The Accidental Magician

by David Grace

  "Diggery, are you alive?" Rupert called weakly.

  "More or less," the bandit responded in a husky tone. "Spell of impenetrable defenses, was it?" he asked Rupert.

  "A charm of instantaneous miniaturization," the deacon responded.

  "I thought as much. The rest of them, I suppose they're all...."

  "Unless you've taken to giving your hired hands the power that only a deacon would have, they are. Your men lost, and the quarry too. A fine bandit leader you are."

  "Not to worry. I have many associates, not all of them in Grenitch Wood. Obviously they're heading for Cicero. Tomorrow we'll contact my friends and prepare a reception for them both."

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  "What special dinner?" Cockle asked suspiciously.

  Buster cringed a bit at the question and contrived a look of mild surprise. "Why, the dinner for . . . it's just that I had heard that Lord Hazar had planned . . . well, it's just a rumor. Perhaps I should say no more. Excuse me for bringing it up, Master Cockle."

  "You've heard something about Lord Hazar? Don't play games with me, old one. What is it that you know?"

  "Well, master, it is only a rumor, mind you, but it's whispered that Lord Hazar has invited a guest to dinner in his apartments tomorrow evening. Naturally I assumed that you would want to plan a special fare for our Lord and his visitor, but of course," Buster added hurriedly, "it's not my place to say how you should perform your duties. I am sure the everyday provisions are good enough for them."

  "Who are you to judge what's good enough for our lord and master? What do you mean, suggesting that I would stint on my duties? You be careful. Buster. You're not so old that I can't punish you for insubordination. Now, then, I must compose the menu. If you have any suggestions you may give them to me now and I will consider them."

  "Well, perhaps a nice cold poundfruit salad."

  "Yes, I've already thought of that. What else?"

  "Broiled whitefish and toasted crown nuts with herb cheese sauce...."

  "Of course, of course, I've already thought of that. What else?"

  "Baked red tubers stuffed with pepperroot, shaved bean stalks fried in mint oil, and, for dessert, gingerberry cobbler."

  "Well enough, well enough, except at the end I think throttleberry pie would be more to Lord Hazar's liking."

  "Of course. Master, you know best."

  "Blasted well right I do. Well, don't just stand there. Hop to it! Get everything together. We don't want to be caught short. Is there anything we lack?"

  "I think we have it all. Master Cockle, except I'm not sure about the herbs. Let me check." Buster hobbled off to a low cabinet, from which he extracted several heavily stoppered glass jars, three of which appeared to be empty. "As I feared, Master, we do not have sufficient herbs for the sauce or tubers. We lack zim root, sprite leaf, and chauger."

  "Well, just don't stand there. Get them."

  "I know a place where they grow, Master Cockle. The fresh herbs will make an especially delightful treat. Unfortunately with my legs the way they are I couldn't go myself. Perhaps, if you will allow me, I can have one of the other workers pick them tomorrow before reporting for his shift. The new one, Castor, seems strong, and we can afford to lose him for half a day. If he might be given leave to return at the fifth or sixth hour I could direct him where to go."

  "All right, all right, just handle that meal and make sure it's right." Satisfied that he had now fulfilled his executive duties. Cockle retired to his stool and his wad of illusion plant. Buster turned back to the corner of the kitchen where Castor knelt scrubbing the floor.

  "Castor," he said in a loud voice, "Master Cockle has directed that before you appear for work tomorrow you pick us a supply of herbs for Lord Hazar's evening meal. Before you go home tonight see me and I will give you directions as to where and what to harvest."

  The first part of the scheme had come off flawlessly. Castor now had official permission to scour the meadows east of the Ajaj tumbles. In addition to sprite leaf and chauger Castor would pick rot root. After the evening dishes were cleaned and put away Castor played out the charade. Nodding his head sagely, he listened to Buster's directions concerning the nature, quantity, and location of the herbs desired for the special meal. After receiving his instructions Castor nodded politely to Cockle and left the scullery.

