David Grace - The Accidental Magician

"But you, with your brilliant powers of observation, somehow penetrated this master disguise?"

"My lord, it could have been no one other than the wizard Greyhorn. The man to whom I delivered the ring removed it from its purse and slipped it upon his left index finger. Only a true wizard would put it there. The ring recognized its owner. I could see, even as we stood on the Street of the Artisans, that it had bonded itself to the wizard's flesh. Only Greyhorn would have done such a thing. Knowing that my powers were not strong enough to best him, I returned with his sweat and his coppers as fast as the spell would take me."

"Greyhorn himself, is it? In disguise? Your story does raise some questions. Still, I am not at all convinced that it was our friend who received the ring. No, someone else has it, I think. Someone who now wanders loose with great power in his grasp. I will investigate further. Leave me. I will notify you when you are needed again."

Hesitantly Mara arose to leave. When she neared the door she paused and looked back at Hazar for some hint to her fate. She saw a brooding, saturnine face, puckered lips beneath a drooping black mustache, a man whose concentration had already turned inward, away from Mara, to other questions more substantial than that of her life or death. She slipped out the door while Hazar brooded.

The wizard sat in his chair hunched forward over the edge of the desk while he turned the possibilities over in his mind. How unlike Greyhorn, he thought, to pick up the item himself, in disguise yet! But Mara had a point. Who but a powerful wizard or an idiot would dare wear the bloodstone? An idiot? Could Greyhorn's nephew be that much of a fool? Of course, that had to be the answer. And Mara had ruined his plan! She had fled like a frightened ground hen instead of destroying both the stone and the nephew, and the uncle as well.

Something must be done about the girl. He'd be fair about it. He'd give her a chance. He would double-check his theory with Greyhorn-but he knew that it would prove out. If only someone else had enchanted Zaco he could be rid of the girl now-but no, no, restrain yourself, Hazar, he told himself. The girl controls Zaco, and Zaco the powerstones. Yes, he would have to wait until his scheme was complete and Zaco no longer necessary, then he would take care of her. He had never trusted her, in any event. Too soft, too weak. The Hartford blood in her was the reason. Blood can't be changed, as the old saying went, only spilt.

Hazar crossed the room and pulled back the drapes which concealed the lens. Automatically his hands performed the strokes while his lips whispered the incantation necessary to summon Greyhorn.

Hundreds of leagues away Greyhorn sat sprawled in his workroom, defeated and frustrated. All his attempts to trace Grantin had been to no avail. The ring was gone, gone forever, and there was nothing he could do about it. In the back of Greyhorn's mind an idea began stirring:

"Call Hazar on the lens. Call Hazar on the lens." The merest unfocusing of Greyhorn's eyes conjured up a wavering transparent vision of Hazar's face. Greyhorn took three deep breaths, composed himself, and walked over to the plate. Reciting a four-word incantation, he passed his right arm, palm outward, across its face. Hazar's visage immediately appeared.

"Yes, Hazar, what do you wish?" Greyhorn asked irritably.

"I merely called to confirm delivery of the item. It meets with your satisfaction?" "As a matter of fact, Hazar, it does not. There has been a difficulty with the ring, and I find that the one you sent is not suitable for my use. I need a replacement."

"You are the most unique of sorcerers, Greyhorn. You are the first I've ever known to complain that a powerstone does not sufficiently augment his talents. Certainly you don't need two of them."

"No, one would be sufficient, if I had one that was satisfactory. As I said, the one that you sent me is not suitable for my needs."

"Oil, really? Specifically in what way does it not fit your requirements?"

"The ring does not comfortably fit my finger, and because of its nature I find it impossible to adjust the band."

"How unfortunate. Hold it up to the lens and let me see. Perhaps I can diagnose the trouble."

"That would not be convenient."

"No, I expect not, since the ring now adorns the finger of your nephew Grantin. I am surprised at you, Greyhorn. I didn't think that you were this weak. Had someone told me that you would let a little thing like a finger stand in your way I would have thought him crazy. Are you too tenderhearted to recover your own property?"

"As we both know, Hazar, a powerstone ring is not that easy to remove from an unwilling donor."

Hazar shook his head in mock sadness. "Very well, Greyhorn, if your magic isn't powerful enough to immobilize a worthless, ne'er-do-well young pup of a nephew I'll give you a spell which, if you catch him unawares, will stiffen him up harder than a frozen oak tree. Once it takes effect, he'll be unable to resist"

"I don't need any spell from you!" Greyhorn snapped. "I've got a freezing spell for every day of the week."

"Well, then…?"

"If the truth be known, the problem is that my worthless nephew is no longer here. Early this morning I crept up upon him ready to do the deed, but at the last instant he awakened. Our ancestors' blood flows in his veins as it does in mine. When augmented by the power of the ring, even an imbecile like my nephew becomes formidable. The plain fact is that before I could reach him he managed to formulate a spell of miraculous transportation. He shot out of the library window like a stone from a sling. The last time I saw him he was tumbling out of control, heading for the Guardian Mountains. No doubt he's already smashed himself into a bloody pulp and the bloodstone has even now turned to sand. So, you see, you'll just have to send a replacement."

"Not at all, Greyhorn, not at all," Hazar replied with a sharp edge in his voice. Irritated now almost to the limit of his control, Greyhorn crept closer to the lens. His eyes narrowed into mean, angry slits, and out of Hazar's view his hands began to sweep back and forth in a potent spell.

"You will send me another ring or your plan will fail. Not only will I not cooperate, I will spread the word of your scheme. I and my henchmen will turn our powers against you. You agreed to deliver me a ring, and you owe me a ring."

"I agreed to deliver you one ring in exchange for your cooperation, and one ring I did deliver from my hands to those of your messenger. If your own nephew played you false and stole the ring right under your nose, then it's your loss, not mine. We have a bargain, and you'll rue the day you fail to live up to it. With or without your help I will rule Fane."

"Not without the ring. Give me my ring!"

"Your ring. Very well, your ring you may have. Not another ring. Not a second ring. But your own ring, the one stolen by your nephew. Yes, since you are unable to protect your own property, unable to control your own family, I'll get you your own ring back for you. I assume you don't mind if Grantin is damaged in the process?"

"I'll boil him in oil when I get my hands on him. I'll smash his fingers and then make every square inch of his body itch."

"I'll take that for authority to handle him my own way."

"Bah! This is pointless. He's hours dead, long gone."

"Don't be too sure, Greyhorn. In the hands of a sensitive, even an idiot sensitive, the ring is capable of amplifying the most subtle desires. Unless he had some wish for death the odds are high that the ring maneuvered him through the peaks more or less unscathed. I will inquire of my spies and agents. You, for your part, will keep your associates in readiness. I will delay the attack. It will begin in ten days."