Chapter One
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.
Greyhorn again cocked his head and let his senses roam the hallways of his manor house. Yes, remarkable though it seemed, Grantin
was still in the library apparently hard at work. Greyhorn decided to look in on him. Perhaps later in the day he would charge Grantin
with the errand. He slipped from his workroom, sealed the door behind him, and padded to the library where Grantin studied a forbidden
history.
Chapter Two
Grantin pulled back the cover and
began to read the first page of the Ajaj's journal. The ink was of a brownish umber tone. The edges of each letter puddled and ran,
as though the fluid were unusually thin. When Grantin concentrated on some of the broader lines he was able to detect in the strokes
a shading of pale chocolate at the center darkening to a deep brown-black hue at the edges. The paper was an aged, mottled tan which
popped and crackled as he turned the pages. Nevertheless, the script was precise and demonstrated a fine expressive flair. The Ajaj
who had penned the book was a master scribbler indeed.
Grantin turned another rattling page, then halted to listen for sounds from
the corridor beyond. He remembered the last time his uncle had caught him reading this book.
"Here you are," Greyhorn had screamed,
"the nephew of a master wizard, and you can't even pluck a flower out of the ground without bending over to pick it up. Now, instead
of studying your spells, I catch you wasting your time with this nonsense. You're deficient, and every day you become a worse embarrassment
for me. Remember, this is not some sparkling dream planet. This is Fane, and I, as master wizard of this locality, have a reputation
to uphold."
Now, Grantin held his breath. The house was so quiet he could hear the beating of his own heart. He exhaled. With another
crackle he turned the page and continued his study of the history of Fane.
* * *
The Lillith was of acceptable construction and of the type often seen on our sad world Ajagel. Great blocks of metal and glass
were fused as needed. From the outside the starship appeared as a tumble of interlaced blocks and cubes, joined haphazardly at sides,
top, or bottom. In some ways she resembled the old, broken city of
Time period by time period the gray,
twisted space slipped behind us. One after another the planets we investigated were rejected by the colonists who had chartered the
Lillith.
One planet, 4-Clarion 4312, was passed because its gravity was twice what the humans were used to bearing. They did not wish
to carry too heavy a load. Another, 2-Marissa 1847, had a trace too much chlorine in the atmosphere. Our passengers claimed that this
would irritate their noses.
Captain Marvin had made an unfortunate charter arrangement. In an expansive moment he had agreed to take
the colonists out along the great spiral arm, eastward to the very edge of the galaxy, until such time as they found a suitable planet.
Here he had erred. Often we of the Ajaj, as well as the human members of the crew, disputed what might have happened had the contract
contained the word "habitable" instead of "suitable."
The voyage continued farther and farther until, at last, we approached the Great
Dog Nebula where the near stars were occluded by dust and debris. Beyond lay only interstellar fog and then the vast empty void.
Each
time period that the Lillith pressed on increased our captain's unhappiness. Farther and farther he departed from his course for our
next stop at New Ossening. Truly he was cursed that trip. He had also agreed to transport criminals to that bleak world, so much was
Captain Marvin in need of riches.
In the center of the mist of the Great Dog Nebula, almost alone in the heart of the interstellar
storm, rode the gigantic orange sun Pyra and its single planet: Fane.
Captain Marvin drove the Lillith toward this world. As senior
apprentice empather, I was summoned to my dials and nodes to test the flavor of the orb. The long-range scanners reported it not only
habitable but lush and fertile. Still, I tasted a strangeness about the world. This I reported to the captain, but it was news he
did not wish to hear.
The second officer, an Earthman named Barth, contended that the world had a strange fluctuating magnetic field.
He decreed that the core of the planet was of such an odd constituency that it generated an electromagnetic haze. This he assumed
to be the cause of the disturbance to our amplifiers and our instruments.
