The Spellsinger Adventures Volume One

by Alan Dean Foster

  “Never could stand ’em myself, either. I don’t like cops and I cannot abide anyone who fights with ’is rear end.”

  Noises reached them from the far end of the alley and vestiges of that ghastly odor materialized to stab at Jon-Tom’s nostrils and stomach.

  “They’re followin’,” said a worried Mudge. “Save us from that. I’d far rather be cut.”

  “This way!” urged the cloaked figure. They turned up a branch of the alleyway. Mist covered everything, slickened walls and cobblestones and trash underfoot. They plunged onward, heedless of falling.

  Gradually the smell began to recede once more. Jon-Tom was grateful for the time he’d spent on the basketball court, and for the unusual stride that enabled him to keep up with the hyperactive Mudge and their racing and still identityless savior.

  “They took the main passage,” said that voice. “This should be safe enough.”

  They had emerged on a small side street. Dim will-o’-the-wisp glows came from the warm globes of the street lamps overhead. It was quite dark otherwise, and though the mist curtained the sky Jon-Tom was certain that sunset had come and gone while they’d been dining in the restaurant.

  The stranger unwrapped the muffler covering face and neck and let it hang across shoulders and back. Cloak, shirt, and pants were made of the same maroon material touched with silver thread. The material was neither leather nor cotton but some mysterious organic hybrid. Pants, boots, and blouse had further delicate designs of copper thread worked through them, as did the high, almost Napoleonic collar.

  A slim blade, half foil, half saber, was slung neatly from the waist. She stood nearly as tall as Mudge’s five foot six, which Jon-Tom had been given to understand was tall for a human woman hereabouts. She turned, still panting from the run, to study them. He was glad of the opportunity to reciprocate.

  The maroon clothing fit snugly without binding and the face above it, though expectedly petite, was hard and sharpfeatured. The green eyes were more like Mudge’s than his own. They moved with almost equal rapidity over street and alleyway, never ceasing. Her shoulder-length curls were flame-red. Not the red-orange of most redheads but a fiery, flashing crimson that looked in the lamplight like kinky blood.

  Save for her coloring and the absence of fur and whiskers she displayed all the qualities of an active otter. Only the pale green eyes softened the savage image she presented, standing there nervously by the side of a building that seemed to swoop winglike above them in the mist.

  As for the rest of her, he had the damndest feeling he was seeing a cylindrical candy bar well packed with peanuts. Her voice was full of hints of clove and pepper, as active as her eyes and her body.

  “Thought I’d never get you out of there.” She was talking to Mudge. “I tried to get you separated but,” she glanced curiously up at Jon-Tom, “this great gangling boy was always between us.”

  “I’d appreciate it,” said Jon-Tom politely, “if you wouldn’t refer to me as a ‘boy’.” He stared unblinkingly at her. “You don’t look any older than me.”

  “I’ll change my tune,” she shot back, “when you’ve demonstrated the difference to my satisfaction, though I hope more time isn’t required. Still, I have to admit that you handled yourself well enough inside the Possum. Clumsy, but efficient. Size can make up for a helluva lot.”

  Clove and pepper, he thought. Each word was snapped off sharply in the air like a string of firecrackers.

  She turned distastefully away from his indelicate stare and asked Mudge with disarming candor, “How soon can we be rid of it?” She jerked a thumb in Jon-Tom’s bemused direction.

  “I’m afraid we can’t, m’love. Clothahump ’imself ’as entrusted ’im t’ me tender care.”

  “Clothahump, the wizard of the Tree?” Again she looked curiously at Jon-Tom.

  “Aye. It seems ’e was castin’ about for an otherworldly wizard type and ’e came up with this chap Jon-Tom instead. As I said, because I ’appened t’ be unlucky enough to stumble into this manifestation, I’ve been ordered t’ take care of ’im. At least until e’ can take better care of ’imself.” Mudge raised a paw.

  “On penalty o’ curses too ’orrible t’ explain, luv. But it ain’t been too bad. ’E’s a good enough lad, if a trifle naive.”

  Jon-Tom was beginning to feel a resurgence of the volatility that had set off the riot in the Pearl Possum. “Hey now, people, I’m getting a little tired of everyone continually running off my list of disabilities.”

  “Shut up and do as you’re told,” said the woman.

  “Fuck you, sister,” he spat back angrily. “How’d you like your backside the same color as your hair?”

  Her right hand suddenly sported a sixth finger. The knife gleamed in the dim light. It was no longer than her middle finger but twice as broad and displayed an unusual double blade.

  “And how’d you like to sing about three octaves higher?”

  “Please now, Talea.” Mudge hurriedly interposed himself between them. “Think of me, if naught else. ’E’s me responsibility. If any ’arm comes to ’im while ’e’s in my care, Clothahump’ll ’ave me ’ide. As to ’is singin’ I’ve ’ad more than enough for one night. That’s wot started the trouble in the Possum in the first place.”

  “More’s the pity for you then, Mudge.” But the blade disappeared with a twist of the wrist, vanishing back inside her right sleeve. “I’ll truce on it for you … for now.”

