by David Grace
"Captain, as you well know," Hartford replied, "the colonists decide what is and is not a suitable planet. We're staying here. If you're worried about our not having enough muscle power, perhaps we'll keep the criminals as indentured servants. I am sure they would choose to stay here in preference to New Ossening."
"Those men are cargo!" Marvin shouted. "They are my responsibility, and nobody takes . . . ."
The captain halted in mid-sentence, speechless with astonishment and fury. Quiet, well-mannered, precise Amis Hartford stood there pointing a pistol at the captain's stomach. Without spoken orders other colonists appeared at the captain's side and relieved him of his weapons. As if by a common signal the crewmen guarding the meadow were also disarmed. Within a few moments captain, crew, and criminals were herded into a tight circle at the foot of the ship's ramp. Amis Hartford addressed the entire complement.
"The captain has decided that for the good of his ship he must depart immediately. I, and those who follow me, will remain. Yonder is the ship, and here is the site of the first city of the New Reformed Credentialists. Those who wish to help us found our city come to me. Those who wish to return to space, and perhaps New Ossening, may board the Lillith."
The captain's anger had now transformed itself into a cold frenzy. He said not a word, but it was clear from his expression that he was determined to return and send everyone, colonists and criminals alike, to New Ossening. No one contravened Marvin's commands or hijacked his cargo.
The colonists moved to Amis Hartford's side. Next, hesitantly, one of the expurgators arose and slowly walked toward Hartford as well.
"Come back here, you scum!" Marvin shouted. The expurgator stopped and looked back at Marvin uncertainly. Then he turned .and studied Hartford. In his years of strife and travail the expurgator had learned one thing: always take orders from the man with the gun. With barely a second's hesitation, he turned his back on the captain and crossed the meadow to stand a few feet apart from the ranks of colonists.
"The rest of you transportees, if you wish to stay you must spend the next ten years as our indentured servants. After that time you will be freed. If this does not please you, go back aboard the ship."
The rest of the criminals crossed the meadow, and a few of the crewmen as well, myself and six of my brother and sister Ajaj among them. In a few minutes it was done. The captain and two thirds of the crew boarded the ship. The ramp slid away. The hatch began to close.
A few seconds later the whine of the Lillith's generators filled the air. As the great cryogenic magnets began to fill with charge, slowly she bucked her way through Fane's oscillating magnetic field. While the colonists focused their attention on the rising ship I sensed a new source of power and wandered toward its focus. At the edge of the clearing stood Gogol and Windom, waving their hands in a complex pattern of interwoven circles.
With the Lillith a pinpoint two thousand yards in the sky, Gogol and Windom simultaneously clapped their hands, pointed their fingers, and uttered a great curse. The Lillith fragmented and shattered like a bullet-blasted mirror. A twinkling rain of metal fragments cascaded across the sky. The colonists stood transfixed by the disaster.
In that instant Gogol, Windom, and three of the zombiests seized five guns, four women, and three Ajaj and fled into the forest. Though chase was given almost at once no sign of the fugitives or their captives could be discovered. All had fled into the heartland of Fane to found their own empire.
So it began. This is the history, the source, the genesis, of the Gogols and the Hartfords, the twin camps which inhabit our world. There is much to tell of my brother Ajaj, the Grays, who serve the Gogols, and my people, the Pales, who share Fane with the Hartfords, and of the Fanists. Always the Fanists, but the story is long and I must rest. Later, perhaps I will tell the tale.
* * *
Grantin pushed the book away from him and stretched his arms above his head. He had finished volume one. The flame on his lantern popped and flickered and seemed ready to sputter out. It was late, later than he had meant to stay.
Downstairs, he heard the creak of the great front door opening under Greyhorn's hand. Grantin stumbled about the room in a flurry of sudden activity. He replaced the book, blew out the flame, and took down the blanket. Now, stoop-shouldered, bent and sore, only a few seconds ahead of Greyhorn's tread, he tottered off to his bunk.
