Fane v1 0, p.17
Fane (v1.0), page 17
The more Greyhorn pondered the problem, the more be realized that a favorable resolution could occur in only one of two ways: either he obtained the bloodstone before the attack commenced, or he disposed of Hazar and thus delayed the battle indefinitely. Charged now with a goal for which he could strive, Greyhorn shook off his apathy and made for his laboratory.
In a metal drawer in a metal cabinet bound to the stone wall with deep metal bolts reposed the amulet which Grantin had worn to Alicon. With a wave of his hands Greyhorn released the spell of impenetrable protection and slid open the drawer. From its cushioned bed he withdrew the necklace and slipped it over his head.
Carefully Greyhorn faced westward toward the Gogol empire. The wizard held the amulet in front of him so that he could stare into the stone set at its center. The thumb and index finger of his left hand pinched the left edge of the disk while his right hand grasped the right side in a similar manner. Now the energy of his body flowed across the disk and through the chip of powerstone.
With all his force Greyhorn cast a spell of location and focused his gaze upon the gem. As if of their own volition the pupils of Greyhorn’s eyes began to dilate. The bloodstone swelled in hazy display until it filled Greyhorn’s field of vision. Within its depths he was able to discern vague pink shapes, some of which seemed to be moving while others suggested trees or bushes, or perhaps mountaintops. The geometry of the splinter was flawed. The most he could hope for was a vague sense of distant forests and landscapes.
With a wail of psychic pain the sorcerer allowed the amulet to slip from his fingers and bounce against his chest. Though emotionally drained, Greyhorn found his nerves tightened to a high, singing pitch. He refused to allow himself to be defeated. He sat panting while frustration danced before his eyes like a haunting apparition.
Half an hour later, when he had recovered from his exertions, Greyhorn rose and approached his communicator lens. Carefully the sorcerer pulled back the drapes which sheltered the device, then moved to a cabinet high on the wall next to the window. Pressed against the left-hand edge of the cupboard was a folder which Greyhorn opened. Inside were two disks of shiny black, plasticlike material of the same dimensions as the communicator lens. With great care Greyhorn affixed one of these disks to the face of the lens, kneading and stretching it until it exactly conformed to every bend and ripple in the glass. A few seconds later and with equal care the other disk cloaked the bulging back side. No ordinary coverings, the disks were specially energized with a spell of Hazar’s own construction so that when placed in contact with the communicator they filtered out the vision of the one who cast the spell while at the same time allowing the crystal to function as the focus of the transmitted psychic energies.
Greyhorn placed himself before his gray-black lens, checked his mental armory, and, finding all in readiness, at last passed his hand palm outward before the surface of the now blind eye.
In Hazar’s laboratory two hundred leagues to the west his own crystal exhibited no more than a faint pearly glow now invisible in Pyra’s ruddy afternoon light. Only slightly did Hazar feel the tug of magic drawing him to his lens; so faint was it, in fact, that he was unsure if he were being called at all. A quick glance at his crystal convinced him that he was mistaken.
Back in his manor Greyhorn was already enlarging upon his previously begun curse.
“In his stomach, in his vitals -
find a canker and a worm.
In his guts and in his bloodstream
grows a tumor large and firm.
In his heart and in his brain,
softens mush-like the decay.
In his body gathers corruption;
when I command,
hell die in pain.”
Hazar stood with his back to the lens. Unbeknownst to him Greyhorn repeated his incantation a second time. While the Gogol wizard planned the next step in his rise to power over the black city of Cicero, invisible emanations poured from his crystal. To a great degree Hazar’s own vitality and spells of protection warded off the deleterious effects of Greyhorn’s curse. Even more important was the protection supplied by the bloodstone ring which now rode the fourth finger of Hazar’s left hand. Still, augmented as it was by the fragment of bloodstone in Greyhorn’s amulet, the incantation was immensely powerful. In spite of all his defenses Hazar’s vitals were seized with a wrench at the conclusion of the spell.
