David Grace - The Accidental Magician

Rupert fingered the knife at his belt. It could be over in five minutes-but no, Hazar had commanded otherwise. Hazar was a man whose orders one did not defy. Rupert wrapped his cloak more tightly and resigned himself to an all-night vigil. The required spell took time and patience. Throughout the night he would build a field of energy around the Ajaj. With the dawn he would lead him forth from his apartment, center him on a sun-warmed rock, and then, with the final syllable of the spell, explode his body like a rotten gourd.

A dirt trail split the lawn and led to the village two leagues away. Grantin hummed as he walked. The air was filled with the scent of growing plants and a faint hint of wood smoke from luncheon fires.

Ahead the trail zigzagged through a farmer's meadow in order to take advantage of a small area of infertile ground. Off to the left stood the farmer, engaged in the traditional rites preparatory to planting his next crop. Above his head he held a diamond-shaped piece of heavy metal wire. One prong projected from the upper apex of the wire, curling and ending in a hook. This contrivance was clenched in his right fist while with his left hand he moved his index finger in a slow counterclockwise motion. His lips chanted the ancient words. With his eyes closed he began to walk forward, legs moving of their own accord in an apparently erratic pattern. Mounted on the farmer's back was a sack of chalk. A hose ran from the bag and down his left leg, terminating in the hollow heel of his boot.

As the farmer walked the chalk recorded the pattern of his movements. At the conclusion of the trance there would exist an outline of the most fertile area in which to plant the seed.

Knowing that a greeting would only startle the farmer and force him to begin again, Grantin maintained his silence and went on. At half past the seventh hour be neared the edge of the village which straddled the River Out. A community of some one thousand people, it maintained a full complement of servitors, magicians, factors, artisans, scribblers, and even three warriors who functioned as the town police.

The buildings on the outskirts of Alicon seemed, at first glance, haphazardly set upon their foundations. This appearance derived from the fact that the structures were sited by members of a subclass of the Wizards' Guild known variously as builders, structors, or tectors according to their skill. Each construct was located, designed, built, and adorned according to plans derived through secret guild spells. Grantin knew that by and by the open spaces between the buildings would be filled with structures of a suitable construction and shape.

Occasionally one saw vacant fields of the most peculiar proportions, filled with flowers and wild grasses, in an otherwise densely populated portion of a town. Now and then hardheads would decide that this was pure waste. Sometimes they sought to appropriate these lots and build their own edifices. Invariably the structures toppled, sometimes with great loss of life. Usually the catastrophe was due to inherent weakness of the soil, latent quicksand, or the sudden appearance of geysers and springs. While a few disgruntled people occasionally claimed that these disasters were precipitated not by natural forces but by the wizardry of the Structors' Guild as punishment for disobeying their edicts, most of the populace, being reasonable and intelligent citizens, ignored the charges.

When Grantin passed the first few such isolated structures he remembered his uncle's command to wear the amulet about his neck. He had taken to carrying his coat draped over his left arm, and now he reached into the pocket. His fingers touched only air, leather, and tiny clumps of lint. The amulet was gone! Grantin looked up with a start, his face pale, his body suddenly as hollow as a dried gourd. He whirled and studied the ground. There was no sign of the necklace.

Grantin raised his eyes, trying to decide what to do next. At his left was a building two stories tall, the first floor of stone, the second of wood. Grantin chanced to read the emblem which hung above the doorway:

Below the sign, tacked to the post at the left-hand edge of the portal, was a printed notice:

Today's Availables

Beet Pullers and Potato Diggers (3 male amp; healthy)

Moderate Quality Young Virgin (slightly used)

Apprentice Clown

Positions Open:

Journeyman Cart drivers (2 needed)

Advanced Barkscraper (experienced help only)

Toothbuilder (1-will train to suit)

With a sick feeling in his belly Grantin recalled Grey-horn's evaluation of his abilities. If he didn't find the amulet, here lay his future: apprentice toothbuilder-trained to suit.

With his left hand Grantin held the coat in front of him while he searched the garment. Hadn't he put the amulet in his right-hand pocket? But now that one lay slack and empty. But wait, the coat was facing him. He had checked the wrong pocket! Grantin thrust his fist into the left-hand pocket as the coat faced him. There, at the bottom, tangled with the lining, lay Greyhorn's necklace. With a great exhalation of breath, knees weak and shaking, arms limp, Grantin removed the amulet, checked the clasp, then placed it solidly around his neck.

Ahead the road continued straight for a hundred yards, then began a series of zigs and zags according to the dictates of the tectors. Occasionally, at apparently random points, side streets joined the main highway. By the time Grantin reached the Hall of Fabricators, no open spaces were left on either side. Some of the structures were tall and narrow, others low and wide. An odd mixture of shapes assailed the eye:

conical buildings with exterior spiral staircases, squat cubes whose ceilings towered some thirty feet above their floors. A confusion of materials and styles was presented. The left third of a structure might be of wood and brick, the center of quarried stone, and the right-hand side white stucco with timbered beams.

A peculiar mingling of odors penetrated Grantin's nostrils: scents from the perfumers, from the inns the fragrance of honey and spice and boiling gruel, and occasional whiffs of the garbage pits at the far end of town, all intermixed with the underlying stench of the leavings of the carthorses and the occasional unmannered dog.

Now, past the eighth hour, dinnertime was approaching. The villagers were making a last attempt at completing their business before supper. The road ballooned unpredictably, forming areas where merchants, fabricators, and artisans had set up stalls. A yard or two ahead it narrowed to but a few feet in width, then swelled again, Looking down on it from above, one would have imagined a tangled stretch of beads on a string.

These widenings in the highway formed the many specialized markets of the city. The narrow paths between allowed the constabulary to keep close watch on all who patronized Alicon's businesses. Footpads had little chance of threading their way through the narrow sections of the road. Such men would find short shrift with the sturdy citizens of Alicon. Were they captured, at best they would complete their lives less the tips of their noses and the lobes of both ears. At worst their organs would make a fine contribution to the sawbones' always understocked apothecary.

Just beyond the Hall of the Fabricators, the Street of the Artisans cut away from the main road. The new avenue formed a round, bulging loop which rejoined the highway a hundred yards ahead.

Grantin turned to his left, elbowed through the crowded passage, then entered the first of the artisans' alcoves. Here stood the stalls of the leather workers. Belts, coin purses, coats, and saddlery abounded. Toward the end of the cul-du-sac stood the wares of a small subgroup of the guild, the taxidermists. Here were displayed stuffed dogs, boars, and occasionally a well-established citizen's favorite relative.