David Grace - The Accidental Magician

"As you see. Buster, I got the herbs you requested," Castor said in a somewhat theatrical tone.

"Yes, I noticed. Got all of them, did you?"

"Yes, all you asked for, plus some special delicacies besides. In fact, that's why I was late. I found some items more to the taste of us Ajaj than Lord Hazar, so I left them at my quarters before returning here."

"What sort of special items?" Buster asked with more nonchalance than he actually felt.

"They are difficult to describe. Here, let me sketch them for you in the flour."

Castor smoothed a thin film of flour over the workbench and hastily wrote with his fingertip: A Hartford and a Fanist.

"Can you draw that a bit more clearly?" Buster asked.

Castor wiped out the words, then wrote another message: Mara gave the human a bloodstone ring. He must meet her. My quarters, after third hour A.D.

One of the other Grays approached the table, and Buster hastily wiped out the message.

"Can you help me prepare these rare items?" Castor asked..

"I'm not sure. I'll try, if I can get away."

Castor nodded and moved off. Numbly Buster resumed his preparation of Hazar's dinner. Theories, schemes, and fears raced through his brain while his hands automatically chopped, sliced, and scraped. The addition of the tiny fragments of rot root to the stuffing had become almost an anticlimax.

Hazar made sure that the door to his office was secured. Satisfied that he would not be interrupted, he slouched back in his chair and allowed himself to relax. The bronze-hued face which, when animated, gave Hazar the appearance of mature vitality now, in slack-jawed repose, revealed something of the wizard's true age. Deep furrows plowed the flesh between the mouth and the edges of the nose. A maze of wrinkles flanked each eye. When the head was turned just right small wattles of flesh bulged beneath the chin. Even the glossy black mustache which at first glance seemed a badge of vigor now appeared out of place, incongruous, as if it were an artifice employed by a slapdash thespian to give the appearance of youth to an aging performer.

Hazar tried to force his spinning brain to rest, to marshal his energies for the spells which in the coming days he knew he must perform if his plans were to succeed. For the hundredth time he considered adding a second bloodstone to his gem-encrusted left hand. Each time, reluctantly, he rejected the idea as being equivalent to slow suicide.

Unbidden, new questions, schemes, and worries jostled for room on the stage of his mind's eye. Rupert's silhouette, grossly distorted, capered in a jungle of odd plants, sometimes trailing Greyhorn's bumptious nephew, at others prancing with glee, his bloodstained hand adorned with the missing ring. An instant later Rupert stepped through the wall of plants to emerge on the other side as a Fanist who walked arm in arm with the wayward young Hartford. The two approached a gigantic pile of rocks and, at the last second, twisted sideways to melt between a crevice and disappear from sight.

The face of the Ajaj leader Obron swam into view. The Ajaj's words echoed unintelligibly. She held up a piece of paper covered with writing which, no matter how Hazar strained and twisted, he was nevertheless unable to read. A clatter arose in the background and terrified the Gray. She turned and ran for the shimmering tumbles, but before she reached them the scene faded away.

Dimly background sounds at last penetrated Hazar's conscious mind. Tap, tap. "My lord Hazar?" Tap, tap, tap. "My lord, are you there?"

Hazar's eyes snapped open. He lifted his body to sitting position. His muscles ached. His skin was clammy and beaded with sweat.

"A minute-cease that racket!" Hazar croaked. Removing a soft towel from his desk, Hazar dried his face and massaged the back of his neck. At last he rose, released the latch, and slid back the door. A nervous Derma, shuffling from one foot to the other, eyes fixed upon the floor, confronted him.

"My lord, I…"

"What is it, clerk? I told you I did not want to be disturbed."

"My lord, I am sorry, but some information has been received which could be important. I thought you might want to know at once."

"Very well, come in. For your sake you had better hope that you did not disturb me unnecessarily." Hazar settled again into his chair but now took pains to keep the weariness from his face. Ill at ease, Derma stood before the desk and made his report.

"My lord, as you know, Saschim, the tailor of the second wall, is known to have some contact with the bandit, Yon Diggery. For this reason, my lord, we have prevailed upon his apprentice Trecko to keep us informed of-"

"I know all that, clerk! You don't have to give me a lesson in who works for me. Get to the point!"

"Yes, my lord Hazar. To go to the heart of the matter, Trecko reported that yesterday afternoon his master received a communication from Yon Diggery to the effect that a certain young Hartford in the company of a certain native had crossed the Weirdlands and were making for Cicero. He prevailed upon Saschim to watch the Gate of Dread so that he might be informed if the two enter this vicinity. Not suspecting that Trecko is in my lord's service, Saschim, this morning, conveyed this information and charged Trecko to implement the plan."

"What's the rest of the message? What is Saschim supposed to do if he finds this Hartford?"

"Diggery charged the tailor to lure the Hartford into his apartments, there to drug him and cut off his hand. This accomplished, the body is to be hidden and the hand conveyed outside the walls and delivered to Yon Diggery."

"Yes, and what does the tailor get out of all this?"

"Upon delivery of the hand, my lord, he was promised ten golds plus a call on the bandit for future favors in time of need."

"Ten golds-a handsome price for a mere hand, provided you don't know the value of what you are selling. What of the Fanist who reportedly accompanies the Hartford? What were Diggery's instructions concerning him?"

"None specific, my lord. The tailor was given a free hand to do as he pleased provided he accomplished his primary goal."

"An interesting story, I'll admit-but why, why? Oh, stop fidgeting, clerk, you were right in bringing this to my attention."

Hazar transferred his attention to an oddment of metal and bone which rested on his desk. Idly playing with the instrument, Hazar mused over the possible motives for Grantin's trip.

"Why of all places would he come here? At first I thought that sanctimonious old fool Obron was making up the story about a human and a Fanist entering the tumbles. Now I'm not so sure. If that is Greyhorn's addle-brained nephew, Cicero should be the last place he'd visit. Why not return to Hartford lands or even remain in Grenitch Wood? Why come here, and with a Fanist yet? What could he want here? Money, riches? Not likely. I can't believe he wishes to join our society. Do you suppose his uncle sent him here? But no, not with the ring. Greyhorn would never part with the ring."

"Perhaps he knows someone here, someone who he thinks will help him," Derma suggested, meekly. "Or perhaps it is the Fanist who has business in Cicero, and for lack of a better purpose the human is merely accompanying him."

"Even Greyhorn's nephew would not be foolish enough to come here as a mere tourist. And as for meeting someone, that's impossible. He knows no one in Cicero. He's never been out of the Hartford lands in his life. Except for myself and perhaps a few of the other lords, none of us have penetrated the Hartford boundaries. Only…" Hazar dropped the demarcator as if it were red-hot and riveted his gaze upon Derma. "… only Mara has visited his homeland. He's met Mara, for a fact!"

"You think, then, my lord, that they are planning-"