  “I’m not taking any orders from her,” Jon-Tom said belligerently.

  “Now, now, mate.” Mudge made placating gestures. “No one’s said that you must. But you’re willin’ to accept advice, ain’t you? That’s what I’m ’ere for, after all.”

  “That’s true,” Jon-Tom admitted. But he couldn’t keep his eyes off the lethal little lady Mudge had called Talea. Her temper had considerably mitigated his first feelings toward her. She was no less beautiful for their argument, but it had become the beauty of a rose sealed in glass. Delicacy and attractiveness were still there, but there was no fragrance, and both were untouchable.

  “That’s the second time tonight you’ve shown concern for me, luv.” Mudge looked at her uncertainly. “First by ’elpin’ us flee that unfortunate altercation back in the Pearl Possum and now again by respectin’ me wishes and makin’ peace with the lad. I’ve never known you t’ be so solicitous o’ my ’ealth or anyone else’s exceptin’ your precious own. So wot’s behind the sudden nursmaidin’?”

  “You’re right about the first, Mudge. Most of the time you can find your own way to hell for all I care.” Her voice finally mellowed, and for the first time she sounded vulnerable and human.

  “Truth is that I needed some help, fast. The Pearl Possum was the nearest and most likely place in which to find it. You were the first one I saw that I knew, and considering what was going on in there I didn’t have a whole hell of a lot of time to be picky. I do need your help.” She looked hesitantly past him at Jon-Tom. “And so I guess I have to put up with him, too.” She walked over to Jon-Tom, looked him over sharply.

  “In truth, he’s an impressive physical speciman.” Jon-Tom stood a little taller. “What I need now are strong backs, not brains.” He lost an inch.

  “I knew you were needin’ something, dear,” said Mudge knowledgeably. “I couldn’t see you givin’ yourself over t’ philanthropy. Jon-Tom, meet Talea. And widdershins likewise.”

  “Charmed,” said Jon-Tom curtly.

  “Yeah, me too.” She paused thoughtfully. “So the old magic bugger-in-the-shell was looking around for an other-world wizard and got you instead. I can imagine what his reaction must have been.”

  “I don’t need this.” Jon-Tom turned away, spoke almost cheerfully. “I don’t need this at all. I’ll make my own damn way!”

  “’Old on now, mate,” said Mudge desperately. “You think o’ me, too. Everyone think o’ poor old Mudge for a change.”

  “When did you ever think of anything else?” snorte
d Talea.

  “Please, luv. Go easy on the poor lad. ’Tis right that you owe ’im nothing and likewise meself. But consider, ’e’s a whole new world t’ try and cope with, and you’re not makin’ it any easier.”

  “What have his problems to do with me?” she replied indifferently, but for a change left off adding any additional insults.

  “You said that you needed our help,” Jon-Tom reminded her. “And I suppose we owe you a favor for helping us out of that mess back there.” He jerked a hand back toward the now distant restaurant. “Or at least for warning us about the police. You can have the use of my back without my affection. At least I can use that without running my mouth.”

  She almost smiled, flipping away hair from her eyes. The oil lamps set her curls on fire. “That’s fair enough. We’ve wasted enough time here, and I suppose I’ve wasted most of it. Follow me… .”

  They trailed her down the street. No strollers were out this time on so miserable a night. Rain dripped off tile and wood roofs, trickled metallically down drainpipes and into gutters. Sometimes they passed a sharper, richer echo where dripwater plunged into a collection barrel.

  They’d walked several blocks before she turned into another alleyway. Several yards into the narrow passage he began to hear a strange yet somehow familiar snuffling noise. It sounded like a drunk hog.

  Almost stumbling over something firm and heavy, he looked down and saw to his considerable dismay that it was an arm, badly decomposed and with the fur falling from forearm and paw. Nude bone projected like soap from one end.

  Mudge and Talea were just ahead. The otter was bending over and examining something on the stones. Jon-Tom hurried to join them.

  Two bodies lay sprawled awkwardly across the damp paving, necklaced by puddles of rainwater. One was that of a squirrel he assumed by attire to be female. She was richly dressed in a pleated gown puffed up like a cloud by a series of lace petticoats. Long ruffled sleeves covered each gray-furred arm. Nearby lay a feathered, broad-rimmed hat, torn and broken. She was half a foot shorter than Talea and her carefully applied face powder and paint were smeared like mud across her cheeks.

  Nearby was a fat furry form that he at first thought might be a small beaver but that turned out to be another muskrat. An oddly creased tricornered hat still rested on the motionless head, though it was tilted over the hidden eyes. A pair of cracked pince-nez spectacles, much like those worn by Clothahump, reflected the still, small pools between the cobblestones. The iridescent blue silk suit he wore was rich enough to shine even in the dim light of the alley.

  One boot had come off and lay limply near a naked foot. Its rhinestone-inlaid mate lay up against the far wall. Talea ignored it as she rechecked the body with professional speed.

  “Blimey, luv, what’s all this now?” Mudge’s attention was directed nervously back toward the narrow plank of light from the street. “I ain’t so sure we want to be compromisin’ ourselves with business of this disreputable nature.”

