Fane v1 0, p.6
Fane (v1.0), page 6
From his crevice Rupert struggled, calling forth every particle of energy which his skill could attract, but all his talents were unable to breach the shield which had suddenly enclosed his victim. Rupert readied himself for another straining attack but was unable to complete his chant. Without warning a numbing daze overtook his mind, and he fell over like a stone.
With great care Castor assured himself that the assassin was truly unconscious. He then replaced the source stone, secreted all his treasures, and unbarred his door.
Navigation was easy by the light of Dolos’s full moon. He retraced his steps to the decision maker’s home. It took several minutes for his calls and raps to bring a response from within.
“Who is it? Who calls at this time of night?”
“It’s Castor on an urgent mission. I must speak with Obron at once.”
“It’s late; come back in the morning.”
“This will not wait until morning. There’s a Gogol killer in the hills above our homes.”
A moment later a scrape of stone signaled the opening of Obron’s door. Castor entered. Behind him the stone returned to its place. Obron and the other two members of her triad stood on the far side of the room, backs against the wall, a glowpod in each left hand and a knife, a spear, or a club in each right.
When the light was sufficient for Obron to make out Castor’s features, the weapons were lowered and the decision maker came forward to greet her guest “Castor, I thought that we had finished the matter of the Gogols. What has happened to make you shake us - from our beds at this time of night?”
“It appears, Obron, that your warning was most accurate. Tonight as I prepared for sleep a Gogol spell enveloped me. It was only with the greatest effort that I was able to overcome the assassin. For the time being he sleeps in a cleft at the top of the ridge. By the second hour he will awaken. A decision must be made before then.”
“Castor, you put us all in a most unfortunate position. You offend our masters, and even when requested by your own brethren to cease these efforts still you persist. Now, having brought down the vengeance of our lords, you come to me for advice.”
“Not advice, Obron. I do you the courtesy of telling you what is taking place. As for solutions, there are at least three.
“One, I can continue in the future as I have in the past, kill the Gogols who attack me and, sooner or later, die at their hands—”
“And bring ruin to all of us in the bargain,” Obron interrupted.
“To continue: secondly, I could dispose of the assassin who haunts me and flee to the east, seeking sanctuary with the Hartfords across the mountains.”
“And again bring ruin on your brothers, for we all know the penalty which will be exacted against us if even one of us is so impolite as to shirk his duty to our masters and leave the village without their permission.”
“Thirdly,” Castor continued, “I can retract all that I have said, keep my protective spell strong, and at the same time admit the error of my ways. In this way the village, and perhaps even I myself, will be spared the ultimate penalty for disobedience.
“Before you offer your suggestions let me tell you that I have decided to take the third path. I hereby, now and formally, retract my suggestion that we should rise up as a group against the Gogols. It was foolish advice; none of us is skilled at war. Besides, I now realize that none of my fellows would stand with me.”
“And…” Obron prompted.
“And I hereby agree to make no further statements with regard to our masters. Again, it would be a waste of time and wind. Further, I authorize and request that you consult with this assassin when he awakes and tell him the news of my recantation and promises of good behavior.”
“On the surface, Castor, your words are proper and correct. They warm my heart; yet, for some reason, they seem to contain a chill of obstinacy and sarcasm. You will obey your promises to the letter, of that I am sure. But I sense that your mind is in ferment, teeming with other plans against which you have made no oath. No, tell me nothing further—I do not want to know. I wish you fortune and health in whatever you do, but I warn you to be careful, for neither I nor any of your fellows are strong enough to stand between you and your fate.”
At the conclusion of Obron’s statement Castor bent his head, lower than a nod but not so deep as a bow, an implied admission of the truth of Obron’s prediction. Castor turned on his heel, bent low upon entering the passage, and picked his way back to his own apartment.
Chapter Nine
In the narrow streets of Alicon the night took on a murky complexion. Orange torches flickered here and there but gave off little light. In the randomly situated swellings of the road the thin pink light of Fane’s first moon, Dolos, tinted the earth. The second moon, Minos, would rise full and pale yellow in another hour or two.
Grantin now wandered the streets somewhat at loose ends. After a few less than subtle hints from first Flourice and then, later, the tavern keeper himself, he had settled his score and left the comfort of the tavern’s patio. In pay* ment he had been required to give Flourice the silver entrusted to him by his uncle. A moment later she returned with four coppers in change. In recompense for her somewhat haughty attitude Grantin would have been satisfied to leave a tip of five or six irons, but he had none in his purse. Flourice’s insistent glare deterred him from asking for change. He left one copper on the tray and dropped the other three into bis purse. Now the change from the silver, together with the two coppers given him by Greyhorn, left Grantin with a total of five.
Coincidentally Greyhorn had instructed him to pay five coppers for the ring which he had been sent to fetch. Well, perhaps by reason of the force of his personality, some spirited haggling, the exercise of his enormous powers of perception and persuasion, Grantin supposed that he might convince the fellow to let him have the ring for less. And if not, well, he could always give the messenger a copper or two as a down payment and return later with the additional money.
