LITMIR.BIZ

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and determine whether he might make a suitable collaborator. Meanwhile, the burly hedge-wizard could assist in the search, along with the boy Jegg.

      Beynor resumed his labors in spring and was satisfied when Gorvik worked diligently and without asking inconvenient questions. Near the end of Blossom Moon the hedge-wizard found the innocuous-looking little stone wand called Destroyer, which Beynor believed was the key to supreme power. And then, on the day before yesterday, Gorvik also located the moonstone disk that was formerly affixed to the cover of the missing magic book. It was the last part of the trove Beynor needed to carry out his plan.

      But should Gorvik Kitstow still be part of that plan?

      Beynor now had serious doubts. If it were possible for an untalented, biddable lout such as young Jegg to use sigil magic, then far better to play it safe and bond the moonstones to him.

      But the calamitous test had settled the matter decisively. The cat’s-paw must of necessity be a person of talent. But if not Gorvik, then who?

      Out of nowhere, as he sipped his cup of spirits, stared at the leaping flames, and pondered the dilemma, a marvelous new idea came to the sorcerer. Why not make a more daring choice of creature – a man needing more subtle forms of control, who might nevertheless help Beynor achieve his goal far more quickly…?

      Gorvik had been speaking for some minutes while Beynor was lost in thought. Now the man’s words became ominously clear.

      ‘All yer high and mighty plans, master, that ye tantalized me with while we hunted – I admit I was a wee bit skeptical anything’d come of ‘em. Ye hafta admit the idee of almighty Beaconfolk sorcery channeled through moonstones was unlikely. But seein’ what I seen today changed my mind. Ye tried to bond a sigil to young Jegg, who lacked talent as much as he lacked brains. The Lights rejected ‘im. It’s clear ye need a man with talent. So let’s get on with it. Bond the things to me. I’m not afeered.’

      ‘What makes you think that I might do such a thing?’

      Gorvik Kitstow gave a knowing chuckle. ‘Well, ‘tis obvious that ye don’t want to try conjurin’ a sigil yerself. Else ye’d never have risked turnin’ over a powerful magical tool to a dolt like Jegg. Ye’d have made the thing yer own right off the mark if ye could. But maybe ye can’t! Maybe the Lights won’t let ye. Am I right?’ He winked.

      ‘Yes,’ Beynor said calmly. ‘You’ve hit on it exactly. I know how the Great Stones work, the way to conjure them. But I’m banned from using them myself. I require a faithful assistant – one possessing innate magical talent, not a normal-minded wight like Jegg – who will stand at my side as I drive the Salka into the sea, destroy the Sovereignty, and bring the human population of Blenholme to its knees…Do you believe you’re the man for it?’

      Gorvik tossed down the last of his drink and rose to his feet. His head nearly grazed the roof of that part of the cave and his great knobby hands flexed. The gold tooth flashed in the firelight as his smile widened.

      ‘Well, I been thinkin’ on that. I did overhear ye tell Jegg the spell that conjures the moonstones. So I reckon it wouldn’t be that hard to use ‘em, once I called ‘em to life meself.’

      ‘You think that, do you?’ Beynor sat very still. For a time, there was silence except for the drip of rainwater and the snap of burning wood.

      ‘So I do,’ said Gorvik. There was no longer any trace of servility in his voice, only evil self-assurance. ‘Don’t be lookin’ to yer sword, nor reachin’ for yer dagger neither. Ye know how quick I be. And strong.’

      ‘Yes,’ said Beynor.

      Gorvik began to edge closer.

      ‘Just keep yer hands resting on yer knees, unnerstand? Don’t move.’

      ‘I won’t.’

      ‘Ye were once a king, so y’say, and a great sorcerer. But now ye’re neither and the magical moonstones are no good to ye. So think how matters lie and decide if we two might make a diff’rent sort o’ bargain – with me the master and ye the man! Hand over the sigils now and keep yer life. What d’ye say?’

      Beynor shrugged. ‘All right.’ He removed the small pouch holding the stones from his belt and held it up for the shabby wizard to see.

      Then he tossed it into the fire.

      Gorvik gave a bellow of rage. But before his hands could close on Beynor’s throat, the Mossland Sword of State hanging on the cave wall flew from its scabbard and transfixed his neck from side to side just below the jawbone. A great jet of blood spurted from the magicker’s open mouth, just missing Beynor. Gorvik toppled into the fire like a felled oak and smothered the flames.

      Beynor rose to his feet and stepped back. He waited until the writhing body was still, drew out the sword, and wiped it on the dead man’s tunic. Then he hauled the corpse aside and retrieved the wallet, which was only slightly scorched. He dipped it into a rain puddle, poured the sigils out onto the stone seat very carefully, and inspected them.

      They were unharmed. The disk, Weathermaker, Ice-Master, and the all-important Destroyer were not even warm to the touch.

      ‘To think I was foolish enough to consider bonding these to a lowborn blockhead,’ he murmured, ‘when the proper candidate has been awaiting me all these years!’

      Beynor had made a near-fatal mistake with Gorvik, letting him overhear the spell of conjuration. That blunder would never happen again. The new cat’s-paw he had in mind was infinitely more intelligent (and dangerous) than the hedge-wizard, but he was also a man ruled by unbridled ambition.

      Confiding in him would be a great gamble on Beynor’s part. The safer course by far would be to look for a more pliable magical assistant. Any large city in Didion would have numbers of impoverished wizards inhabiting its underworld that he could pick and choose among. He had already been forced to postpone his great scheme for sixteen years. Why act hastily now?

      There was an answer to that: after a long period of relative inaction broken only by a few ineffectual coastal raids against humanity, the Salka had invaded northern Didion in force. The Sovereignty was gravely imperiled.

      Beynor had scried the monsters’ Barren Lands operation earlier in the year from a high point in the Sinistral Mountains. He knew that the Salka had managed to bring a small amount of mineral from the devastated arctic Moon Crag to Royal Fenguard. Their shamans would be doing their utmost to fashion more Great Stones from the meager sample, especially Destroyers. If they succeeded, they would possess powerful weapons to use against humanity. There was a time when Beynor had encouraged Salka aggression. Might it still serve his own purposes – but in a very different way?

      He hadn’t attempted to windwatch the monsters’ military activities closely since beginning this summer’s work. The moorland where he searched for the lost trove lay immediately below the southern slope of the great rocky massif that divided Blenholme, a formidable barrier even to his remarkable scrying talent. While on occasional supply trips to Elktor, he had heard news about the stalled Salka incursion far to the north. Thus far, the great army mobilized by the Sovereignty had made no serious attempt to engage the inhuman enemy host.

      It was a situation ripe with opportunities.

      Beynor decided that his first move should be to cross over the mountains into Didion and see whether hostilities had fizzled out altogether, or whether the amphibians were only biding their time before resuming their southward advance.

      One by one, he lifted and caressed the small moonstone carvings resting on the rock: a miniature icicle, a translucent ring, and a fragile wand incised with the phases of the moon. So much power! If only he could tap into it safely.

      Outside, daylight was fading. The cave was a two-hour ride from Elktor, which lay to the west. But he’d left nothing of value in his rooms there. If he followed the track directly eastward instead, he could reach the great frontier city of Beorbrook by midnight even in the rain. After spending the night at an inn, he could head out for Great Pass and Didion in the morning. Conrig

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