David Grace - The Accidental Magician

Man had crossed the void, spread out, split up, and dispersed like water through a grate. Perhaps somewhere commerce still flourished and spaceships went forth serving an organized community of man, but not here.

On the far spiral arm at the eastern edge of the galaxy only suns moved through the void. No ships sailed the star lanes, and what men there were had almost forgotten life beyond their narrow realms.

Out in the mist of the Great Dog Nebula the nearest stars were occluded by dust and debris. Almost alone in the center of the interstellar storm rode the great orange sun, Pyra. Around it floated a single planet, Fane.

Fane's night sky was a gray, faintly glowing blanket pierced here and there by the pinpricks which were all that could be seen of the far glories in the heavens.

For unknown reasons, perhaps the interaction of the storm with Fane's peculiar modulating magnetic field, the relationship here of man and matter was changed. Mechanized society rapidly broke down machines disintegrated and power packs ran dry. Magic, sorcery, and spells built a new technology to fill the void. A skilled wizard could become a wealthy and powerful man. Greyhorn was such a wizard.

Greyhorn paused a moment and cocked his head. What was that? A noise in the hall? He sensitized his mind but felt no unauthorized presence. Then, at the edge of his awareness, he sensed his nephew Grantin, down the hall near the library. At least that wastrel was performing his lessons for a change. Greyhorn shrugged and turned back to the bulging plate of glass balanced on the desk in front of him.

The object was neither clear nor frosty, but at the same time both water-colored and confused. It seemed filled with a thick, clear, swirling oil which, while having no color of its own, distorted and puddled the image of anything that might lie behind its surface. The plate was a foot in diameter and five inches thick at the center, tapering to a half inch at the edge. The front was flattened, while the surface away from Greyhorn bulged asymmetrically.

Under the sorcerer's gaze flecks of color sparked and congealed in the center of the plate. To Greyhorn's eyes, a three-dimensional simulacrum of a man's head and shoulders slowly filled the center of the disk. In an instant the picture became sharp, though if Grantin had stood at his uncle's elbow he would have seen only a formless swirl. In reality the scene was not in the plate but in Greyhorn's mind, the device functioning only as a focusing mechanism for the thoughts of the men who used it. Hundreds of leagues away in a similar room the man whose image filled Greyhorn's lens stared into a companion device in which he thought he saw Greyhorn's image.

The forces of the lens-or, better, the forces of the planet Fane which were controlled and focused through the lens-concentrated and intensified the principal qualities of each man's visage. A face long and narrow with sunken cheeks and a bulging, puffy structure under the eyes stared out at Greyhorn. The skin was a sallow, glistening copper hue, adorned above the mouth with a coal-black, down-turned mustache. Oily, bushy black brows lay above the eyes. The hair was also black and gleaming and full. It rose in fluffy crests from the center of the forehead and at each temple. The pupils, as well, were black and the whites seemed to glow with a sickly, yellow tone. From the man's neck hung a crude copper necklace centered with a smooth red stone. On his left hand glowed a golden ring likewise bearing at its center another scarlet, polished jewel.

In his associate's face Greyhorn detected lust, greed, power, envy, cunning, malice, and, above all else, unbridled ambition: a lovely man, a perfect man, the ideal man for Greyhorn's needs.

"Your deacons and underdeacons are dedicated to our purpose and ready to act?" mouthed the face in Greyhorn's lens.

"No worry as to that, Hazar. I have picked carefully and well. They will follow my every order."

"When will they be fully trained in the spells I have revealed to you?"

"Soon, very soon. Another few days at most. They are strong and determined. The weak have already died. Now remains only the job of directing the power with subtlety and fine control. Have no fear. All will be ready. We can move as soon as I receive my ring."

"Ah, yes, the ring. That may prove a bit of a problem. Full control of the stones has not yet been placed at my disposal. My associates are jealous of their powers and they know me to be a man of action. In order to avoid delaying the plan, we may have to move before your ring is available."

"Not at all," Greyhorn answered with cold finality. "My cooperation and that of my deacons, underdeacons, associates, informers, co-conspirators, powers, energies, and spells are all contingent upon the tendering to me of the bloodstone, without which our association is at an end."

"My dear Greyhorn," Hazar responded with an oily smile, "if I did not know you better I would think that you failed to trust me. Surely you realize I cannot rule Fane alone. From the instant that we take power you shall have dominion until your dying day over every person within a hundred leagues of your manor house."

"That I will, Hazar, with or without our association, and I shall also have the ring. And, by the way, before you think upon our arrangement with the mind of a shyster, I will remind you that my dying day is a long time hence. Now, with these minor details out of the way, when and how will I receive the ring?"

An insincere smile split Hazar's lips. He nodded his head in an expression of acquiescence.

"I will send a courier to Alicon, someone special who will not look as though she comes from me."

"She? What will she look like? How will I recognize her?"

"You should not meet her yourself. These things go better with a bit more mystery. There is no need for her to know for whom the bloodstone is intended. And,"- Hazar paused meaningfully-"there is no need for you to learn the identity of my operatives. Send a trusted associate to Alicon. Have him wear your amulet. She will recognize him by it and will make the exchange. She will comment on the stone, and your courier will say that his father once had a ring with a gem of that type. She will offer to sell him the bloodstone for five coppers, which he will pay her upon delivery of the ring."

"When should I expect the messenger?"

"Perhaps tomorrow afternoon. If not then, the next day certainly."

"Agreed."

Hazar's visage nodded solemnly, then faded. The lens cleared.

Greyhorn's left hand involuntarily twitched in the direction of the plate. It was only through the exercise of conscious effort that the sorcerer restrained himself from hurling a spell at Hazar's vanished form. You will have power until the day you die. If Hazar had anything to do with it that day would be soon indeed. Greyhorn was not fooled. If he did not conceive a plan to eliminate the Gogol sorcerer his life would be in constant danger. No, it would soon come down to one or the other of them-but first to get the bloodstone.

Whom to send to Alicon to pick it up? Werner? No, Werner's eyes were too close together, his face too feral, his soul too thin. Maurita? No. Maurita had her advantages, but the bloodstone might tempt her to break her solemn oaths. Greyhorn considered each of his deacons. He concluded that none of them was sufficiently trustworthy. Well, one does not expect to find selfless loyalty in the hearts of those who are willing to sell their fellows into slavery.

Was Grantin up to the chore? Perhaps his worthless nephew would at last be good for something. Up to now the wastrel had only shown an aptitude for womanizing, sleeping, and creating debts. Grantin, son of a sorcerer, nephew of a master sorcerer, grandson of an expert sorcerer-and still he possessed the talents of a field hand. Everyone said the power was in the blood, yet Grantin seemed determined to prove the theory wrong. Well, no matter. Perhaps he would at last make himself useful. Certainly he could successfully reach a village only two leagues distant, pick up a bauble, and return it to the manor in reasonably good condition. He knew little enough about magic to understand the power of the ring.