David Grace - The Accidental Magician

"Where are we, then?" Grantin inquired. "I'm thoroughly turned around. In fact, I was hoping that someone here might have a map."

"A map! Ha, that's a good one. The dogs with a map. They always know where they are, and if they don't then they don't care. Oh, I'd like to see one of them draw a map, with a piece of charcoal in his teeth perhaps, that would be a fine sight. No, no-no map, but I'll tell you where you are. You're in the borderlands, the Grenitch Wood. This forest extends from eighty leagues to the south of us, thirty to the north, and another twenty-five leagues wide. That's the Black Pearl River there. Deep and silent and cold it is, too. These are the outlands where even the Gogols don't try to enforce their rule.

"In these woods you'll find every brigand, thief, and vagabond between Hartford and Cicero. Here they all come, between two worlds, too far for the Hartfords to pursue and not worth the trouble of the Gogols to wrinkle out of the forest. They've tried, they've tried, but there are more than a few wizards here as well. The woods are strong with a magic of their own. Many a deacon has met his end in these dark grottos. That's why I stay here with the dogs. They protect me, don't you know."

"I'm sure it's a satisfactory life here with the dogs, Sara, but tell me the truth. We're not really in danger now, are we? Surely there's nothing that you have that any of these minor bandits could want, no offense intended."

"I have my life, don't I? And my body. There's always a wizard who could use a replacement piece or two. No, there are dangerous men out there, but don't worry- you're safe here. The brigands leave the dogs alone. That's the order and the custom. Even the bandit Yon Diggery himself has decreed that the dogs shall be unharmed. They all know the value of the dogs."

"And what is the value of the dogs?" Grantin whispered conspiratorially.

"Why, the cats, of course."

"The cats?"

"Yes, indeed, the cats. Everyone knows about the cats. You mean to say you don't?"

"Perhaps I've forgotten. Why don't you tell me again?"

"Why, the cats are the spies of the Gogols. Sneaking, slinking around, they try to find out our secrets, discover our fetishes, our fanes, our talismans, the sources of our power. If the cats were left alone, they'd infest the area. With the knowledge they brought back the Gogols might make an end to us once and for all. No, the bandits are very much against the cats, and so the dogs have safe-conduct. As long as I help the dogs I, too, am safe. Well, what say you, young Master Grantin? How do you like Catlet?"

"Very nice, very fine indeed. I am most pleased that you have persuaded our friends to allow me to visit for a short while. By the way, do you suppose that we might make some arrangements for dinner? I'd be happy to help out in order to earn my meal."

"A guest work? Nonsense! Don't think about it twice. Of course you're welcome to dinner. You can smell the stew boiling even now. A fine big stew, plenty for all."

"Stew. Excellent!" Grantin exclaimed. "May I inquire as to the type of stew it is-beef, or lamb, or ground hen?"

"What kind? Why, young Master Grantin, cat stew, of course!"

A sour grimace spread across Grantin's face. Still, his hunger being what it was, he continued with Sara down the main street of Catlet toward the fire where the stew bubbled in a large iron pot.

Neither Sara nor Grantin nor the bassets noticed anything unusual. No one spied the rustle of grass in the tussocks at the edge of the forest. The brief glitter of sunlight from a shiny lens went unseen. Slowly, inch by inch, the watcher, covered with scent killer, slunk backward deep into the thicket and out of sight. When she was sure that no one had seen her, the young Sealpoint Siamese turned around and raced back through the underbrush to report to her Gogol masters.

Mara's usually neat brown tresses were tangled and askew. Absentmindedly she threaded her fingers through them in an attempt to remove the worst of the knots. Her black velvet robe was creased and travel-stained, her face sticky with dried perspiration. But her appearance was the least of Mara's worries.

For the hundredth time she wondered if Hazar would blame her for failing to bewitch the messenger. But it wasn't her fault. A minor enchantress such as herself could never hope to beguile Greyhorn sufficiently to obtain a sample of his blood. The perfection of his disguise alone indicated the power of his magic.

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."