Instantly, Hazar sensed the source of the attack. With a sputter of rage the wizard turned and hurled a bolt of force into the lens. Two hundred leagues away the energy flung itself against Greyhorn’s shielded crystal. The communicator shattered with a cannonlike roar, its razor-sharp fragments cutting Greyhorn on the cheek, chin, and knees.
“Imbecile!” Hazar screamed as he felt the ripples of the destruction which his spell had wrought in Greyhorn’s workroom. “Fool! That incompetent…” Standing, Hazar broke off his shouts as a new bolt of pain lanced through his stomach. Somewhat shocked by the potency of the spell which Greyhorn had managed, Hazar restrained his curses and walked stiffly to his chamber door. Time for the fool Hartford later, he warned himself. He had more important tasks at hand now.
“Derma,” he shouted to his aide. “Go find Mara and bring her here, immediately.”
Hazar slammed shut the panel and retreated to his couch. Zaco had again delayed shipment of the special powerstones which by the nature of their cut were subject to control through that worn by Hazar himself; stones that were needed to complete his plan of attack.
Zaco’s excuses did not fool Hazar, not in the least. He was having second thoughts. Now was the time for Mara to prove her worth, to reestablish with even greater power the enchantment which she had woven around the Lord of Mammon.
Chapter Twenty-eight
Throughout the night Grantin had become accustomed to the clatter of the leaves. It was the absence of that sound which caused him to awaken. Sitting up sleepily, he needed a moment to remember where he was. Strange…he could not recall bedding down so close to the woods. Twisting his head, Grantin was surprised to see that he and Chom were surrounded.
“Chom!” he called. Chom awakened instantly. As soon as his eyes cleared the Fanist stood, turned a brief circle, and addressed the crown of the largest and oldest tree.
“What do you plan to do to us?”
“Who are you talking to? What’s going on? Where…
“These are not ordinary trees. I sensed something last night but could not interpret what I was feeling. Obviously they have some plans for us. What is it that you want, friend trees?”
A smooth, deep bluish vine terminating in thick palps which wiggled like a nest of worms slipped from the gnarled tree and snaked toward the Fanist.
“Pull back your arm before we are forced to employ our magic against you,” Grantin warned in a nervous voice.
“We are magicians of great power, but we have no desire to injure you. Surely this is all a misunderstanding. Tell us what the problem is; perhaps it can be avoided without unpleasantness.”
Already as he spoke Grantin began to point the power-stone. The tentacle waved for a moment, then pulled back a foot and slumped to the ground. The palps continued to writhe, but for the moment the vine halted its attack. Now a thicker, stubbier tube protruded from the base of the crown. A rhythmic pulsing convulsed the last two inches of the cylinder until its end became flattened and took on the appearance of a puckered mouth. Lastly a startlingly white eyeball surrounded daisylike by blue-green leaves emerged from the body of the tree and hung suspended above the newly created organ.
Dissonant moanings, grumblings, and squawks erupted from the tube. At last the tone settled back into a parody of speech.
“Such as you are never allowed to pass. You have trespassed on our meadow. Now you must join us. Prepare to be planted.”
“Wait, wait!” Grantin pleaded before the tentacle could begin again to move. “We didn’t know we were trespassing on your meadow; there were no signs or warnings. We are sorry, very sorry. We will smooth out the grass where we slept and leave immediately. You don’t have to go to all the trouble of planting us.”
“What do you mean, ’those such as us’?” Chom asked calmly.
“Men’s evil desires, we have found, are cleansed by the transmutation. No longer does greed or lust burden them, nor are those like ourselves able to thirst for power. In this way we cleanse all of those who pass through our meadow.”
“Surely you cleanse only those who need cleansing,” Grantin replied. “We are both fine fellows, Chom and myself. He is a Fanist on his trip of life, a harmless, warmhearted creature. I am but a poor Hartford who has been abandoned in this evil country. We have no need of cleansing.”