Unfortunately Grantin had no other money. Could Greyhorn be persuaded to advance the rest? After all, it was Greyhorn’s ring. No, that was not a good idea. The silver and two coppers also had been Greyhorn’s. He might be a bit perturbed to find that Grantin had spent them on steak and wine and lodgings, leaving his errand unperformed.
In the past Greyhorn had displayed unpleasant habits when angered. In such situations he often gave free rein to his darker proclivities. Grantin, in particular, remembered the unfortunate gardener who had foolishly cut down Greyhorn’s dragon thistles,. mistaking them for weeds. The last time Grantin had seen the fellow, in place of hair there protruded from the gardener’s head four clumps of dandelions.
Grantin decided it was definitely a bad idea to return home lacking both the money and the ring. But if the ring cost five coppers and Grantin only had five coppers, then that left no coppers for a bed tonight or breakfast tomorrow. Clearly a disagreeable situation all the way around.
Ahead of Grantin and to his left flamed two torches marking the entrance to one of Alicon’s three hostelries. The inns, named in order of their comfort, were the Weary Traveler’s Rest, the Savoy, and Master Percival’s Renowned Out Inn. The sign between the torches proclaimed this to be the Savoy. Grantin went inside.
“Good evening, sir. What is your pleasure?” the innkeeper’s wife asked him.
“One of your excellent rooms for the evening, if you please,” Grantin replied politely.
“Of course, sir. We have one available on the second floor overlooking the river. Only last week we fitted it with a new mattress and pillow.”
“Just the thing. I’ll take it.”
“That will be three coppers and five irons, sir, in advance.”
“Naturally I understand your very reasonable precautions, but in this case they are unnecessary. I am Grantin, nephew of the great wizard Greyhorn, whose magnificent manor house lies a mere two leagues down the road. Through an unfortunate set of circumstances I find myself forced to remain in town this evening instead of returning to my own luxurious quarters. This being all unplanned, I naturally am a bit short of ready cash; but fear not, there is no problem. I am here on business for my uncle and I assure you that as soon as I complete it I will fetch your coppers and return…
In the midst of Grantin’s statement the innkeeper’s wife began shaking her head. Now, unable to hold her peace any longer, she interrupted him.
“No credit.”
“But my uncle—”
“No credit. That is our policy, as unalterable as the mountains and the seas. If Amis Hartford himself were to appear here this evening he would have to pay cash like the rest or sleep in the street.”
“Perhaps some job—a minor service—a task or two?…Can’t you do anything but shake your head? All right. All right, I’ll take my trade elsewhere.”
In a fit of pique Grantin strode across the small lobby and outside. A breeze ruffled his hair. In the distance, to his right, a Rex lizard cried. There lay the livery stables of his uncle’s nemesis—Dobbs, the town’s current mayor.
At dawn the next morning Grantin dreamed that he was being attacked by two men armed with knives. Unmercifully they stabbed his tender body. Grantin awoke with a start to discover the triple prongs of a stableman’s pitchfork rhythmically puncturing the seat of his pants. Grantin leapt up, grasped his neck to make sure the amulet was still in place, then raced from the stable, only a foot or two in front of Dobbs’s fork.
Five minutes later Grantin was still shaking straw from his hair and dust from his ears. Alicon began to awaken. Again the odor of food rode delightfully on the breeze. This morning Grantin was so hungry that he would even settle for gruel. In his right pocket his fingers nervously sifted several handfuls of oats which he had borrowed from Dobbs’s supply.
Well Water was available at the pump in the square Soon the Street of the Artisans would be open for business. Undoubtedly among the stalls reposed die booth of an iron maker who possessed a copious supply of pots. Certainly among so many implements one of them would have an odd color, texture, or trace of scale. One did.
“This pot seems odd,” Grantin told the artisan. “I have in my purse five coppers, but I don’t wish to buy something which will make the food taste strange.”
“There’s nothing wrong with my pot” the ironmonger exclaimed. “It’s the equal of any other pot in the whole town, probably better.”
“Perhaps, perhaps; but what if I take it home and cook my lunch only to find the food has an unusual flavor? I might even get sick and die.”
“This is all nonsense. Here, take it and try it for yourself. Old Rasco across the way has a nice fire going. Tell him I sent you. Take the pot and cook your breakfast with it”
“Well, I hadn’t planned on having porridge. I usually dine at the inn. Coincidentally, however, I do have a few oats in my pocket left over from feeding my Rex. Understandably I wouldn’t normally eat that sort of thing myself. Over in the comer, however, you seem to have a bit of dried meat Perhaps a small fragment or two to season the oats and I would be able to solve once and for all the questions of the healthfulness of your wares.”
“There is no question as of healthfulness of my pots! How dare you even suggest such a thing?”
“Well, you know how rumors are…
“Here! Here! Take the meat and a handful of wheat, too. No rumormonger will sully my reputation!”
Oh, well, gruel did have its advantages. It filled the belly and eased the mind. After breakfast and a nice nap in the warm morning sun Grantin would be ready to locate the accursed ring. In a few hours he would be home for lunch.
Grantin seemed to have barely reclined in the lush blue-green grass when something awakened him. Groggily he lifted his head. As he was massaging the back of his neck a loud bong sounded from the tower across the square—the village clock marking the second hour. So late already?
