by David Grace
Tall and thin, with overlong bony arms and a horselike face, Nefra seemed the model of puritan rectitude. Dressed today as he was every day in an unadorned black blouse and black trousers, by his very presence he quelled all wayward thoughts of joviality.
With a furtive glance over his shoulder Nefra bent to unlock his laboratory door. Opening his book of sorcery--for Nefra was a careful and methodical man--he patiently recited the spell of communication, but, to his surprise, no results were forthcoming. Nefra readjusted the lens, called out Greyhorn's name, and tried again. Still no response.
Raising himself to a higher level of nervous energy, he repeated the incantation a third time and willed his powers to find a substitute receiver. Nefra became very warm. Sweat beaded on his forehead. With a feeling as if he had pushed his way through a yielding barrier, he saw in his crystal a distorted picture of Greyhorn's workroom.
In Greyhorn's laboratory Nefra's face bulged in miniature on the surface of a water droplet clinging to the edge of a flask. After several minutes Greyhorn sensed the summons and finally, after much searching, located his caller. A hideously distorted visage hung before Greyhorn's face. A gigantic maw bulged blackly, then disappeared as Nefra spoke. Soundlessly the words took shape within Greyhorn's mind.
"Who calls me?" Greyhorn demanded.
"I do--Lord Nefra of Cicero."
"A Gogol! What do you want of me, evil one? As all know, I am a loyal Hartford and thus your bitter enemy."
"All do not know what I know about you, Greyhorn. My agents tell me that you schemed with Hazar, until he played you false. Now, I think, you need another friend."
"I don't know what you are talking about."
"You don't understand us, Greyhorn. Hazar does not speak for the Gogol empire or even for Cicero, only for himself and his sycophants. I, for one, do not choose to run my life under Hazar's orders. Nor, I think, do you. Do you understand the position you are in?"
"Talk on, devil. I am listening."
"Hazar has not delivered your trinket, without which you are powerless to help him or oppose him. If he should complete his plan your days are numbered, unless of course you take action against him."
"What do you have in mind?"
"Fortify yourself. About forty minutes after the second hour A.D. Hazar should have completed his dinner. His meal will consist of broiled whitefish stuffed with seasoned tubers and shaved bean stalks. Concentrate all your energy upon transmuting those substances into an acid which will melt out his innards. Do that and you might escape your fate. If you fail, you are doomed, for your power cannot match that of Hazar."
Nefra's image had grown smaller and more circular as the conversation progressed. Now the droplet's evaporation was almost complete. As Nefra's visage shrank Greyhorn imagined that the voice became more shrill, until at the end, barely more than a squeaking whine, it faded and disappeared.
For a moment Greyhorn contemplated the beaker's empty lip, then took himself to his couch to rest before the evening's work.
Chapter Thirty-Five
It was half past the third hour B.D. when Grantin, Chom, and Castor reached the tumbles. The jumbled mass of slabs and boulders appeared nothing more than a barren, rock-strewn palisade. That was the Ajaj way. Most of the Grays were in Cicero or tilling Topor's farmsteads. The aged and the cubs who remained kept to their apartments. Castor led them along a twisting path up the slope to the entrance of his shelter. The deserted appearance of the landscape notwithstanding, Grantin felt the eyes of unseen watchers fixed upon his back.
Castor halted next to a triangular opening formed by the intersection of two slabs of stone. Nervously the Ajaj motioned for Grantin and Chom to enter the crevice. Grantin went first, crouching on his hands and knees, feeling his way along in the dark. The shaft lowered as it went and bent sharply to the right. Another foot or two and it jogged to the left. Grantin entered a pitch-black chamber which he sensed was large enough for him to stand upright.
Behind him came the grunts and scrapes of Chom's tortured passage. At each turn the native's shoulders jammed against the walls, forcing him to twist sideways in order to extricate himself. At last he, too, escaped the tunnel. Castor was the last to emerge. The Ajaj circled his guests and released a set of shutters. Sunlight ricocheted through the chinks between the boulders, penetrated the grille-like windows, and patterned the far wall.
