David Grace - The Accidental Magician

Buster halted at the junction between the First Spoke Road and the Second Circle.

"Now we go left, around the Second Circle, until we come to the next passage toward the center. The street we just left was the First Spoke Road. There is a Second, a Third, a Fourth, and a Fifth Spoke Road between the First and Second Circles. Do you notice the pattern of these streets, by the way?"

"Five streets, five gates. It seems rather straightforward," Castor remarked.

"There's more to it than that, friend Castor. Notice, the five outer gates break the walls at their points. The Spoke Roads penetrate inward at the centers. The next Spoke Road, the Sixth, between the Second and the Third Circles, again breaks the points of the pentagons, and lastly the Eleventh through the Fifteenth Spoke Roads between the Third Circle and the Central Plaza penetrate at the centers. In this way there is no one straight path between the outside of the city and its center. Neither an invading army from beyond nor a fleeing populace from within has an easy route.

"Come, now, I've babbled too much. Hurry. Cockle becomes most unpleasant if his whims are frustrated."

Picking up their pace, the two Ajaj quickly traversed the remaining byways to reach the center of Cicero. A huge circular building occupied the middle of the large paved area known as the Central Plaza. Like everything else in Cicero this structure was divided into five compartments. Limping more noticeably now, face twitching in an occasional grimace of pain, Buster led them around the plaza to a doorway overhung with a banner bearing the image of a loaf of bread. The Grays approached the guarded entrance. There Buster identified himself as Hazar's servant. A human clerk rudely questioned the Ajaj concerning their purpose, authority, and needs. Finally they were admitted and issued wicker baskets with straps that could be attached across their shoulders.

Around the room were bins, barrels, jars, and boxes. Here reposed the fruits of the agricultural Grays' toil. The lords of the city and their household retainers, staff, and guards were allocated a full half of all of the foodstuffs. Next, a fourth went to the inhabitants of the second ring of buildings, an eighth to the subdeacons of the third ring, and the balance to the guildless, patronless laborers of the tenements which dotted the central circle.

Castor marveled at the sheer, vicious efficiency of the system. The more powerful the lord, the more food was available to those in his service. Each individual, therefore, aspired to advance within the ranks of his own house. The head of each house desired to advance into the service of the lords in the next circle outward. Those who failed to cooperate ate poorly in good times and in lean times starved.

Castor and Buster filled their baskets, hoisted their loads, and, after allowing their supply of wort roots to be recorded by the warehouse clerk, trudged back through the streets toward Hazar's quarters.

"How long have you been here, Buster?" Castor asked after a long silence.

"How long? A lifetime… forever. How long is that?

"Have you ever thought about… about doing something about all this?" Castor asked.

"Doing something? Bringing down the Gogol empire with my two bare hands? An Ajaj would, have to be insane to even consider such a notion."

Another tame Gray, just like the rest. Clenching his jaws together to prevent an angry response, Castor grimaced and trudged ahead.

"Of course," Buster continued, a sly smile splitting his lips, "I never claimed to be very sane. I sometimes think the pain in my leg has affected my brain."

"Meaning?"

"I mean," Buster whispered, "ever since a group of the lords' children crippled me for a few minutes of sport, I have been crazy enough to believe that I'd like nothing better than to plant one of Cockle's wort stickers between Hazar's bony ribs."

For an instant a smirk of pure glee flickered across Buster's face, to be almost as rapidly replaced by a subservient expression as the bound wooden door of Hazar's scullery slipped into view.

The stout bound timbers of Shenar's front door produced in Grantin their own particular brand of magic. For perhaps half a minute he stood immobilized before the portal, unable to overcome the deep sense of foreboding which chilled his bones. From somewhere far back in the corner of his brain a thin voice screamed, "Get away while you can! Danger!"

Nervously, he turned to study the meadow, now flooded with the tawny blanket of dusk. Across the stream beyond a dense thicket of scratchberry bushes the squeal of prey in flight echoed through the early evening air. No, there was no refuge for Grantin there. The throb of the bloodstone returned its pulsing beat to his index finger and, to a lesser extent, his whole left arm. Reluctantly he turned to the door. Gathering up all of his courage, he propelled the knocker with two sharp thrusts.

There was no immediate response. After a minute's delay Grantin gave the door two more sharp raps. Almost instantly, as if the castle's owner had stationed himself just beyond the portal, a peephole opened. Shenar's high-pitched voice called out.

"Who are you, arid what do you want?"

Startled by the sudden response, Grantin's own voice shot up an octave in pitch. He squeaked out his answer.

"Is this the manor house of the great wizard Shenar? I've come to seek his counsel and aid on a professional matter."

"Shenar has no time for the inconsequential problems of penniless vagrants. Be off with you!"

"I'm not a penniless vagrant, and this is a problem for only a great magician like the renowned Shenar."

"The wizard is very busy with spells of great importance. Briefly state your request so it may be decided if your errand is worthy of taking the time of the great Shenar."

Suddenly Grantin's tale about seeking relief from disturbing nightmares appeared flimsy and shopworn.

"Well, I… you see, I fell afoul of a great wizard, a matter involving his daughter, and… well, we need not go into the particulars. In any event, to vex me he pronounced a spell which now infests my dreams with horrifying nightmares. I have not slept well in days, and if I do not gain some relief soon I will shortly die."

"You dare bother Shenar for this, this petty trifle?"

"My death from malicious sorcery is not a petty trifle," Grantin responded with mock anger.

"It's a petty trifle to Shenar. Be gone before he hexes you himself."

"Wait, wait, there's more. My uncle is himself a great wizard, Greyhorn of the Hartfords. Shenar would earn his undying gratitude were he to rid me of this spell. Greyhorn…" Grantin detected the glint of the peephole being slid closed. "Wait, wait, one more thing-I can pay, I can pay. Look." Grantin held up his left hand, placing the bloodstone two inches in front of the now half-closed spyhole. "This ring, an ancient family heirloom of great antiquity and untold value, will be Shenar's if he succeeds in curing me of this spell. Look, look, see how it flashes with color. A finer stone has never been quarried."

The peephole slammed shut with a metallic clink. Shrugging his shoulders in despair, Grantin turned to leave before further arousing Shenar's ire.

Behind him sounded a scrape. A slight vibration passed through the soles of his feet. Turning his head, Grantin saw the great door slide open. Silhouetted in the glow from the room beyond, an imp in a baggy gown waved Grantin inside the manor. Grantin advanced and the dwarf slid shut the door behind him. He studied the creature with frank curiosity. An aged face on what appeared to be, even beneath the gown, a shrunken, misshapen frame.

"I have the honor of addressing…?" Grantin said, nodding at the midget.