David Grace - The Accidental Magician

"Well, there is one other thing," Grantin said, catching Castor's eye. "When I met her she told me her name was Mara."

Castor suddenly halted and stared at Grantin, his face contorted in an expression of shock and fear. Mara was clearly much more deeply involved in the plot than had first appeared. What horrible conspiracy had he and Buster gotten themselves into?

Nefra slumped in his chair and considered his schemes. Mara had agreed to join the plot. That very morning Castor had been observed heading east from the tumbles to hunt for herbs. So far everything was proceeding according to plan. With luck, by the tenth hour Hazar would be dead of a ruptured gut.

Nefra maneuvered his loose-limbed frame from the window seat and walked across his parlor to the entrance to his workroom. Unlike soft-fleshed lords like Zaco, Nefra was lean of both limb and spirit. No sumptuous draperies adorned his walls, nor luxurious carpets his floors. Bare stone surfaces were the hallmark of Nefra's apartments, an image into which fitted Nefra's own personal appearance and dress.

Tall and thin, with overlong bony arms and a horselike face, Nefra seemed the model of puritan rectitude. Dressed today as he was every day in an unadorned black blouse and black trousers, by his very presence he quelled all wayward thoughts of joviality.

With a furtive glance over his shoulder Nefra bent to unlock his laboratory door. Opening his book of sorcery-for Nefra was a careful and methodical man-he patiently recited the spell of communication, but, to his surprise, no results were forthcoming. Nefra readjusted the lens, called out Greyhorn's name, and tried again. Still no response.

Raising himself to a higher level of nervous energy, he repeated the incantation a third time and willed his powers to find a substitute receiver. Nefra became very warm. Sweat beaded on his forehead. With a feeling as if he had pushed his way through a yielding barrier, he saw in his crystal a distorted picture of Greyhorn's workroom.

In Greyhorn's laboratory Nefra's face bulged in miniature on the surface of a water droplet clinging to the edge of a flask. After several minutes Greyhorn sensed the summons and finally, after much searching, located his caller. A hideously distorted visage hung before Greyhorn's face. A gigantic maw bulged blackly, then disappeared as Nefra spoke. Soundlessly the words took shape within Greyhorn's mind.

"Who calls me?" Greyhorn demanded.

"I do-Lord Nefra of Cicero."

"A Gogol! What do you want of me, evil one? As all know, I am a loyal Hartford and thus your bitter enemy."

"All do not know what I know about you, Greyhorn. My agents tell me that you schemed with Hazar, until he played you false. Now, I think, you need another friend."

"I don't know what you are talking about."

"You don't understand us, Greyhorn. Hazar does not speak for the Gogol empire or even for Cicero, only for himself and his sycophants. I, for one, do not choose to run my life under Hazar's orders. Nor, I think, do you. Do you understand the position you are in?"

"Talk on, devil. I am listening."

"Hazar has not delivered your trinket, without which you are powerless to help him or oppose him. If he should complete his plan your days are numbered, unless of course you take action against him."

"What do you have in mind?"

"Fortify yourself. About forty minutes after the second hour A.D. Hazar should have completed his dinner. His meal will consist of broiled whitefish stuffed with seasoned tubers and shaved bean stalks. Concentrate all your energy upon transmuting those substances into an acid which will melt out his innards. Do that and you might escape your fate. If you fail, you are doomed, for your power cannot match that of Hazar."

Nefra's image had grown smaller and more circular as the conversation progressed. Now the droplet's evaporation was almost complete. As Nefra's visage shrank Greyhorn imagined that the voice became more shrill, until at the end, barely more than a squeaking whine, it faded and disappeared.

For a moment Greyhorn contemplated the beaker's empty lip, then took himself to his couch to rest before the evening's work.

It was half past the third hour B.D. when Grantin, Chom, and Castor reached the tumbles. The jumbled mass of slabs and boulders appeared nothing more than a barren, rock-strewn palisade. That was the Ajaj way. Most of the Grays were in Cicero or tilling Topor's farmsteads. The aged and the cubs who remained kept to their apartments. Castor led them along a twisting path up the slope to the entrance of his shelter. The deserted appearance of the landscape notwithstanding, Grantin felt the eyes of unseen watchers fixed upon his back.

Castor halted next to a triangular opening formed by the intersection of two slabs of stone. Nervously the Ajaj motioned for Grantin and Chom to enter the crevice. Grantin went first, crouching on his hands and knees, feeling his way along in the dark. The shaft lowered as it went and bent sharply to the right. Another foot or two and it jogged to the left. Grantin entered a pitch-black chamber which he sensed was large enough for him to stand upright.

Behind him came the grunts and scrapes of Chom's tortured passage. At each turn the native's shoulders jammed against the walls, forcing him to twist sideways in order to extricate himself. At last he, too, escaped the tunnel. Castor was the last to emerge. The Ajaj circled his guests and released a set of shutters. Sunlight ricocheted through the chinks between the boulders, penetrated the grille-like windows, and patterned the far wall.

"You should be safe here for a short time," Castor said, already turning back to the exit. "Undoubtedly you were seen, but it is unlikely that my kinsmen will volunteer information about your presence, at least for a day or so. There is food in the pantry; take what you like. Above all, do not go outside. I will return sometime after the second hour and if possible will contact Mara."

So saying. Castor skittered from the room, leaving Chom and Grantin to fend for themselves. While Chom explored Castor's quarters Grantin laid out his blanket, curled up, and went to sleep.

Without pausing to rest or eat. Castor worked his way to the top of the cliff and trotted down the trail to Cicero. By the time he had passed through the gate and checked in at the clerk's wicket it was already past the fifth hour. The guard at the scullery admitted him without comment. Castor slipped inside as inconspicuously as possible. The kitchen was deserted. Cockle and the rest of the Grays were now in the refectory serving lunch. Castor removed his pack and set the jars of spices on Buster's work-table, all except the rot root which he placed out of sight in the drawer. Next he stowed the backpack, then filled a water pitcher which he carried upstairs.

Castor contrived to enter the dining hall while Cockle's attention was concentrated in another quarter. Without making a sound he carried the flagon to the serving bar, then joined the other Grays in dishing up the meal. Ever since the incident of the worm in the salad Cockle had forced himself to remain alert through lunch, a practice which he did not enjoy. Now he turned and looked truculently at the scurrying Grays but could find nothing amiss. To his rheumy eyes Castor was indistinguishable from his fellows. In Cockle's mind only Buster by his grizzled muzzle and limping gait had acquired a separate identity. Grumbling, the steward turned back to his duties. The meal proceeded without incident.

After lunch all retreated once again to the kitchen, where Cockle promptly bludgeoned his senses with a bottle of Hazar's wine. Once he was certain that the human had drunk himself into his usual afternoon stupor Castor sidled up to Buster's bench where the elder Ajaj worked on Hazar's dinner.