"You should be safe here for a short time," Castor said, already turning back to the exit. "Undoubtedly you were seen, but it is unlikely that my kinsmen will volunteer information about your presence, at least for a day or so. There is food in the pantry; take what you like. Above all, do not go outside. I will return sometime after the second hour and if possible will contact Mara."
So saying. Castor skittered from the room, leaving Chom and Grantin to fend for themselves. While Chom explored Castor's quarters Grantin laid out his blanket, curled up, and went to sleep.
Without pausing to rest or eat. Castor worked his way to the top of the cliff and trotted down the trail to Cicero. By the time he had passed through the gate and checked in at the clerk's wicket it was already past the fifth hour. The guard at the scullery admitted him without comment. Castor slipped inside as inconspicuously as possible. The kitchen was deserted. Cockle and the rest of the Grays were now in the refectory serving lunch. Castor removed his pack and set the jars of spices on Buster's work-table, all except the rot root which he placed out of sight in the drawer. Next he stowed the backpack, then filled a water pitcher which he carried upstairs.
Castor contrived to enter the dining hall while Cockle's attention was concentrated in another quarter. Without making a sound he carried the flagon to the serving bar, then joined the other Grays in dishing up the meal. Ever since the incident of the worm in the salad Cockle had forced himself to remain alert through lunch, a practice which he did not enjoy. Now he turned and looked truculently at the scurrying Grays but could find nothing amiss. To his rheumy eyes Castor was indistinguishable from his fellows. In Cockle's mind only Buster by his grizzled muzzle and limping gait had acquired a separate identity. Grumbling, the steward turned back to his duties. The meal proceeded without incident.
After lunch all retreated once again to the kitchen, where Cockle promptly bludgeoned his senses with a bottle of Hazar's wine. Once he was certain that the human had drunk himself into his usual afternoon stupor Castor sidled up to Buster's bench where the elder Ajaj worked on Hazar's dinner.
"As you see. Buster, I got the herbs you requested," Castor said in a somewhat theatrical tone.
"Yes, I noticed. Got all of them, did you?"
"Yes, all you asked for, plus some special delicacies besides. In fact, that's why I was late. I found some items more to the taste of us Ajaj than Lord Hazar, so I left them at my quarters before returning here."
"What sort of special items?" Buster asked with more nonchalance than he actually felt.
"They are difficult to describe. Here, let me sketch them for you in the flour."
Castor smoothed a thin film of flour over the workbench and hastily wrote with his fingertip: A Hartford and a Fanist.
"Can you draw that a bit more clearly?" Buster asked.
Castor wiped out the words, then wrote another message: Mara gave the human a bloodstone ring. He must meet her. My quarters, after third hour A.D.
One of the other Grays approached the table, and Buster hastily wiped out the message.
"Can you help me prepare these rare items?" Castor asked. .
"I'm not sure. I'll try, if I can get away."
Castor nodded and moved off. Numbly Buster resumed his preparation of Hazar's dinner. Theories, schemes, and fears raced through his brain while his hands automatically chopped, sliced, and scraped. The addition of the tiny fragments of rot root to the stuffing had become almost an anticlimax.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Hazar made sure that the door to his office was secured. Satisfied that he would not be interrupted, he sl
ouched back in his chair and allowed himself to relax. The bronze-hued face which, when animated, gave Hazar the appearance of mature vitality now, in slack-jawed repose, revealed something of the wizard's true age. Deep furrows plowed the flesh between the mouth and the edges of the nose. A maze of wrinkles flanked each eye. When the head was turned just right small wattles of flesh bulged beneath the chin. Even the glossy black mustache which at first glance seemed a badge of vigor now appeared out of place, incongruous, as if it were an artifice employed by a slapdash thespian to give the appearance of youth to an aging performer.
Hazar tried to force his spinning brain to rest, to marshal his energies for the spells which in the coming days he knew he must perform if his plans were to succeed. For the hundredth time he considered adding a second bloodstone to his gem-encrusted left hand. Each time, reluctantly, he rejected the idea as being equivalent to slow suicide.
