by David Grace
"Departure? I don't believe I indicated that my associate lived outside of Alicon. In any event you are too considerate, Hazar. My messenger will be ready to receive the ring, be it tonight or tomorrow or even the day after."
"Excellent, Greyhorn, I'm glad you are so well organized. I'll tell you this: your associate is a lucky fellow indeed. The person whom he will meet is a rare beauty."
"Assuming that my subordinate is a man, I accept your assurances of the lady's beauty," Greyhorn replied frostily. Grantin to meet a lovely woman! He'd rue the day he was born if he let her get the better of him, Greyhorn promised himself. He turned his attention back to the lens. "So, Hazar, what other news have you for me? Does all go smoothly with your plans? Everyone is ready for the attack? No little inconveniences or difficulties?"
"Well, in these things there are always minor snags here and there. Hardly difficulties worth mentioning."
Greyhorn's interest was instantly aroused. "Little snags? Perhaps you should describe them to me so that I can watch for similar problems arising among my fellow Hartfords."
"Small chance of that. One of our Grays is being a bit obstreperous, but he'll be settled with shortly."
"A Gray causing trouble? I thought they were the most spiritless, docile creatures in existence. I have always been given to understand that the Ajaj Grays follow your every command. It would seem that an Ajaj voicing complaints is truly an extraordinary act."
"Perhaps extraordinary, but not at all important. The Ajaj take little interest in our affairs. Certainly your Ajaj Pales will have no role in the coup. No, this fellow is obviously one of those random mutants who prove the rule. I'm sure the slightest reproach from the lowliest of my subdeacons will have him cringing in abject obedience."
"Still," Greyhorn replied, "one must tread warily with the Ajaj. They have their own powers. My ancestors found that those who had molested them often disappeared without a trace."
"Possibly true of the Pales, but the Grays accept our rule. We assign them tasks which they perform without complaint. They are controlled by their own leaders."
"No doubt you are right, Hazar. In any event the Grays are your problem, not mine. I will have the ring tomorrow, and seven days hence I will order the attack on the defenders of the mountain pass."
"Yes, Greyhorn," Hazar said as he broke the connection, "soon you will have all the power you can use."
But what's power to a dead man? Hazar gleefully asked himself once the screen was clear. That arrogant, flint-eyed poseur, Greyhorn, would never live to be one of the lords in Hazar's empire. Already Maurita, Greyhorn's dear Maurita, had supplied Hazar with a bit of Greyhorn's hair and a fragment of dead skin from his left big toe.
Hazar chuckled at Greyhorn's cold reception of the probes regarding the identity of the courier. That would keep the old fool guessing. Hazar already knew that it was Greyhorn's worthless nephew Grantin who went to receive the ring. Now, if only Mara played her part, beguiled him, seduced him, and then smeared a drop of Grantin's blood upon the bloodstone. The blood which flowed in Grantin's veins was like that which flowed in Greyhorn's. Together with Mara's enchantment it would cause the ring, once in Greyhorn's possession, to lose its power within a month. Then, with the hair and skin and blood which Mara would bring back to him, Hazar would destroy both uncle and nephew as easily as a lumberjack squashes an ant. Except for that ridiculous Ajaj Castor, all of Hazar's plans proceeded apace.
What to do about that troublemaker? First he must be isolated from his own kind. Without the support of his fellows, Castor's death was far less likely to cause annoying repercussions. Hazar crossed his workroom and stuck his head into the anteroom beyond. "Rupert, come in here, I have a task for you." Rupert urged his sweaty, dumpy body to its feet. The deacon's skin was a pallid, waxy white and glistened softly under its sheen of oil. The brown, thinning hair was greasy and combed straight back in limp chestnut strands.
"Rupert, I have a job for you. I want you to get yourself over to the Ajaj settlement and straighten out one of the Grays. Word has reached me that one of these fellows has been urging his associates to resist my orders.
"You talk to the chief of that race of sheep--the chief decision maker or random factor or whatever it is they call her--and tell her to take steps to solve this problem. You make sure that she orders this Gray, this Castor, to cease his seditious propaganda and to withdraw all his previous remarks. Be sure she understands that if she does not silence Castor herself we will take steps to do so. Further, she must realize that there is to be no unpleasantness if we are forced to take matters into our own hands."
"I am to obtain the promise of the decision maker to deal with this fellow, then?"
"Nonsense! One doesn't trust a sheep to do the job of a huntcat. First talk to the decision maker, then secret yourself in a likely spot, recite the appropriate incantation, and observe how she handles the problem. If the matter is concluded, all well and good. I will then reduce Castor to the position of a scullery assistant or garbage picker for his impertinence, and that will be that. On the other hand"--Hazar now fixed Rupert with an intent steely gaze--"if for any reason this Gray continues in his treason, you are to kill him in a most spectacular method. Nothing ordinary, now--no drops of poison or clean slash of the knife. Turn him into a human fireball. Explode him like an overinflated bladder. Cause him to pull off his legs and beat himself over the head with them -- something to make an example of him."
"It shall be as you command, Hazar."