  That night in his apartment he double-secured all the apertures, yet still felt nervous and exposed. Sleep came grudgingly and did not stay long. At the end of the tenth hour A.D. Castor was already up and watching for sunrise through the crevices of his grate.

  Sitting there in the darkness, more afraid and more exhilarated than he had ever been before, Castor ran through the steps of the plan. In order to quiet his steadily increasing shakes and trembles he extracted his green source stone from its hiding place.

  The gem spread channels of cold fire through his bones. Calm now, Castor arose and removed the barrier. Halfway outside he hesitated. Should he return the stone to its hiding place? Castor halted, looking first back into the room, then out along the tunnel to the outside world. Overuse of the crystal was dangerous, but today he needed all the strength he could muster. He tucked the cloth-wrapped gem into the bottom of a deep pocket on the inside of his vest, then scrambled through the tumbles to the beginning of the trail.

  A narrow double row of trees paralleled Slicker Stream as it ran southwest to empty itself into Harridan's River. Beyond lay the rolling meadows and farmsteads of the Gogol farmers, lands controlled in various quantities by the lords, overdeacons, and deacons of Cicero.

  Though little better than slaves themselves, the ignorant, fanatic farmers formed one of the mainstays of the Gogol empire. Devil-worshiping was their pride and their pleasure. Should he be found crossing any of these fields without Cockle's safe-conduct, Castor would be killed out of hand. Today the farmers seemed to be working another portion of their fields for Castor saw no other beings during his passage across the meadows. Here only the livestock, descendants of the original seed carried aboard the Lillith, roamed the pastures.

  Something over two miles to the east and one mile south of the tumbles Castor reached the spice grounds. Here were a series of small ponds, hardly more than swellings in Skull Creek. Clumps of feather and salad trees abounded. Under the shadows of the great leaves grew rot root interspersed with clumps of greenish-white fungus.

  Getting down on his hands and knees, Castor inched across the soil, carefully digging out the roots which he then placed in a jar. In separate jars he stored several varieties of fungus, an item also entered on Buster's list, as well as sprite leaf and chauger.

  By half past the second hour he had almost filled his quota. Castor knelt behind the trunk of a stately salad tree. He spied a tiny orange-tinged mushroom growing on a length of decaying limb, but as he scuttled closer an odd sound reached his ears--a series of deep modulated tones which, at the shift of the wind, resolved themselves into strangely accented speech. Castor peered around the tree to the southeast, following the direction of the tree-lined creek. In the distance the light rippled, as if two bulky objects crisscrossed in front of the sun's rays.

  A new voice sounded, younger, higher, definitely human. Transfixed, Castor stared in wonder as a Fanist and a bedraggled, travel-stained human paced into view. A Fanist here? Could he be a sycophant of the Gogols? Not likely, but still in these strange times who could tell what schemes Hazar had at work? Best not to take any chances.

  Castor ducked behind the tree, gathered up his bottles, and placed them in his pack. The voices stopped. He found it difficult to judge which way the travelers had turned. Ever so slowly he slung his knapsack. The bottles tinkled as he slipped on the straps. Castor dared another glance. The way looked clear. Light as a shadow he trotted across the open space to the next tree some thirty feet to the northwest. The bottles chattered softly as he ran.

  Castor paused only long enough for three or four fast breaths, then set out again. The human and th
e Fanist had disappeared. He neared the edge of the meadow. Ahead the ground swelled upward gently, then dipped. Once over the rise he would be hidden from view. A great barrel-trunked snaf tree stood sentinel directly between himself and the open ground. One more quick dash to shelter behind its bulk, catch his breath, and then up and over the rise. Several times Castor breathed rapidly in and out, then, fortified with oxygen, scampered on.