“A moment ago you proclaimed yourselves to be great and powerful wizards. Obviously you are a perverted Hartford who is on his way to join the death-worshipers.
Your companion is a stranger story yet. We suspect that he is a renegade who has fled his tribe and hopes to sell his secrets to the lords of Cicero.”
“No, no, you are wrong!” But as Grantin spoke the tentacle began to move once again.
“Hold for a minute longer and hear me,” Chom said calmly. “This human is cursed. He( has foiled some Gogol plan, diverted the ring he wears from the possession of a great wizard who would use it for evil. He would destroy the ring, but be cannot remove it without the help of her who gave it to him. This person lives in Cicero. We go there to somehow obtain her aid.”
“And you, Fanist, why do you travel with this human on such a strange mission?”
“It is my trip of life. I am so charged by our elders. Further, it is my wish to help this human who has saved my life. If you end our journey here it will be a great tragedy for my community.”
Again the tentacle hesitated, then went limp as the trees communed among themselves. At last the leader spoke again.
“My name in human life was Hans. Though I am not convinced that you tell the truth—in fact, it has been our experience that the more evil the person, the more ingenious the lie—we will give you a chance to prove what you say. Behind each of you are the materials for your test. If you turn you will see four young birds taken by us fresh from their nest. You both will put one in each hand, the Fanist leaving two hands empty and clasped behind his back.”
Grantin and Chom took the seedbirds as directed. The chicks trilled merrily. Their bodies were covered with tiny, soft yellow-brown feathers. Short-pointed, lemon-yellow beaks protruded from their tiny oval heads, In each of his hands Grantin’s chicks hopped joyfully and twisted around to look at him with curious eyes. In his pleasure, at their warmth and softness Grantin almost forgot Hans’s brooding stare.
“Now do as I direct if you wish to save your lives. We, too, have our spells, and each of these birds has been given an enchantment of prevarication. Only someone who tells the truth will have the strength to breach the spell. A liar is impotent against this incantation. Do you, each of you, swear that the explanations that you have given us are true?”
“I do,” Grantin and Chom replied at once.
“Very well; each of you must squeeze your hands as hard as you are able. If you can crush the chicks, you are telling the truth. If you cannot, you are lying and must be planted.”
Catching his eye, the little birds chirped happily at Grantin. He looked back at Hans and opened his mouth to speak, then, realizing the futility of further pleading, clamped it shut. He looked away and began to close his fingers. As he grasped the soft, furry bodies more firmly he became even more distressed and shut his eyes. In the darkness the chirping grew louder. He felt more intensely the vital movements of the fragile bodies in his palms.
Grantin’s right fist was almost closed. The imprisoned chick squawked with alarm and thrashed against his fingers. With a cry Grantin opened both his fists. The birds hopped around his palms in a merry little dance. Carefully Grantin lowered them to the ground, where -they played amid the stalks of the short, soft grass. With a sudden premonition of horror Grantin turned to Chom and saw that his hands were empty. At the Fanist’s feet his chicks also hopped free. The native’s upper set of arms now reached to clasp his forehead near the point where the blue jewel lay beneath his skin.
Grantin and Chom stood back to back, facing outward, ready to employ their powerstones in a fight to the death.
“We refuse to play your sadistic game!” Grantin shouted. “Do your worst!”
The crowns of the life trees began to rustle. Slowly roots withdrew and the trees began to move. Grantin and Chom stood their ground but were astonished to see that the trees moved not toward them but away.
“You are telling the truth,” Hans declared. “No decent being would have killed the innocents. You may go in peace, but with this warning. Nearby there are evil men who stalk you. Ahead the trail is easy until you reach the edge of forest. There you will pass through the Weird-lands. If those who follow you plan an attack, that is where it will occur. Be on your guard. Farewell and good luck.”
