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  The Accidental Magician

  By David Grace

  The world, Fane, lies on the outer reaches of explored space, long forgotten or avoided by mankind. On the downside, the planet's peculiar electromagnetic fields inevitably destroy electronic devices, but in compensation they enhanced psychic abilities. Over the centuries humans and the aliens with whom they shared the planet evolved into clans of wizards and masters, dullards and incompetents.

  One person who seems destined to be relegated one of the latter groups is Grantin, the nephew of a powerful, but harsh, magician. In a last ditch effort to salvage something of his family's honor, the uncle gives Grantin an important but simple task, which Grantin promptly manages to screw up in a most dangerous way. Only vast good luck or the appearance of some heretofore hidden magical talents are likely to save him. Luckily for him, Grantin is, unknowingly, on his way to becoming The Accidental Magician.

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  Legal Notices

  Copyright David Alexander writing as David Grace 1981, 2009

  This novel is a work of fiction. All of the people, places, businesses, and events portrayed in this novel are either based on the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Even though the names of real locations may be used in certain parts of this book, none of the people, places, businesses, or events referred to in any of those locales are intended to represent any relationship with any real events. Any and all occurrences in this book are completely unrelated to the actions of any real persons, places, businesses, or events and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or real businesses or institutions, or to any actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy.

  Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  AUTHOR'S NOTE: An earlier version of this novel was originally published in 1981 by Simon & Schuster - Pocket Books/Timescape Books under the original title, Fane, under the author name of David Alexander.

  Because there are several writers using the name "David Alexander," to avoid confusion the author now writes under the pen name, David Grace.

  The Accidental Magician

  By David Grace

  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 Alnarth built by our ancestors in the days of water before our sun grew red. Now we, the faithful Ajaj, are drawn from Ajagel like blood leaking from a wound.

  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 Black Church on Abraham V. The necromancer, Gogol by name, was accompanied by his chief helper, Windom, both of whom had been sentenced for a too energetic dedication to genuineness in the staging of human sacrifices. According to the rumors, Windom had procured the subjects, while Gogol, at the height of the Black Mass, performed dark deeds to the rapt approval of his faithful acolytes.

  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.