Without incident we landed in a meadow surrounded by pale
green trees and tall plants with leaves of striped blue and yellow. After the analyzer pronounced the atmosphere free of toxins, plagues,
and noxious elements the convicts were shackled waist to waist and sent out first to test the air. Remote sensors monitored their
blood and sweat. When they passed the test the colonists and the Ajaj and much of the crew were allowed to leave the Lillith.
Once
outside, teams of colonists commenced gathering samples of plant and animal life in an effort to determine if they were healthful
and nutritious. By the end of the watch the biologists had decided that all was well. Once freed of their roles as guinea pigs the
prisoners lay in the long grass, backs against humps of soil and up thrusting trees. Here they took a last sweet rest before their
shipment to bleak, bleak New Ossening where there are only clouds, damp, and death.
The criminals numbered sixteen and were of mixed
and varied backgrounds. Included in their number were three zombiests, a gamemaster, a handful of expurgators, four housebreakers,
and a master necromancer of the
By mid-afternoon Fane had been adjudged salubrious. The stevedores commenced unloading the colonists' supplies.
The task was almost complete when, from between two piles of duraplast crates, there appeared a strange creature.
Four-armed, smooth-skinned
and hairless, the biped was dressed in a seamless green garment which extended in the form of trousers from just above the midpoint
of his legs upward across the hips, groin, and stomach to cover his chest, shoulders, and back. The arms were sleeveless and the feet
and ankles bare as well. No seams, clasps, or fastenings could anywhere be detected.
The creature's skin was a medium gray, with the
dome of his skull deepening to a slate gray, almost charcoal color. The being's forehead seemed permanently wrinkled. The brows above
the large round eyes were ridged with gristle.
The Fanist calmly walked to the center of the camp and with mild courtesy watched the
exertions of the colonists and crew. The creature seemed neither hostile nor concerned.
One thing above all must be said about our
Captain Marvin--he was not a timid man. In fact, he was often referred to by the human crew members as possessing that-emotion which
they termed courage.
He approached the Fanist with a weapon prominently displayed at his belt, but with empty hands. In the background
all work stopped. The human crew soon armed themselves and formed a perimeter guard about the camp and ship. They found no other natives,
nor could they discover how this one had entered our midst unseen.
Captain Marvin went through the standard procedure for communicating
with a strange being. He recited a list of nouns, emphasized by gestures with his right arm.
"Marvin--rock--tree--ship--" The Fanist
stared at the captain but made no attempt to reply in kind.
Next, Captain Marvin attempted to demonstrate the personal pronoun "I,"
then to introduce a series of simple verbs.
"I run," he said as he pranced a few feet forward and back. "I sit," he announced and flopped
down onto the ground. An instant later he arose while declaring: "I stand."
The Fanist remained impassive, watching everything but
speaking not at all. Finally, to our amazement, he uttered two Terran words, "Talk more," followed by a sweep of one of his hands
in the direction of the captain, colonists, and crew. Immediately all conversation ceased. The humans stared at the Fanist with open
amazement. Angrily the captain shouted: "He said to talk. Everyone start talking."
For ten minutes the Fanist stood quietly in the
midst of the babbling colonists and crew, then, at last, he held up his upper right hand.
"Enough. I understand now. You are accepted."
"This
is your world?" the captain asked.
"We are here."
Captain Marvin pondered that statement for a moment and then replied: "We wish to
be here, too."
"You are here," the Fanist answered.
"You have no objections, then?"
"The world is as it is. Destiny shapes itself.
Everything will set itself in proper order. You are here. You are part of the order. What will you do?"
Amis Hartford, the leader of
the colonists, now strode forward. "We will build our city here," he declared. "We will grow and multiply and found our world."
"The
world is vast and there are limits. You are mistaken."
"With our things,"
"You will not build a great city."
"You intend to stop us, then?"
"Things are as they are. If you tell
me that you will drop a rock and that it will fall upward without the words, then I tell you it will not happen. I do not stop it,
but it does not happen."