"Of course it will. Now, get to it!" Rupert hurried from the room with a strange rubbery grace. Hazar closed and locked the door behind him. In a moment the wizard had forgotten Castor and the Ajaj, and Greyhorn as well. Instead he turned to his workbench and commenced even further refinements of the spell which, when augmented by the powerstones which he would soon possess, would be sufficient to amplify his army's power to the point where it might conquer every being on the planet, Hartford, Gogol, Ajaj, and Fanist alike.
Chapter Six
Orange pinpoints glittered from the veins of mica which ran through Castor's walls. The translucent tissue which normally covered the window had been rolled out of the way, allowing the mid-afternoon sun to enter through the grate. Hewn from the center of a monstrous boulder, the room was spacious by Ajaj standards--a full ten feet on a side, with a ceiling six feet high. Behind Castor a narrow passageway connected the main room with a large, circular, rock-walled bath. On one side of the hall a crevice five feet long, three deep, and two high had been hollowed out. Here Castor passed the nights on a thin straw mattress hidden behind a woven screen. Now the Ajaj sat before his window, apparently enthralled by the view ahead and below.
Beyond the walls of Castor's apartment could be seen huge boulders, slabs, and blocks tumbled each about the other, the whole field of stone sloping downward into a narrow valley some three hundred yards below. It was within the crevices, hollows, caves, and hideaways formed by these stones that the Ajaj Grays made their home.
Am I the only one who knows what should be done? Castor asked himself. Am I so different from my fellows? Perhaps I am mad, or cursed.
The view was incomparably lovely. So easy to relax in the serenity of Fane, to block out the world beyond the valley. In these very apartments there was room for the other two members of a triad. Castor was of the proper age to begin a family. It would be no great task to cut two more niches in the wall and add a small fertility closet for the appropriate rites. Impossible, impossible. Destiny pulled him in another direction. Well, that was the Ajaj way. Castor shrugged and gave himself to his fate. He would visit the decision maker and make one last attempt to convince her of the need for them to flee or, failing that, to oppose the Gogols.
Stooping, Castor negotiated the zigzag narrow passage which led between the boulders. His three-foot form slipped effortlessly between the crags. In a few moments Castor had reached the entrance to Obron's lodgings. He made chirping sounds. An instant later two more
chirps sounded from within, and he entered Obron's apartment.
"Castor, I thought it might be you," Obron said when Castor moved into the light. "Your suggestions have disturbed many people. The Gogols themselves are enraged."
"The Gogols? How have they become involved in this?"
"How could they not be involved? Your remarks bear directly upon our relationship with them. Surely it was inevitable that one way or another they would be consulted."
His people were slaves of the Gogols, and when someone objected, their masters were asked for their opinion on the topic! Incredible. Yet it should have been predicted. He was so unlike his brothers. Perhaps he was indeed mad. Castor waved his hands in inexpressible frustration.
"I must admit that I had not considered that possibility," he said at last. "Naturally the Gogols were not pleased with my suggestions."
"Naturally not."
"Well, then, now that they are alerted, all the more reason for us to flee. Come, Obron, surely you must see that. You are the soul of the Ajaj--the average, the stereotype, the representative of our common hopes and desires. Surely the random factor would not have chosen you if you did not feel what must be felt and see what must be seen."
"Castor, I feel that it is you who are out of step, not I. You know the Ajaj way: retreat from danger, accept our lot, protect ourselves, and bend with destiny. Here we are safe and secure. Our duties to the Gogols are not overly burdensome, and they offer protection against marauding bandits and rapacious animals."
"We could handle the bandits more easily than we can control the Gogols," Castor replied. "This is Fane. Here there are few beasts to threaten us, no slavers to drag us to some far star. The Gogols provide nothing that we could not provide for ourselves. Each year their service becomes more demanding, their lusts and perversions more repellent."
"No, Castor. Our duty is to protect the race, the tribe, the Ajaj. I've cast the stones five times, and each time they have picked a different member of our company. To each of these I have put your suggestions. Your ideas have been unanimously rejected. The random factor has not failed. We are all of the decision that we will neither fight nor flee. You, of course, may do as you wish, but I warn you that we cannot intercede on your behalf should the Gogols call you to task for your statements."
"I must do what I must do."
"We all do what we must do. Still I am duty bound to beg you to cease your arguments. Already Rupert, assistant to the great Hazar, has demanded that you be taken in hand. There is no doubt that if you fail to change your ways Rupert will have your life. If you continue the rest of us will not, cannot, intercede on your behalf."
Castor arose stiffly and nodded in Obron's direction. The day was waning. The room's diffused orange light turned his silver-gray fur to charcoal black. Castor slid from the room while Obron shook her head in silent despair. Four hundred yards farther up the hill Rupert also shook himself as he broke from his trance. A shiver passed through his body as he opened his eyes. Below, he could see Castor making his way back up the hill to his apartment. Clearly the insolent creature had to be dealt with.
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.
Chapter Seven
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:
HOUSE OF GUILDLESS LABORERS
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 & 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, tangle
d 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.