Grantin replied uneasily. Fanists had never molested humans, although, in these borderlands, who knew what strange affairs took place? For the time being at least they both seemed to be on less than the most favorable terms with Shenar.