"What will stop us? What words?"
"The words are necessary. Everything must be done with the words. My words
will not work for you. Each life has its own way. You will learn."
"Do you mean spells, incantations, witchcraft, mysticism? We are
civilized men. We do not believe in such things. We know better. The machines will serve us well."
The Fanist looked around the clearing.
He stared intently at the crated equipment, then looked back to Marvin and
"You will see. You will find your own way. It is all one. Destiny will take you where it will. I say back to you your own words: 'Good luck.'"
The Fanist turned to his left, weaved through the piles of supplies, and apparently without exiting the other side, disappeared.
* * *
Grantin jerked his head as he heard his uncle's slapping steps. He slammed shut the oversized
volume and shoved it under his arm. Greyhorn was close now, almost to the right-hand angle of the corridor. Grantin whirled and ran
for the shelves on the far side of the room. There he replaced the Ajaj history, then grabbed Hedgkin's The Magician's Constant Companion
and Source Book Compendium. Opening it at random, he settled in a chair with the volume on the table in front of him.
Grantin tried
to suppress his harsh breathing and will his heart to slow its pace. His eyes barely had time to focus on the page before his uncle
entered the room.
"I hope you're doing something useful for a change, nephew," Greyhorn announced in an accusatory tone.
Grantin looked
over his shoulder in a pathetic attempt to appear surprised. Greyhorn's expression remained unchanged, the winter-gray eyes open,
unblinking, the tip of his short, narrow nose pointing at a spot in the middle of Grantin's forehead, hard lines running from each
nostril to the comers of his mouth. A hint of angry furrows marred the sorcerer's brow.
Grantin swallowed and replied in a breathy,
nervous tone. "You'll have to excuse me, uncle, you startled me. Yes, I was just now reading the, uh-- Magician's Compendium, trying
to sharpen up my skills."
"Skills!" Greyhorn exclaimed. "I've seen cross-eyed, one-legged virgins with more skills than you possess.
You couldn't conjure up a tip of your hat if your life depended on it. Why I've been cursed with a nephew like you . . . ." Greyhorn
halted in mid-sentence, his cunning eyes looking past Grantin, across the table, and down to the lower shelf where the Ajaj scribbler's
history now lay slightly askew.
Greyhorn strode around the table, his wide cuffs and cape flapping behind him in the wind of his passage.
In an instant, he bent and examined the volume for signs of recent use. Greyhorn's suspicions aroused, he stood and turned to face
his nephew. Leaning forward across the table, he placed his hands on the planks and angled his great triangular head down and forward
until his nose halted only a foot in front of Grantin's nervously darting eyes.
Greyhorn stared at Grantin for a long minute, as if
he could divine his nephew's thoughts by shear mental concentration. Even though Grantin knew that his uncle's skills were those of
a high manipulator, master sorcerer, and workmanlike prestidigitator, he still felt a rippling chill course through his spine as though
Greyhorn now possessed the talents of a telepather as well.
One great, long-fingered hand shot out to cover the page that Grantin supposedly
had been reading. Greyhorn's bone-white member protruding from his midnight-black sleeve seemed like a skeleton's hand thrust out
from a freshly dug grave.
"What were you reading on this page?"
"Why, I--I-- The Magician's Compendium--"
"What were you reading on
this page?" For an instant Grantin's eyes flicked downward to scan the right-hand sheet.
"'--and so with the tri-finger and arm upraised
one pronounces, in the fourth voice and at the intermediately high volume, the incantation--'
"It's the spell . . . the spell for
warding off noxious mendicants and--and--other such people," Grantin suggested in a querulous tone.
"A Traditional Spell to Clear One's
House of Demonized Politicians and Other Odious Creatures," Greyhorn announced as he read from the book.
"Well, uncle," Grantin suggested
with a weak smile, "that's more or less correct. I can't be expected to memorize the titles of all of these things. As long as I get
the spell right, that's what really counts, isn't that so?"
