"No stories. Tell me just one thing: do you have the ring?"
"Yes, I…"
Grantin's answer caused the tenseness to leak a bit from Greyhorn's muscles. His features softened ever so slightly and he exhaled with a low whoosh, as if he had been holding his breath.
"Well, perhaps there is hope for you yet, Grantin. I confess no small degree of amazement that you've avoided making a botch of the whole thing. But you have the ring, you say?"
Grantin nodded his head vigorously. He opened his mouth to speak, but Greyhorn continued along with hardly a pause.
"No money left, I suppose?"
"No, you see…"
"Not surprising. I suppose one should not expect miracles. Well, we're just going to have to count that against your allowance. Very well, let's conclude the business." With surprising energy Greyhorn maneuvered his lanky frame out of the chair, turned sharply on his heel, and approached Grantin. He extended his right arm.
"Give me the ring."
Grantin shuffled his feet slightly, his earlier discomfort now all but forgotten.
"Come, come now, Grantin, I'm a busy man. I don't want to spend all day listening to your exploits in the village. A simple errand, a simple answer, a simple delivery of the object, and the matter is closed. Now, put the ring right here." Greyhorn tapped the center of his palm with his left index finger.
"Well, uncle, you see there is a problem with…"
"All right, Grantin, let's take this in order. Firstly, you met the courier?"
"Yes, but-"
"-No buts, just answer my questions. You met the courier and she gave you the ring? True or false?"
"True."
"You brought the ring back here with you, correct?"
"Yes."
"You have the ring with you at this very instant, then?"
"Yes, I do."
"Then I see no difficulty. Just put the ring in my hand and get out."
"I can put the ring in your hand, uncle, but if I do so then I can't get out"
"Grantin, have you been drinking? You know how I feel about indulgence. Here, let me smell your breath."
Grantin obligingly exhaled a large waft of air into his uncle's face. Greyhorn winced as he was enveloped in the remnants of the steak dinner, the throttleberry wine, oat gruel, and the fragrance of Dobbs's stable, but he could detect no present intoxication.
"Perhaps I expect too much of you. Could it be that you're not my nephew at all, just an addlebrained idiot who was slipped into the family over the back wall? Give me the ring!"
Grantin turned his head a bit left, then right, seeking to avoid his uncle's gaze. His fingers entwined themselves like a mass of hypertensive worms. Finally, with a shrug of resignation, he lifted his trembling arm and dropped his left hand into his uncle's waiting palm.
Greyhorn stared at the member for a moment, nonplused by Grantin's action. Then, in the dimness of the sitting room, he detected the scarlet gleam of the bloodstone and the deep golden highlights of the band where it sat fixed upon Grantin's finger.
"It… it won't come off," Grantin mumbled lamely as Greyhorn stared at the proffered digit. As if in a daze, Greyhorn touched the ring and gently tried to slip it from Grantin's hand. It refused to budge.
"Uncle, I've tried everything I could think of, but it won't come off. With all the tugging and pulling I'm sure my finger has swelled. Perhaps if we waited a few days…"
"A few days!" Greyhorn yelped. "A few days! A FEW DAYS!" With a fierce surge of energy Greyhorn grabbed Grantin's wrist with his left hand and the ring with his right. He pulled with all his strength. So energetic was his attack that Grantin was jerked from his feet. Both men tumbled to the floor. Greyhorn rolled himself into a sitting position and commenced a new attack.
"Give me my ring!" he screamed. Greyhorn placed both his feet against Grantin's torso and with maniacal strength strained to pull off the bloodstone. Grantin's world exploded in electric pulses of color and waves of pain. His senses reeled. Visions pulsed luridly in syncopation with the beating of his heart. With all his strength he willed himself free of Greyhorn's grasp.
Sometime later, perhaps a few seconds, perhaps minutes, the throbbing faded and the sitting room slipped back into focus. Grantin found himself sprawled on the floor, his back propped against the couch at one end of the room. Some twenty feet away, arms and legs knotted in an intricate tangle about the legs of his desk, Greyhorn lay, twitching feebly.
Grantin shook his head once, twice, to clear it of the vestiges of the disorientation which had descended upon him. Greyhorn's movements he now discerned to be more organized. Bit by bit his uncle disengaged himself from the desk.
"What happened?" Grantin wheezed.
Greyhorn staggered to his feet like a man possessed. In the dimness of the parlor his eyes seemed to glow. He advanced upon Grantin.
"Uncle, it wasn't my fault," Grantin pleaded. "I didn't do anything, really. Uncle, get hold of yourself, now. You don't want to do something that you'll regret later. Uncle, uncle…"
Cringing, Grantin raised his hands to protect his face, the ring pointed outward. As Greyhorn approached he noticed that the bloodstone seemed to glisten with a phosphorescent fire. The ring's bloody glimmer sent notes of alarm through the wizard's sinews. Mustering the last particle of his self-control, he managed to bring his body to a halt two feet from Grantin's cowering form. So great was the power of the bloodstone that further attempts to pry it from the finger would be suicidal. Greyhorn closed his eyes and wheezed ten long, deep breaths before allowing himself to speak.
"All right, Grantin," he said at last, "you can get up now. It's obvious that we're going to have to think our way out of this problem."
Hesitantly Grantin struggled to his feet.
"Don't worry, uncle, I'm sure that with perhaps some cold water and lots of soap we can get it off. If worse comes to worst, I can saw through the band and pry it away from my finger."
"The first blade that tries to scratch that ring will destroy itself and the arm that wields it. Perhaps, however, an appropriate elixir might, through the force of my power, insert itself between the ring and your flesh. Failing that, there are other, less tidy, but nevertheless dependable alternatives." A death's-head grin split Greyhorn's face as he contemplated the latter possibility.
"What do you mean, 'other alternatives'?"
"The possibility of a mild solution of liquefier cannot be overlooked. Skillful injections would rubberize the bones and joints of the affected digit. With a minimum tearing of flesh perhaps the item might be removed."
Grantin's face went slack and white.
"And, if that doesn't work, there is one final alternative which is guaranteed to solve the problem."
Grantin stared expectantly, now even afraid to breathe. Greyhorn caressed the knuckle and index finger and studied the ring.
"What alternative?" Grantin whispered.
"The answer is, of course, quite simple and direct. If we cannot remove the ring from the finger then we must remove the finger from the-"
With a shriek Grantin pulled back his band and stumbled backward against the wall. "No, no… my finger… you can't-you wouldn't! There must be another way."
"Perhaps, perhaps, we shall see. Come, we will go up to the workroom. You can assist me in preparing the unguent. Who knows, it may work, and if not, what's one finger more or less?"
"But…" Grantin mumbled as Greyhorn paced toward the door.
"Come along, Grantin, come along. There's been too much dillydallying already. We'll try the unguent, but remember this: one way or another I mean to have that ring!"