Chapter Four
Grantin yawned, stretched his arms, and attempted to burrow his head into his pillow. His nostrils filled with the odor of the pillow's ticking, a fragrance like the mixture of burlap and wet hay. Regretfully he forced open his eyes, sat up on his bunk, and stared around the room.
A clock stood on the dresser. Grantin rubbed his bloodshot eyes and strained to read the glowing numbers. A beam of light penetrated a hole carefully drilled in the far wall. As the sun arose the shaft of light inched its way down the tall column of etched glass. The front of the clock was studded with hemispherical bulbs of black-painted crystal. On the surface of each dome a number was etched through the paint. As the light struck the back side of the dimples the figure glowed and so announced the hour. The Hartfords had long ago decreed that each day would be twenty hours long, to be divided into two sets of ten hours each. Sunrise was at the first hour B. D. (Before Dark); lunch typically at the fifth hour; dinner at the tenth; midnight at the fifth hour A.D. (After Dark); and sunrise at the end of the tenth hour. Grantin stared incredulously at his clock. The beam was between the third and fourth hours--no, almost to the fourth hour. Could someone have moved the instrument and so impaired its accuracy?
Grantin threw wide the covers and leaped from his bed. He pulled on a pair of rough woven pants, a white homespun shirt, and the same soft shoes he had worn last night. Without washing he slipped from his room and raced downstairs.
First he went behind the manor to lay in a supply of firewood. After a few minutes of swinging the ax he regretted his deficiencies as a wizard. Had he merely practiced a few simple spells he could have added insuperable keenness to the blade, strength to his shoulders, and lightness to the ax, not to mention steel-like toughness to his now blistering hands.
Grantin worked with a will. Shortly he tottered back to the house beneath an enormous pile of rudely cut kindling. After storing the firewood he cleaned the dishes, then swept the floor. Mercifully, this morning Greyhorn was occupied in another portion of the house and did not enter the kitchen until almost the fifth hour, by which time Grantin had completed his chores and was beginning to lay the table for lunch.
"Good morning, uncle," Grantin said politely. "Did everything go well last night?"
"What do you know about last night?" Greyhorn growled. As he spoke he turned his head sideways and studied Grantin with a mean, squinty glance.
"Nothing, uncle. I don't know anything about what you did last night. But obviously you did something last night, because you weren't here and because you got up late this morning, and I just wondered if whatever it was that you were doing that I don't know about, if--"
"Stop your inane babbling! Just listening to you makes me forget half of my spells." Greyhorn turned an inquisitive eye to the kitchen and then nodded slightly, apparently satisfied with what he saw. "Well, at least you've been working this morning, doing something constructive for a change. Perhaps you have a skill after all. With a little work you might qualify as a fourth assistant wife. Well, let's see if your cooking measures up today. Bring me lunch--and none of those wretched boiled root whistles either. While we're at it, I'll thank you to never again make snail gravy. The last batch turned my throat the color of a Fanist's hoof."
"We have cold broiled chicken and seedbread," Grantin suggested, "and I could make you a red-leaf salad."
"Fine. Set the table, and bring a portion for yourself. Hurry, now, I have an errand for you."
Grantin returned in a moment with the meat, bread, and salad and, for good measure, added a slab of fine white cheese accompanied by a bowl of sugared berries.
Not to Grantin's taste, however, was the beverage. Grey-horn insisted on plain spring water. The wizard claimed that alcohol dulled his senses and inhibited his powers.
Greyhorn relaxed during the meal and some of the surliness seemed to leak away. Sensing a mellowing attitude, Grantin attempted to turn the conversation to a discussion of the approaching fair at Gist.
"Is the meat cooked enough for you, uncle?" Grantin began.
"Quite satisfactory," Greyhorn allowed.
"You know, uncle, I've been thinking about what you said earlier, about my skill as a cook. Perhaps I should enter something in the fair. What do you think?"
"Fair? I have no time for such things."
"Oh, come now, uncle, you must remember the fair at Gist. It's the biggest of the year. Yes, there are many opportunities at such doings. With just a bit of help I think quite a few triumphs might be arranged."