Unbidden, new questions, schemes, and worries jostled for room on the stage of his mind's eye. Rupert's silhouette, grossly distorted, capered in a jungle of odd plants, sometimes trailing Greyhorn's bumptious nephew, at others prancing with glee, his bloodstained hand adorned with the missing ring. An instant later Rupert stepped through the wall of plants to emerge on the other side as a Fanist who walked arm in arm with the wayward young Hartford. The two approached a gigantic pile of rocks and, at the last second, twisted sideways to melt between a crevice and disappear from sight.
The face of the Ajaj leader Obron swam into view. The Ajaj's words echoed unintelligibly. She held up a piece of paper covered with writing which, no matter how Hazar strained and twisted, he was nevertheless unable to read. A clatter arose in the background and terrified the Gray. She turned and ran for the shimmering tumbles, but before she reached them the scene faded away.
Dimly background sounds at last penetrated Hazar's conscious mind. Tap, tap. "My lord Hazar?" Tap, tap, tap. "My lord, are you there?"
Hazar's eyes snapped open. He lifted his body to sitting position. His muscles ached. His skin was clammy and beaded with sweat.
"A minute--cease that racket!" Hazar croaked. Removing a soft towel from his desk, Hazar dried his face and massaged the back of his neck. At last he rose, released the latch, and slid back the door. A nervous Derma, shuffling from one foot to the other, eyes fixed upon the floor, confronted him.
"My lord, I..."
"What is it, clerk? I told you I did not want to be disturbed."
"My lord, I am sorry, but some information has been received which could be important. I thought you might want to know at once."
"Very well, come in. For your sake you had better hope that you did not disturb me unnecessarily." Hazar settled again into his chair but now took pains to keep the weariness from his face. Ill at ease, Derma stood before the desk and made his report.
"My lord, as you know, Saschim, the tailor of the second wall, is known to have some contact with the bandit, Yon Diggery. For this reason, my lord, we have prevailed upon his apprentice Trecko to keep us informed of--"
"I know all that, clerk! You don't have to give me a lesson in who works for me. Get to the point!"
"Yes, my lord Hazar. To go to the heart of the matter, Trecko reported that yesterday afternoon his master received a communication from Yon Diggery to the effect that a certain young Hartford in the company of a certain native had crossed the Weirdlands and were making for Cicero. He prevailed upon Saschim to watch the Gate of Dread so that he might be informed if the two enter this vicinity. Not suspecting that Trecko is in my lord's service, Saschim, this morning, conveyed this information and charged Trecko to implement the plan."
"What's the rest of the message? What is Saschim supposed to do if he finds this Hartford?"
"Diggery charged the tailor to lure the Hartford into his apartments, there to drug him and cut off his hand. This accomplished, the body is to be hidden and the hand conveyed outside the walls and delivered to Yon Diggery."
"Yes, and what does the tailor get out of all this?"
"Upon delivery of the hand, my lord, he was promised ten golds plus a call on the bandit for future favors in time of need."
"Ten golds--a handsome price for a mere hand, provided you don't know the value of what you are selling. What of the Fanist who reportedly accompanies the Hartford? What were Diggery's instructions concerning him?"
"None specific, my lord. The tailor was given a free hand to do as he pleased provided he accomplished his primary goal."
"An interesting story, I'll admit--but why, why? Oh, stop fidgeting, clerk, you were right in bringing this to my attention."
Hazar transferred his attention to an oddment of metal and bone which rested on his desk. Idly playing with the instrument, Hazar mused over the possible motives for Grantin's trip.
"Why of all places would he come here? At first I thought that sanctimonious old fool Obron was making up the story about a human and a Fanist entering the tumbles. Now I'm not so sure. If that is Greyhorn's addle-brained nephew, Cicero should be the last place he'd visit. Why not return to Hartford lands or even remain in Grenitch Wood? Why come here, and with a Fanist yet? What could he want here? Money, riches? Not likely. I can't believe he wishes to join our society. Do you suppose his uncle sent him here? But no, not with the ring. Greyhorn would never part with the ring."
