David Grace - The Accidental Magician

"Well, perhaps a nice cold poundfruit salad."

"Yes, I've already thought of that. What else?"

"Broiled whitefish and toasted crown nuts with herb cheese sauce…"

"Of course, of course, I've already thought of that. What else?"

"Baked red tubers stuffed with pepperroot, shaved bean stalks fried in mint oil, and, for dessert, gingerberry cobbler."

"Well enough, well enough, except at the end I think throttleberry pie would be more to Lord Hazar's liking."

"Of course. Master, you know best."

"Blasted well right I do. Well, don't just stand there. Hop to it! Get everything together. We don't want to be caught short. Is there anything we lack?"

"I think we have it all. Master Cockle, except I'm not sure about the herbs. Let me check." Buster hobbled off to a low cabinet, from which he extracted several heavily stoppered glass jars, three of which appeared to be empty. "As I feared, Master, we do not have sufficient herbs for the sauce or tubers. We lack zim root, sprite leaf, and chauger."

"Well, just don't stand there. Get them."

"I know a place where they grow, Master Cockle. The fresh herbs will make an especially delightful treat. Unfortunately with my legs the way they are I couldn't go myself. Perhaps, if you will allow me, I can have one of the other workers pick them tomorrow before reporting for his shift. The new one, Castor, seems strong, and we can afford to lose him for half a day. If he might be given leave to return at the fifth or sixth hour I could direct him where to go."

"All right, all right, just handle that meal and make sure it's right." Satisfied that he had now fulfilled his executive duties. Cockle retired to his stool and his wad of illusion plant. Buster turned back to the corner of the kitchen where Castor knelt scrubbing the floor.

"Castor," he said in a loud voice, "Master Cockle has directed that before you appear for work tomorrow you pick us a supply of herbs for Lord Hazar's evening meal. Before you go home tonight see me and I will give you directions as to where and what to harvest."

The first part of the scheme had come off flawlessly. Castor now had official permission to scour the meadows east of the Ajaj tumbles. In addition to sprite leaf and chauger Castor would pick rot root. After the evening dishes were cleaned and put away Castor played out the charade. Nodding his head sagely, he listened to Buster's directions concerning the nature, quantity, and location of the herbs desired for the special meal. After receiving his instructions Castor nodded politely to Cockle and left the scullery.

That night in his apartment he double-secured all the apertures, yet still felt nervous and exposed. Sleep came grudgingly and did not stay long. At the end of the tenth hour A.D. Castor was already up and watching for sunrise through the crevices of his grate.

Sitting there in the darkness, more afraid and more exhilarated than he had ever been before, Castor ran through the steps of the plan. In order to quiet his steadily increasing shakes and trembles he extracted his green source stone from its hiding place.

The gem spread channels of cold fire through his bones. Calm now, Castor arose and removed the barrier. Halfway outside he hesitated. Should he return the stone to its hiding place? Castor halted, looking first back into the room, then out along the tunnel to the outside world. Overuse of the crystal was dangerous, but today he needed all the strength he could muster. He tucked the cloth-wrapped gem into the bottom of a deep pocket on the inside of his vest, then scrambled through the tumbles to the beginning of the trail.

A narrow double row of trees paralleled Slicker Stream as it ran southwest to empty itself into Harridan's River. Beyond lay the rolling meadows and farmsteads of the Gogol farmers, lands controlled in various quantities by the lords, overdeacons, and deacons of Cicero.

Though little better than slaves themselves, the ignorant, fanatic farmers formed one of the mainstays of the Gogol empire. Devil-worshiping was their pride and their pleasure. Should he be found crossing any of these fields without Cockle's safe-conduct, Castor would be killed out of hand. Today the farmers seemed to be working another portion of their fields for Castor saw no other beings during his passage across the meadows. Here only the livestock, descendants of the original seed carried aboard the Lillith, roamed the pastures.

Something over two miles to the east and one mile south of the tumbles Castor reached the spice grounds. Here were a series of small ponds, hardly more than swellings in Skull Creek. Clumps of feather and salad trees abounded. Under the shadows of the great leaves grew rot root interspersed with clumps of greenish-white fungus.

Getting down on his hands and knees, Castor inched across the soil, carefully digging out the roots which he then placed in a jar. In separate jars he stored several varieties of fungus, an item also entered on Buster's list, as well as sprite leaf and chauger.

By half past the second hour he had almost filled his quota. Castor knelt behind the trunk of a stately salad tree. He spied a tiny orange-tinged mushroom growing on a length of decaying limb, but as he scuttled closer an odd sound reached his ears-a series of deep modulated tones which, at the shift of the wind, resolved themselves into strangely accented speech. Castor peered around the tree to the southeast, following the direction of the tree-lined creek. In the distance the light rippled, as if two bulky objects crisscrossed in front of the sun's rays.

A new voice sounded, younger, higher, definitely human. Transfixed, Castor stared in wonder as a Fanist and a bedraggled, travel-stained human paced into view. A Fanist here? Could he be a sycophant of the Gogols? Not likely, but still in these strange times who could tell what schemes Hazar had at work? Best not to take any chances.

Castor ducked behind the tree, gathered up his bottles, and placed them in his pack. The voices stopped. He found it difficult to judge which way the travelers had turned. Ever so slowly he slung his knapsack. The bottles tinkled as he slipped on the straps. Castor dared another glance. The way looked clear. Light as a shadow he trotted across the open space to the next tree some thirty feet to the northwest. The bottles chattered softly as he ran.

Castor paused only long enough for three or four fast breaths, then set out again. The human and the Fanist had disappeared. He neared the edge of the meadow. Ahead the ground swelled upward gently, then dipped. Once over the rise he would be hidden from view. A great barrel-trunked snaf tree stood sentinel directly between himself and the open ground. One more quick dash to shelter behind its bulk, catch his breath, and then up and over the rise. Several times Castor breathed rapidly in and out, then, fortified with oxygen, scampered on.

He rounded the tree at full speed and slammed into another tree which stood just beyond, hidden from view. This column, however, though rough-textured, was warm and softer than a tree should be. He loosed his grip and stepped back to view the obstruction. With a stunning bolt he saw in front of him not a gnarled trunk but the gigantic body of a gray-hided, four-armed Fanist staring down at him, smiling.

Grantin and Chom slept late on the morning after their escape from the Weirdlands. Now deep within hostile territory, they would have to disguise themselves as best they could and continue their journey by night. When full dark had descended, they again took up the westward trail to Cicero. They made good time over the farmlands and by dawn were only ten or twelve miles from the city's walls. Again they holed up during the daylight. Again Grantin foraged for food.