Nefra slumped in his chair and considered his schemes. Mara had agreed to join the plot. That very morning Castor had been observed heading east from the tumbles to hunt for herbs. So far everything was proceeding according to plan. With luck, by the tenth hour Hazar would be dead of a ruptured gut.
Nefra maneuvered his loose-limbed frame from the window seat and walked across his parlor to the entrance to his workroom. Unlike soft-fleshed lords like Zaco, Nefra was lean of both limb and spirit. No sumptuous draperies adorned his walls, nor luxurious carpets his floors. Bare stone surfaces were the hallmark of Nefra's apartments, an image into which fitted Nefra's own personal appearance and dress.
Tall and thin, with overlong bony arms and a horselike face, Nefra seemed the model of puritan rectitude. Dressed today as he was every day in an unadorned black blouse and black trousers, by his very presence he quelled all wayward thoughts of joviality.
With a furtive glance over his shoulder Nefra bent to unlock his laboratory door. Opening his book of sorcery-for Nefra was a careful and methodical man-he patiently recited the spell of communication, but, to his surprise, no results were forthcoming. Nefra readjusted the lens, called out Greyhorn's name, and tried again. Still no response.
Raising himself to a higher level of nervous energy, he repeated the incantation a third time and willed his powers to find a substitute receiver. Nefra became very warm. Sweat beaded on his forehead. With a feeling as if he had pushed his way through a yielding barrier, he saw in his crystal a distorted picture of Greyhorn's workroom.
In Greyhorn's laboratory Nefra's face bulged in miniature on the surface of a water droplet clinging to the edge of a flask. After several minutes Greyhorn sensed the summons and finally, after much searching, located his caller. A hideously distorted visage hung before Greyhorn's face. A gigantic maw bulged blackly, then disappeared as Nefra spoke. Soundlessly the words took shape within Greyhorn's mind.
"Who calls me?" Greyhorn demanded.
"I do-Lord Nefra of Cicero."
"A Gogol! What do you want of me, evil one? As all know, I am a loyal Hartford and thus your bitter enemy."
"All do not know what I know about you, Greyhorn. My agents tell me that you schemed with Hazar, until he played you false. Now, I think, you need another friend."
"I don't know what you are talking about."
"You don't understand us, Greyhorn. Hazar does not speak for the Gogol empire or even for Cicero, only for himself and his sycophants. I, for one, do not choose to run my life under Hazar's orders. Nor, I think, do you. Do you understand the position you are in?"
"Talk on, devil. I am listening."
"Hazar has not delivered your trinket, without which you are powerless to help him or oppose him. If he should complete his plan your days are numbered, unless of course you take action against him."
"What do you have in mind?"
"Fortify yourself. About forty minutes after the second hour A.D. Hazar should have completed his dinner. His meal will consist of broiled whitefish stuffed with seasoned tubers and shaved bean stalks. Concentrate all your energy upon transmuting those substances into an acid which will melt out his innards. Do that and you might escape your fate. If you fail, you are doomed, for your power cannot match that of Hazar."
Nefra's image had grown smaller and more circular as the conversation progressed. Now the droplet's evaporation was almost complete. As Nefra's visage shrank Greyhorn imagined that the voice became more shrill, until at the end, barely more than a squeaking whine, it faded and disappeared.
For a moment Greyhorn contemplated the beaker's empty lip, then took himself to his couch to rest before the evening's work.