"Bah! One more time, Grantin, one more time that I find you wasting your
days instead of working to make yourself worthy of being my nephew and I will evict you from my home. Only my solemn promise to your
father has allowed you to stay here this long. As you know, in one month you will be twenty-two and so, in law, my debt will be discharged.
Take care that I do not on that day send you out to make your own fortune. No doubt you would end up as little better than a barkscraper
or toothbuilder. Heed me, nephew: put this nonsense behind you or else there will be dark days ahead."
With a slap of his hands Greyhorn
stomped out of the room like a great black bird of prey. Grantin again looked down at The Magician's Compendium and, remembering some
long overdue debts, attempted to read one of the pages. The words seemed to shift beneath his gaze, and by the time he gained the
bottom of the page he had forgotten what he had read at the top.
Well, perhaps the fair at Gist two weeks hence would provide a solution
to his financial problems. With a thump Grantin closed the Compendium and began to plan how he might return to the library after dinner
and finish reading the ancient Ajaj history.
Chapter Three
Wearing
soft moccasins, Grantin crept noiselessly into the library. An oily black night coated the manor house's windows. As was customary
for this time of the month, Greyhorn was away from the house, off on some wizard's business which he refused to discuss or reveal.
Grantin
carried a blanket in his arms. He closed the library door behind him and then carefully hung the cloth over the window. When he was
certain it was secure he ignited a crude oil lantern and then removed the scribbler's great masterpiece. Settling himself into the
softest chair, he opened the book and began again to read:
* * *
Amis Hartford
stared for a moment at the spot where the Fanist had slipped between the crates. By some unknown method the native had disappeared.
After a moment
The
colonists went back to their duties. Those without specific tasks relaxed in the warm afternoon sun. Several of the criminals borrowed
decks of cards from the crewmen. Only Gogol and his assistant, Windom, remained aloof. Standing at the edge of the clearing, Gogol
seemed to fidget. He turned this way and that and scented the air like a predatory beast.
A few minutes later crewmen bearing boxes
of weapons left the ship. One of the crates was opened and pistols were brought forth. They consisted of hundreds of long, slender
rods bundled together side by side, polished and shiny on each end. The cylinder of glass rested upon a thick baseplate, underneath
which extended a metal handle.
One by one the colonists marched up to receive their weapons. The sixth man in line was a laborer named
Blotho who, having gotten into trouble on the docks of his native world, had joined the Lillith as an apprentice colonist.
Blotho was
large, even for a human, and towered more than twice my height. His skin was the color of copper. Curly black hair sprouted from between
the openings of his garments, the wire-like tendrils protruding at his throat, hands, ears, eyebrows, and toes. Blotho grasped the
pistol firmly in one great fist, then walked toward the edge of the clearing where he waved the weapon back and forth like a scythe.
Amis Hartford noticed his reckless behavior and shouted to Blotho to stop playing with the gun as if it were a toy.
At the sound of
the order Blotho suddenly turned. Catching his foot in a root, he fell, landing in an ungainly sprawl. The pistol flew from his hand
and smashed against one of the rocks which marred the face of the meadow. Showers of pulverized crystal erupted from the barrel and
Blotho uttered a roaring oath:
"Damn the idiots who gave us guns of glass! Blast them and all their broken toys!"
The words had hardly
left his throat when his body seemed to change. The colonist's skin began to harden. It glistened even as he struggled to his feet.
Barely had Blotho arisen before his joints froze and his voice strangled into silence. His flesh became like polished mail. Light
danced in shimmers through his arms. In a few minutes every inch of him, even his hair, teeth, and eyes, had become a glowing crystalline
material. His ship-issued clothes were the only aspect which remained untainted, his few pieces of clothing rustled free in the breeze.
Blotho's head was as hard as diamond, his fingers as unbreakable as steel. All of us sensed, in that instant, that what the native
had said was true: Fane was a very special world and we did not know the words or the way.