"Perhaps he knows someone here, someone who he thinks will help him," Derma suggested, meekly. "Or perhaps it is the Fanist who has business in Cicero, and for lack of a better purpose the human is merely accompanying him."
"Even Greyhorn's nephew would not be foolish enough to come here as a mere tourist. And as for meeting someone, that's impossible. He knows no one in Cicero. He's never been out of the Hartford lands in his life. Except for myself and perhaps a few of the other lords, none of us have penetrated the Hartford boundaries. Only. . . ." Hazar dropped the demarcator as if it were red-hot and riveted his gaze upon Derma. ". . . only Mara has visited his homeland. He's met Mara, for a fact!"
"You think, then, my lord, that they are planning--"
"Don't be a fool. Derma! He doesn't have the brains to plan anything like that, or the courage. Now his uncle-- No, that's not possible. Grantin has the ring, not Greyhorn. The old reprobate would never let the stone go voluntarily. I wonder if it could be love?"
"Love, my lord?"
"She's an enchantress, isn't she? She prepared herself to enchant him when she delivered the ring, only she ran off before she could find out how successful she was. That little witch has laid a spell on him and doesn't even know it. By Satan, he's come here to find her!" Hazar pounded his fist on his desk.
"Derma, take down these commands: First, have twenty of my guards surround the tumbles, quietly. The Grays are not to be bothered, but Grantin and the Fanist are to be kept there at all costs. The men are to stay out of sight until further orders. Next, call my over-deacons, Croman, Jasper, and Wax. They are to commence at once to call up a Firebird, one big enough to carry a full-grown man and strong enough to last through an entire night. They must use all their energies. I want the demon readied for my commands by the second hour.
"Lastly, call my body servants. Have them prepare my bath. Get my masseuse and have fresh garments laid out. Tonight I will thwart my enemies and make ready the attack."
The period of indecision was over, the questions banished from Hazar's mind. His lassitude had fled with his doubts. His energies renewed, Hazar strode to his private chambers while Derma raced off to implement his lord's commands.
Later, bathed, his skin massaged to an invigorated tingle and coated with a thin, coat of scented oil, Hazar joined Mara in the parlor. The ministrations of his servants had soothed Hazar to the point that while reclining on the masseuse's table he had enjoyed his first peaceful sleep in days. Now, somewhat past the first hour A.D., Mara the enchantress rose nervously to greet her lord.
Hazar detected the tense set of her muscles, the slight quiver of the tendons in her neck, the contracted tight bl
ack pupils of her eyes. Her attitude could be due to a number of factors: concern over Hazar's tardiness in appearing for their dinner or fear that he might have planned some rebuke or punishment because of her failure on her mission to the Hartfords. Possibly, just possibly, Mara's uneasiness might be due to more personal factors. Was she interested in forming a liaison with him? Could she be planning on using her charms on him in the hope of obtaining an advantage? If that were the case she would be disappointed.
They had barely exchanged greetings when a servant's knock announced that dinner was ready. With Hazar in the lead the two entered the dining room.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
A little after the first hour A.D. Castor and Buster carried the steaming dinner to Hazar's quarters. A moment after the guard knocked, an eye appeared at the spyhole. It studied the supplicants, then reluctantly slid back the panel. Derma admitted the two Ajaj and one of the guards while the other soldier positioned himself outside the hallway door. The Grays conveyed the dinner service to Hazar's table and set three places, one for Hazar, one for Mara, and the last for the food taster.
Hazar's clerk, Derma, examined the dishes, then silently pointed to first one item, then another. In response to these directions Buster cut off a fragment of fish, a spoonful of tubers, a splash of wine, a portion of dressing, and conveyed each to the taster's plate.
From behind a curtain appeared a pale, sickly boy. The young man's cheeks were sunken and sallow. Dull brown hair hung thin and limp over his forehead. Selected for his susceptibility to disease, the food taster was kept in a constant state of ill health. A vigorous specimen might fight off the effects of a deleterious substance, whereas someone like this boy would easily be pushed over the line to sicken and die.
