David Grace - The Accidental Magician

"No credit."

"But my uncle-"

"-No credit. That is our policy, as unalterable as the mountains and the seas. If Amis Hartford himself were to appear here this evening he would have to pay cash like the rest or sleep in the street."

"Perhaps some job-a minor service-a task or two?… Can't you do anything but shake your head? All right. All right, I'll take my trade elsewhere."

In a fit of pique Grantin strode across the small lobby and outside. A breeze ruffled his hair. In the distance, to his right, a Rex lizard cried. There lay the livery stables of his uncle's nemesis-Dobbs, the town's current mayor.

At dawn the next morning Grantin dreamed that he was being attacked by two men armed with knives. Unmercifully they stabbed his tender body. Grantin awoke with a start to discover the triple prongs of a stableman's pitchfork rhythmically puncturing the seat of his pants. Grantin leapt up, grasped his neck to make sure the amulet was still in place, then raced from the stable, only a foot or two in front of Dobbs's fork.

Five minutes later Grantin was still shaking straw from his hair and dust from his ears. Alicon began to awaken. Again the odor of food rode delightfully on the breeze. This morning Grantin was so hungry that he would even settle for gruel. In his right pocket his fingers nervously sifted several handfuls of oats which he had borrowed from Dobbs's supply.

Well Water was available at the pump in the square. Soon the Street of the Artisans would be open for business. Undoubtedly among the stalls reposed the booth of an iron maker who possessed a copious supply of pots. Certainly among so many implements one of them would have an odd color, texture, or trace of scale. One did.

"This pot seems odd," Grantin told the artisan. "I have in my purse five coppers, but I don't wish to buy something which will make the food taste strange."

"There's nothing wrong with my pot" the ironmonger exclaimed. "It's the equal of any other pot in the whole town, probably better."

"Perhaps, perhaps, but what if I take it home and cook my lunch only to find the food has an unusual flavor? I might even get sick and die."

"This is all nonsense. Here, take it and try it for yourself. Old Rasco across the way has a nice fire going. Tell him I sent you. Take the pot and cook your breakfast with it."

"Well, I hadn't planned on having porridge. I usually dine at the inn. Coincidentally, however, I do have a few oats in my pocket left over from feeding my Rex. Understandably I wouldn't normally eat that sort of thing myself. Over in the corner, however, you seem to have a bit of dried meat. Perhaps a small fragment or two to season the oats and I would be able to solve once and for all the questions of the healthfulness of your wares."

"There is no question as of healthfulness of my pots I How dare you even suggest such a thing?"

"Well, you know how rumors are…"

"Here! Here! Take the meat and a handful of wheat, too. No rumormonger will sully my reputation!"

Oh, well, gruel did have its advantages. It filled the belly and eased the mind. After breakfast and a nice nap in the warm morning sun Grantin would be ready to locate the accursed ring. In a few hours he would be home for lunch.

Grantin seemed to have barely reclined in the lush blue-green grass when something awakened him. Groggily he lifted his head. As he was massaging the back of his neck a loud bong sounded from the tower across the square- the village clock marking the second hour. So late already?

Grantin stretched his arms and came to his feet. Around him the industrious citizens of Alicon bustled about their affairs. Again Grantin ambled back to the Street of the Artisans.

For half an hour Grantin strolled through the shops and booths, Greyhorn's amulet on prominent display. Standing in front of the silver workers' arcade he sensed that he was being studied. To his right stood a middle-aged, brown-haired peasant wearing neutral clothing of an undistinguished guild. The fellow seemed to be peering at Grantin from the corners of his eyes. Could this be the contact? Best that he acquire the accursed ring and be gone. Grantin wandered next to the man and pretended to examine the rings in the silversmith's tray. "Lovely workmanship," Grantin suggested.

"Yes, absolutely first rate," the man replied. The peasant's eyes drifted toward the amulet and then, self-consciously, lifted to Grantin's face. "That's an interesting bit of workmanship you've got there," the man said, nodding at the pendant.

"Yes, it's been in our family a long time," Grantin replied. Now was the time for the fellow to mention the ring.

Instead of giving the code, however, the man stood silent and nervous, apparently unsure how to proceed. The peasant's odd behavior, coupled with the appearance of a more attractive customer, caused Grantin to rapidly lose interest in the conversation. Behind the stranger Grantin spied a lovely young woman who now looked frankly in his direction.

Dressed in black velvet, she had tawny hair that flowed in waves down below her shoulders. Her face was strong. Her eyes sparkled with golden fire. Beneath the soft folds of her gown twin swellings of a voluptuous figure were apparent.

"… I said, would you like to sell it?" the man asked.

"What was that again?" Grantin asked.

"Your amulet-would you like to sell it?"

"No, it's not for sale. Excuse me, I think I see a new friend." Grantin approached the girl.

"Miranda, it's so good to see you again," he began. "It must have been-"

"-You have mistaken me for someone else," the girl replied sternly.

"Someone else? I don't see how…"

"My name is Mara, not Miranda," she continued in a businesslike tone. "That certainly is an interesting amulet you are wearing."

The cursed necklace again! Why did he bother showing his face at all? He might as well wear a sack and twirl the pendant over his head on a string.

"A mere trifle, not nearly so pretty as you. You live around here-"

"-The gem in the amulet is very unusual," Mara interrupted, as though she had not heard a word Grantin had said. Did she seem the slightest bit afraid? Could such a lovely and self-assured creature be insecure? Never. Grantin would not allow such a thing.

"I…" Mara grasped Grantin's left arm and pulled him to the corner of the booth. Taking a deep breath, seeming almost as if she were speaking against her will, she continued in a throaty whisper.

"The stone in my ring seems to be the same kind as in your pendant."

From a slit in the side of her robe the girl removed a golden metal ring inset with an oval, blood-red stone. She was careful not to touch the band with her bare flesh, instead she held it wrapped in a bit of velvet.

Gratin stared at the object, transfixed by the highlights glimmering from its surface. Mara watched him expectantly. After a moment she prompted:

"Your family has had the amulet a long time?"

Oh, the code, the silly code. "Yes, my father had a ring that was so," he recited, feeling foolish.

"Then you should have this to complete the family treasure," Mara volunteered. "I will sell it to you for five coppers." Grantin removed the coins and placed them in Mara's outstretched hand. When his fingers brushed her palm he felt an almost electric tingle.

Ignoring the black velvet upon which it rested, Grantin picked up the band. Fearing that he might lose it if he merely dropped it into his purse, he slipped the bauble over the index finger of his left hand.

For a moment or two Grantin concentrated on adjusting the ring so that the stone might be displayed to its best advantage. With his eyes averted he failed to see a look of astonished fear wash across Mara's face.

This couldn't be the lackey whom Hazar had ordered her to beguile. Only the most powerful of wizards would dare place a bloodstone in contact with his flesh. In only a few minutes Grantin's sweat would penetrate the metal and the ring would be bonded to his finger forever. Obviously the wizard must have distrusted all his cronies and decided to come himself.