  He rounded the tree at full speed and slammed into another tree which stood just beyond, hidden from view. This column, however, though rough-textured, was warm and softer than a tree should be. He loosed his grip and stepped back to view the obstruction. With a stunning bolt he saw in front of him not a gnarled trunk but the gigantic body of a gray-hided, four-armed Fanist staring down at him, smiling.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Grantin and Chom slept late on the morning after their escape from the Weirdlands. Now deep within hostile territory, they would have to disguise themselves as best they could and continue their journey by night. When full dark had descended, they again took up the westward trail to Cicero. They made good time over the farmlands and by dawn were only ten or twelve miles from the city's walls. Again they holed up during the daylight. Again Grantin foraged for food.

  During the afternoon Grantin's nervousness increased. By the time they had commenced the last leg of their journey he gave voice to the concerns which troubled them both.

  "Chom, I've heard that Cicero is surrounded by great walls. Is that true, do you think?"

  "It has been so reported to me. It is a city of five walls and five gates."

  "Do you think I'll be able to slip inside?"

  "I do not know, but it seems unlikely. If you could perform a spell of disguise you might take on the appearance of someone you observe leaving the city."

  "I don't have such a spell, and even if I did the plan seems risky. I might be challenged by acquaintances of the person I imitated. And what about you? Do you think you'll be able to find a place to hide while I look for Mara?"

  "Hide?"

  "You don't expect them to let you through the gate, do you? Unless . . . tell me, do any of your people live near here?"

  "No, they abandoned this country long ago, shortly after the arrival of the Gogols."

  "Then you must find someplace to hide. If you are seen you will be taken and questioned."

  "There is, of course, another solution to the problem," Chom suggested.

  "Which is?"

  "If you cannot go to the female, perhaps the female will come to you. If she could be lured outside the city, then various opportunities might present themselves."

  Grantin considered Chom's proposal. Fragments of plans whirled through his mind.

  During the night the character of the landscape changed, became more settled, thicker with farmsteads and tilled soil. Grantin and Chom were forced to take exaggerated detours around the habitations, careful always to pass through the gullies so as not to be silhouetted on the brow of any hills. By full morning they reckoned they were still several miles from Cicero, with no secure hideout in sight. The best cover they could manage was that supplied by the tree-lined banks of a small stream which cut diagonally across their path.

  Grantin and Chom ducked beneath the cover of the trees. They worked their way upstream in only marginal safety. Grantin assumed the lead, breaking trail, while Chom as much as possible fixed his eyeballs in their telescopic mode. While functioning in this way he was able to give warning of distant dangers yet had only the blurriest apprehension of details near at hand. He relied on Grantin to choose an easy trail.

  Sometime after the second hour Chom tapped Grantin on the shoulder, signaling him to stop. With a wave of his upper right arm he indicated a point of danger three or four hundred yards distant. Grantin was able to make out a vague gray hump on the earth. The bulge moved in slow jerks, finally raising itself up to be revealed as the shape of an Ajaj Gray.

  Chom motioned for Grantin to continue his advance while the Fanist crossed the brook and broke from the line of trees on the far side. A few moments later the startled Gray sprinted for cover behind a nearby tree. Certain that he had been seen, Grantin broke into a full run, splashed across the stream, and pounded forward up the far bank. If the Gray escaped and warned his masters it would mean both their lives. Grantin cut into the line of trees where the Gray had disappeared. Only a few feet ahead were the open farmlands. Grantin pounded around a last gnarled trunk and almost ran over Castor and Chom.

  Castor's nerves had been stretched almost to the breaking point by his plot against Hazar, then his capture by the Fanist. Now Grantin's sudden appearance seemed sufficient to complete the process.

  "What do you want of me?" Castor asked fearfully. Strangely enough, his terror was not for his own personal safety but rather that his pack would be searched and that he might weaken and betray his fellow conspirators.

  Grantin was too winded to speak coherently, and so it was Chom who began the conversation.

  "We only wish to talk to you, to gain information, and to ask of you a favor," Chom began. "We are strangers and know this country only by reputation. We do not wish to be killed out of hand. You might, we thought, give us helpful information about what we might expect upon reaching Cicero."

  Castor examined Chom and Grantin critically. Could such an improbable story possibly be true?

  "I have no money, no wealth. What is this favor you want of me?"