"What kind of help?" Greyhorn asked as he fixed Grantin with a suspicious glare.
"Well, uncle, you know that occasionally, from time to time, a man makes a few unfortunate enemies--persons of low social status who resent their betters--and these petty jealousies sometimes get in the way of true advancement. There is, for example, the small matter of those peasants, the Bondinis. I paid some slight attention--out of common courtesy, no more--to their daughter. Those ruffians have blown the matter all out of proportion until it now assumes the pattern of a blood feud. They have no sensibilities at all. Imagine attempting to lay hands on the nephew of the great wizard Greyhorn.
"But I have just the plan to settle with them. One or two of your minor spells would render my person inviolate--perhaps something that would discharge balls of green fire to blast the fingers of any who might accost me during my trip to the fair. Ha, ha, that would be a lesson to them, would it not! Those Bondinis would learn to trifle with--"
"Stop, nephew. I perceive where this discussion is going. Perhaps you might like a talisman to bring you good luck at the doughnut toss. The ability to read playing cards from the back sides would be helpful at the fair, would it not? And, of course, a love potion or two for some wandering maiden who is lonely and needs your caress? Are these the sorts of things that, perhaps, you thought might be appropriate baggage for your planned expedition to Gist?"
"Why, uncle, what a marvelous suggestion! I had no idea--"
"Shut up, you imbecile! Of course you had no idea. You never have any idea, you twit! Do you know what magic is?"
Grantin half closed his eyes and dredged up the catechism phrases from the corners of his memory. " 'Magic is the method by which the powers of the heavens and the earth are used by men for--'"
"None of that nonsense prattle! You don't know what magic is, but I will tell you this one last time. Try and get it through your thick head. Magic is the control of the power. The power is not in me. It is not in you. It is not in the Fanists or the Ajaj or the Gogols--or anyone. The power is in the world. It is part of the very stuff of Fane.
"Our spells, our amulets and potions--the words, the motions of the hand, the aspect of the body and the eyes, the tightness of the muscles, the pumping of blood through our veins, all points and parameters of our being--are only a means to control the power. I am a great sorcerer because I have great control over the power. I am a conduit, a conductor. The power flows through me at my bidding like sparks through a lightning rod.
"Do you know why there are very few master sorcerers? Shut your mouth--of course you don't. It's because the more powerful the spell, the more energy the wizard must channel and control. The slightest mistake in the pronunciation of a powerful spell, the minutest deviation from prescribed ritual, will cause the power to go awry. Then it will no longer be conducted through the wizard and onto the object of the spell but will dissipate inside his own body or in some unpredictable locale with an unknowable result. The wizard or his house or family may then be blasted by the energy which he has sought to control.
"Few men wish to take such risks, and of those who do, the incompetent are soon killed. Only the finest wizards, the most powerful men, are able to survive their apprenticeship. That is why no apprentice wizard is allowed to marry. The weak ones are killed without fathering children. Those experts, such as myself and your father and our grandfather, are preserved to pass along the traits of success.
"Were I to throw open my books to you or even allow you to attempt some of my most elementary processes, you would no doubt instantly blast yourself to kingdom come. That is why most men, most creatures on this planet, stick to the simple spell. There the powers which are invoked are so weak that the chance of harm is small. And that is also why, year after year, sons follow the professions of their fathers--because history has shown that their fathers had the skill, the innate, inborn, inbred instinct, to safely manipulate the incantations native to their craft. So the chances are higher that the son will also succeed in that same occupation.
"Now, you ask me to manipulate a few simple spells for you as if it were no more effort than pouring a glass of water. You idiot! The greater the energies which I control, the more of my own energy I must expend. Spells are not free. It is effort. It is work to achieve the desired goal. Each time I call upon the powers I tire myself, I weaken a bit. If someday I strain myself too far, I may weaken to the point where I make a mistake and become the instrument of my own death.