When the sun set two moons appeared, one
shortly after the other. The first cast a pale pink light across the meadow and Amis Hartford named it Dolos. About an hour later
the second, promptly named Minos, rose into the sky and shed a pale yellow glow, filling the fields with twin, jagged shadows as if
a Fane were bathed in the radiance of some strange crooked moon.
Grantin sat up and thrust back first
his left shoulder, then his right. Arching his neck he lolled his head around in a counterclockwise motion. The book was too awkward
to hold in his lap and he huddled over it, like a miser counting his gold. Awkwardly he twisted his torso in an attempt to quiet a
host of complaining aches.
Grantin leaned forward again. One by one he lifted the lower right-hand corners of the remaining pages,
counting as he went. Only a few more and he would finish volume one. He adjusted the chair until his stomach was only a foot and a
half from the edge of the table, then slid the book toward him until it lay tilted, one edge resting on his belt buckle, with the
spine against the table's edge. In this condition he pressed on, anxious to finish before Greyhorn's return.
All
of us crowded around Blotho's statue. A few of the more adventurous persons walked close. Hesitantly they slid their palms along the
surface of his cheek. There the flesh was cool, hard, and slick like finely polished marble. Dr. Milton, the geologist, closed his
hand into a tiny fist and rapped lightly three times against Blotho's temple. The knocks produced a sonorous thump, thump, thump,
as though
One of the crewmen ran to fetch the
captain. In a few moments Captain Marvin shouldered his way through the spectators. He looked first at Blotho, then turned an inquiring
gaze to Dr. Milton.
"What in the bloody blue blazes happened to him?"
"As best I can tell he's turned to stone, or, more accurately,
a crystalline substance similar to diamond."
"He smashed one of the pistols," Able Starman Norberg volunteered.
"Just before it happened
he cursed the glass," Mary Allen chimed in.
"It's witchcraft, just like the native said," another voice whispered from the edge of
the crowd. "Sorcery."
"Nonsense!" Amis Hartford pushed his way to the captain's side. "Don't let your imagination run away with you.
There's no such thing as spells and witchcraft."
Captain Marvin stared quizzically at Blotho, then strode forward and gave the head
a backhanded rap on the point of the nose. Blotho remained as insensate as a tree while the captain pulled back his hand and thrust
a skinned knuckle between his lips.
Marvin looked truculently around the clearing. He saw only golden afternoon sunlight slanting through
the trees and dappling the heavy grasses with yellow specks.
"Everyone back in the ship," he called. 'Tomorrow I'll decide what to
do."
Reluctantly, the colonists climbed the gangplank. Inside the Lillith they split into pairs and returned to their bare metal cubicles.
In the meadow, crewmen armed with rifles mounted a watch where the grass met the trees.
The next morning the colonists arose early.
Without consultation with the captain, Amis Hartford ordered them to finish unloading. So determined was
Shortly after breakfast Captain Marvin left the Lillith.
Descending the gangplank, he was amazed to see such furious activity. He wandered through the camp and found Amis Hartford chairing
a meeting with his subordinates.
"
"
"Captain, we're all
quite satisfied with Fane,"
"Listen,
As he talked
the captain's eyes darted back and forth, checking to see if anyone were near enough to have overheard the conversation. Amis Hartford,
though, seemed calm, serene, after the fashion of an admiral in command of a battleship which is about to attack a rowboat.
"Captain,
it is to be expected that no planet will be perfect. We assume that there will be a few minor problems here and there."
"This isn't
a minor problem. In three months standard you'll be plowing the ground with a sharp stick and living in a mud hut. Brute force is
the only thing that will stand between you and starvation. This isn't a suitable planet."
"Captain, as you well know,"
"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
"Come back here, you scum!" Marvin shouted. The expurgator stopped and looked back at Marvin
uncertainly. Then he turned .and studied
"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.
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."
"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.