  "Our lives," Grantin broke in. "You must give us your promise not to report our presence to your masters."

  "Why should I wish to do that?"

  "You Grays do their bidding, or so I've been told. Are the Gogols not your masters?"

  "They are our masters only because we are too cowardly to live otherwise."

  "Strange sentiments for a Gray," Chom commented.

  "You are right, of course," Castor said as he sank weakly to the ground. "They say I am mad. I have defied the random factor and the Gogols and gained for my trouble only a stint in the scullery and my life hanging by a thread. Now I am accosted by two vagrants who clearly would kill me if they thought it necessary. Very well. As to the customs of the Gogols I can tell you this: they are vile and a canker that should be removed from Fane. As to the favor which you ask of me, consider it done. I have no one to whom I would wish to report you. More than that I cannot do. So, now either let me go or do your worst."

  Totally disarmed by the Gray's unorthodox behavior, Grantin and Chom removed their hands from the butts of their knives and joined Castor in sitting on the grass.

  "We don't want to kill you," Grantin assured the Gray. "The Gogols are our enemies as well. You may leave if you want, though I would appreciate it if you would stay and talk with us a little more. You are almost right about us. We are not vagrants. For myself at least, I'm a fugitive. For personal reasons I must find a girl who I believe is now in Cicero. If you were to tell anyone about our presence I would not last a minute. I'm sorry that we frightened you. If you hate the Gogols as much as you say, then we are allies against a common enemy. Isn't there some way that you could help me get into Cicero and find the girl? Or, failing that, take a message to her and ask her to meet me beyond the gates?"

  "What about you?" Castor asked, looking suspiciously at Chom.

  "My reasons for being here are complex. Part of my purpose is to help this human who saved my life. Besides that, I will admit to a deficiency of character as well--I am curious. I wonder what will happen to him."

  Castor looked from Chom to Grantin, then, without speaking, he stood and walked out of the line of trees. The travelers made no move to follow. They were seized with apathy. By unspoken agreement they decided that this was as good a time as any to take a nap before pressing on to the conclusion of their foolhardy journey. Ten minutes later Grantin was startled from his nap by a soft, paw-like hand on his right shoulder.

  "I've decided that I believe you," Castor said. "We must hurry. I have to reenter the city be
fore the end of the fifth hour. Come with me. I will hide you in my quarters. We will make our plans as we travel."

  The Ajaj ran almost at a trot to keep up with Chom's long strides. "You say there is a human female whom you must meet," Castor said between gasps, for breath. "Who is she? What does she look like?"

  "She is fair and not too tall, not too short, well shaped, with a lovely face...."

  "To me that means a female three feet high and covered with light gray fur," Castor snapped. "Can you give me a more objective description?"

  "Long, straight, light brown hair," Grantin began again, "light blue, almost gray eyes, pale skin, perhaps five and a half feet tall, and about my age, slender at the waist, but otherwise well padded in the normal places for a human female."

  "That could be any one of a hundred human women. How am I to tell them apart? I fear this is hopeless."

  "Well, there is one other thing," Grantin said, catching Castor's eye. "When I met her she told me her name was Mara."

  Castor suddenly halted and stared at Grantin, his face contorted in an expression of shock and fear. Mara was clearly much more deeply involved in the plot than had first appeared. What horrible conspiracy had he and Buster gotten themselves into?

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Nefra slumped in his chair and considered his schemes. Mara had agreed to join the plot. That very morning Castor had been observed heading east from the tumbles to hunt for herbs. So far everything was proceeding according to plan. With luck, by the tenth hour Hazar would be dead of a ruptured gut.

  Nefra maneuvered his loose-limbed frame from the window seat and walked across his parlor to the entrance to his workroom. Unlike soft-fleshed lords like Zaco, Nefra was lean of both limb and spirit. No sumptuous draperies adorned his walls, nor luxurious carpets his floors. Bare stone surfaces were the hallmark of Nefra's apartments, an image into which fitted Nefra's own personal appearance and dress.