Gran tin stretched his arms and came to his feet Around him the industrious citizens of Alicon bustled about their affairs. Again Grantin ambled back to the Street of the Artisans.
For half an hour Grantin strolled through the shops and booths, Greyhorn’s amulet on prominent display. Standing in front of the silver workers’ arcade, he sensed that he was being studied. To his. right stood a middle-aged, brown-haired peasant. Wearing neutral clothing and of an undistinguished guild, the fellow seemed to be peering at Grantin from the corners of his eyes. Could this be the contact? Best that he acquire the accursed ring and be gone. Grantin wandered next to the man and pretended to examine the rings in the silversmith’s tray.
“Lovely workmanship,” Grantin suggested.
“Yes, absolutely first rate,” the man replied, turning toward Grantin. The peasant’s eyes drifted toward the amulet and then, self-consciously, lifted to Grantin’s face “That’s an interesting bit of workmanship you’ve got there,” the man said, nodding at the pendant dangling from Grantin’s neck.
“Yes, it’s been in our family a long time,” Grantin replied. Now was the time for the fellow to mention the ring.
Instead of giving the code, however, the man stood silent and nervous, apparently unsure how to proceed. The peasant’s odd behavior, coupled with the appearance of a more attractive customer, caused Grantin to rapidly lose interest in the conversation. Behind the stranger Grantin spied a lovely young woman who now looked frankly in his direction.
Dressed all in black velvet, she had tawny hair that flowed in waves down below her shoulders. Her face was strong; her eyes sparkled with golden fire. Beneath the soft folds of her gown twin swellings of a voluptuous figure were apparent.
“…I said, would you like to sell it?” the man asked.
“What was that again?” Grantin asked.
“Your amulet—would you like to sell it?”
“No, it’s not for sale. Excuse me; I think I see a new friend.” Grantin approached the girl.
“Miranda, it’s so good to see you again,” he began. “It must have been—”
“You have mistaken me for someone else,” the girl replied sternly.
“Someone else? I don’t see how…”
“My name is Mara, not Miranda,” she continued in a businesslike tone. “That certainly is an interesting amulet you are wearing.”
The cursed necklace again! Why did he bother showing his face at all? He might as well wear a sack and twirl the pendant over his head on a string.
“A mere trifle, not nearly so pretty as you. You live around here—”
“The gem in the amulet is very unusual,” Mara interrupted, as though she had not heard a word Grantin had said. Did she seem the slightest bit afraid? Could such a lovely and self-assured creature be insecure? Never; Grantin would not allow such a thing.
“I…”
Mara grasped Grantin’s left arm. She pulled him to the comer of the booth. Taking a deep breath, seeming almost as if she were speaking against her will, Mara continued in a throaty whisper.
“The stone in my ring seems to be the same kind as in your pendant”
From a slit in the side of her robe the girl removed a golden-yellow metal ring inset with an oval, blood-red stone. She was careful not to touch the band with her bare flesh; instead she held it wrapped in a bit of velvet Gratin stared at the object, transfixed by the highlights glimmering from its surface. Mara watched him expectantly. After a moment she prompted:
“Your family has had the amulet a long time?”
Oh, the code, the silly code.
“Yes, my father had a ring that was so,” he recited, feeling foolish.
“Then you should have this to complete the family treasure,” Mara volunteered. “I will sell it to you for five coppers.”
Grantin removed the coins and placed them in Mara’s outstretched hand. When his fingers brushed her palm he felt an almost electric tingle.
Ignoring the black velvet upon which it rested, Grantin picked up the band. Fearing that he might lose it if he merely dropped it into his purse, he slipped the bauble over the index finger of his left hand.
For a moment or two Gran tin concentrated on adjust* ing the ring so that the stone might be displayed to its best advantage. With his eyes averted he failed to see a look of astonished fear wash across Mara’s face.
This couldn’t be the lackey whom Hazar had ordered her to beguile. Only the most powerful of wizards would dare place a bloodstone in contact with his flesh. In only a few minutes Grantin’s sweat would penetrate the metal and the ring would be bonded to his finger forever. Ob* viously the wizard must have distrusted all his cronies and decided to come himself.
So this was the great Greyhorn. What an excellent disguise he had chosen. He looked just like a moderately attractive but soft, lazy, and ineffectual youth. And to think that she had almost been so foolish as to attempt to enchant him with a simple spell. That would have been disaster indeed.
I’ve done as much as I can, Mara told herself, and was possessed of an overwhelming desire to flee. She turned her back on Grantin, breathed a sign of relief, and walked out into the Street of the Artisans.
“Wait! Just a moment—there’s no need to hurry off!” Grantin shouted. He sprinted up to Mara’s side. She ignored him and continued her brisk pace to the end of the lane.
“Our business is done,” she said without turning.
“We may have new business. You’re an absolutely enchanting woman. I’m sure that we have many things in common.”
“You have your mission, wizard, and I have mine. My job is completed. I have a long way to go. Surely you realize that I am but a small part of this plan. Besides, we both know it is not good for such as us to become involved with each other.”