"So, therefore, my lazy nephew, my ignorant nephew, my incompetent nephew, there will be no love potions, no good-luck fetishes, no power of penetrating vision, and for the fair no spell of physical protection.
"Now"--Greyhorn brought Grantin to a state of attention with a buffet--"pay attention. There's work to be done. Wake up! Look smart! I do have an important task for you. Against my better judgment I am going to give you the opportunity to make something of yourself. As you've no doubt discerned, I've already resigned myself to the fact that you'll never be a wizard. However, from time to time, you may make yourself useful. You may, if the powers be willing, in some time derive into your full occupation as my factotum, majordomo, and chief lackey.
"Now listen to me, Grantin. Things are on the rise. A new wind nips through the trees. Events shape themselves under the hands of strong men such as myself. If you perform well and prove yourself worthy, you may yet bask warmly in the reflected glory of my success.
"Here, take this amulet and hang it about your neck. It will be a sign to the one you will meet of whom you represent. You are to travel to Alicon, past the Hall of the Fabricators and into the Street of the Artisans. I will give you a spell of protection for the trip.
"Wear the necklace in plain sight, but do not part with it. Give it to no one, no matter what anyone may offer you. By and by, after admiring the amulet a stranger will tell you of a ring which contains a stone of the same material. When you see the ring say: 'My father had a ring that was so.' The person should answer: 'Then you should have this to complete the family treasure.' The person will offer to sell you the ring for five coppers. Buy the ring and return it and the amulet to me. Now, is all clear to you?"
Grantin fondled the pendant, which was welded to a heavy gold-alloy chain. The object was a dull copperish color, round, heavy, and uneven, the workmanship crude. In the center of the disk was mounted an oval red stone polished to a silky smoothness. In the light the gem glittered with bloody highlights. A nice enough gimcrack, Grantin thought, but not of surpassing value. It might be worth a silver or two but not much more. Grantin studied the amulet for a moment and then looked back at his uncle.
"I do have a few questions, uncle, now that you mention it. Who is it that I'm going to meet? What do we do with the ring once we get it? How long--"
"Silence! A lackey doesn't ask questions. He follows orders."
"But you asked if I had any questions."
"I didn't mean it. Now go! It's already approaching the sixth hour. If by chance you are not met today, remain in town and return to the Street of the Artisans tomorrow. Stay there until you get the ring
. Guard it with your life. Here are a silver and two coppers. That should be sufficient to cover your food and lodging, provided that you are prudent and invest in medium-grade straw for the pallet and nourishing gruel for your evening meal. Now, be on your way."
Grantin retrieved his brown leather jacket and slid the amulet into his pocket. He opened the front door and, slinging the coat over his shoulder, walked out into the early-afternoon sunshine. A lovely day, a protective spell guarding him from the Bondinis' wrath, a trivial task, and money in his pocket. What could possibly go wrong?
Chapter Five
From his workshop window Greyhorn watched his nephew pace the trail toward Alicon. A vague anxiety began to pervade the wizard's vitals. Grantin was an indolent, irresponsible, spendthrift, but what could go wrong with so simple a task?
Greyhorn watched Grantin's departing figure until it reached the bottom of the slope, then he turned back to his workbench. He had been experimenting with a contrivance of glass and steel which he hoped would operate as a focusing mechanism for his more powerful spells. In a few days it would be ready for a test. The subject? Hazar's form immediately sprang to mind. Yes, this device would possibly slow the villain down a bit.
As if his thoughts of the Gogol prince had tripped a relay, the black wizard's form suddenly called to Greyhorn from the lens. Greyhorn pushed his psychic condenser to the side of the table, then positioned himself in front of the plate. Palm outward, Greyhorn moved his right hand in a sweeping pass in front of the lens. Immediately Hazar's visage appeared.
"Hazar," Greyhorn called. "Have you called to tell me that your fellows have at last agreed that you shall be their chief?"
"Not yet, Greyhorn, but soon, soon. No, I merely wish to inform you that my messenger has been delayed and will not reach Alicon until tomorrow morning. Your courier may delay his departure until sunrise."