The tree backed off slowly to stand still and silent beside another tree, slightly smaller but equally old. There in Pyra’s rich early-morning light the crowns of the two trees of life touched and entwined and slipped back into the somnolent peace of the deep forest Grantin and Chom walked a quarter mile to the westward trail. As they moved off and the small meadow slipped from view the former human Hans and the former human Ruda relaxed in the serene contentment of their life together.
Chapter Twenty-nine
At the main entrance to the Inquisitor’s chambers Mara turned to her left and walked along the First Circle toward Hazar’s apartments. When she reached the Second Spoke Road she turned to her right so that she might take a shortcut by way of the Second Circle. Above Dolos was visible as a small pink disk spinning across the sky. The other moon, Minos, was hidden by the high narrow walls which bounded the Second Circle. Around Mara the walls pressed tighter and seemed to become even more confining. What would it be like, she wondered, to be freed from bondage to Hazar and Zaco and the rest, to move from place to place unfettered, to make a life for herself instead of giving unending service to her overlords? But Hazar and Zaco would never let her go.
Go? Go where? What was she thinking about? It was all ridiculous. Mara tried to remember when her thoughts of escape had first manifested themselves. No matter how hard she tried she could remember nothing of the sort before today—or was it yesterday or the day before?
Had she caught some strange disease in the Hartford lands? Could one of those bucolic imbeciles have cast a spell on her without her knowledge? Nonsense, and be* sides, how could she escape? Would Hazar again allow her to travel across the Guardian Mountains? Not likely. Zaco? Impossible. She knew no other lords, except, except…Did she dare get embroiled with Nefra’s scheme?
This was all silly, ridiculous. Mara didn’t know what had come over her. What was she thinking about? Tomorrow her thoughts of defection would appear ridiculous. Tomorrow? What awaited her in the coming days and years? More Zacos, more selling of her body to vicious, disgusting men. What reward had she ever received for her services? Every day she balanced only one footfall from banishment to the guards’ pleasure houses.
With a start Mara halted and placed her hands against the cold stone walls. Were these not the walls of her prison? She looked around her. On all sides she saw only confined space.
With sudden loathing Mara backed away from the wall and hurried down the First Circle. As she neared her apartment she found herself thinking about an Ajaj in Hazar’s service, one twisted and bent. She began to wonder how she could unobtrusively contact the Gray known as Buster.
Chapter Thirty
In spite of Castor’s unsuitability to kitchen work, Buster took a liking to him and smoothed his way whenever he could. He often took Castor out on errands, real or imagined. Usually these took the form of trips to Topor’s market. Along the way Buster would lecture the young Gray on the history, politics, or geography of Cicero. Castor didn’t quite know what to make of this behavior. Although he could tell that the older Gray sincerely liked him, he suspected an ulterior motive.
On the third day in the kitchen Buster made a request which strengthened Castor’s suspicions. They appeared at Topor’s market as usual and picked up a load of haze-stalk and poundfruit. All went normally: Castor loaded the hazestalk into his knapsack while Buster carried the melons. Once out the door, however, Buster began to act strangely. Instead of leaving the Central Plaza by the Eleventh or Twelfth Spoke Road, Buster herded Castor through the Fifteenth Road. Once into the Third Circle he began to act even more peculiarly. He ordered Castor to halt by the wall and await his return. Castor reckoned that almost half an hour had gone by before Buster re- turned, sweaty and obviously feeling the pain in his leg but somehow strangely excited.
In spite of Castor’s inquiries, Buster would offer no explanation for his conduct other than to hint dramatically that sometime in the near future he might be willing to take Castor into his confidence. That evening, after the dinner dishes had been cleaned and the kitchen put to rights, Castor and the other Grays left a nervous and excited Buster.
Castor’s fifth day in the kitchen began as had each of the previous ones. All proceeded quite normally until the end of the second staff-level luncheon. At the conclusion of the meal—pickled water leeks, toasted zaff marrow, shredded salad-tree leaves, and red sausages boiled in water and beer—a young enchantress in Hazar’s employ approached the refectory counter.