  “Shit, you’re compromised just by standing there.” Talea heaved at the thick silk jacket. “Not that your reputation would suffer. Who are you lying to, Mudge; yourself, me, or him?” and she nodded briefly toward the self-conscious Jon-Tom. “You know what the cops will do if they find you standing here flapping your whiskers.”

  “Now Talea, luv—” he began.

  “I think we’ve exchanged enough pleasantries, otter. I need you for muscle, not platitudes.

  “Now I don’t object to an occasional mugging, especially when the apple stands around begging to be plucked.” She was pulling gold buttons off the comatose muskrat’s trousers. “But murder’s not my style. This fat little twerp decided to show off and resist, and I’ll be damned if that fuzzy harridan he was with didn’t try to help him. Between the two of them I didn’t have much time to get selective with the hilt of my sword. So I bashed him proper and then she just sort of fainted.”

  Mudge moved over to study the fallen lady. While John-Tom watched, the otter knelt and moved her head. There was a dark stain on the stones and a matching one at the back of the furry skull.

  “This one’s still bleedin’, you know.”

  “I didn’t mean to hurt anyone.” Talea did not sound particularly contrite. “I was just trying to keep them off. I told you, she fainted. What the hell was I supposed to do, dive underneath and break her fall?”

  Mudge moved away and performed a similar examination of the muskrat. “Now why would you ’ave t’ do that, luv, when these gentle rocks ’ave done such a neat job of it for you?” he said sardonically. His paws moved over the musk-rat’s face. “Still breathin’, the two of ’em. Bloody lucky you are.” He looked up at her.

  “Right then. What is it you want of us?”

  She finally finished her scavenging, gestured back toward the street. “I’ve got a wagon tied around the corner on Sorbarlio Close. If I’d left it alley-opposite it would’ve blocked traffic and worse, drawn attention to this little drama. Besides, it’s too wide to fit in the alley entrance.

  “Now, I can’t carry that fat little bugger by myself. By the time I could drag the two of them to the Close some nosy-body’s sure to notice me and ask questions I couldn’t answer. Even if I got lucky I’m not sure I could heave these two bloated pumpkins up into the wagon.”

  Mudge nodded sagely. “That’s for us, then. Jon-Tom?”

  Jon-Tom’s head had finally cleared of smoke and drink, but plenty of confusion still remained. Things had happened awfully fast and his thoughts were running into one another.

  “I don’t know.” He was also worriedly watching the street. Foul-fighting police might appear at any minute, and what Talea had told Mudge about them being guilty by their mere presence at the scene of the crime had a transworldly ring of truth to it.

  “I’m not sure this is what Clothahump had in mind when he asked you to educate me.”

  “’Tis a fine innocent you are, mate. As you of all people ought t’ know, life’s incidents are dictated by fate and not neat plannin’. We can’t stay ’ere jabberin’ all night, lest some idle patrol stumble on us. If you think the copfolk were hard on those poor innocent brawlers, consider wot they’re likely t’ do t’ those they think ’ave assaulted respectable citizens. Or be it then so much different where you come from?”

  “No,” he replied, “I think they’d react about the same as here.”

  Mudge had moved to slip an arm around the waist of the unconscious squirrelquette, then flipped her with a whistle over his shoulders. “I’ll take charge o’ this one,” he said, stumbling.

  “Thought you might,” snorted Talea. “Here, let me help.” She caught the lady’s legs just as the overburdened Mudge was about to lose his balance completely, then looked back at Jon-Tom.

  “Don’t just stand there gawking like a kid at a treepeep nook. Put that great gangling self of yours to work.”

  Jon-Tom nodded, knelt, and managed to get his arms underneath the snoring, bubbling muskrat shape. The creature was as heavy as he appeared, and the weight made Jon-Tom stagger. Working the mass around he finally got the rotund burden in a fireman’s carry.

  “Truth, ’tis muscles the lad ’as, if not yet overmuch common sense,” Mudge observed. “Does ’e not, lass?”

  “Let’s get on with it,” she said curtly.

  On reaching the end of the alley they hesitated. Talea studied the street to the right while Mudge cautiously checked out the other end. Nothing was visible in the nebulous lamplight save cobblestones and lonely clumps of garbage. The night mist had thickened somewhat from earlier in the evening and bestowed on the fugitives a blessing beyond price.

  Jon-Tom hurried out after them, the globular body of the muskrat bouncing slightly on his shoulders. He felt something warm on his cheek. At first he thought it was blood, but it turned out to be only saliva dripping from the victim’s gaping mouth. He pushed the drooling head farther aside and concentrated on keeping close enough to the others to insure he wo
uldn’t lose track of them in the fog.

  His feet were carrying him along a course of events he seemed powerless to alter. As he jogged up the street, he considered his present condition.

  In the short time he’d been in Lynchbany he’d nearly been assaulted by a beggar, had taken part in a distressingly violent riot, and was presently serving as an accessory to assault, robbery, and possibly murder. He decided firmly that as soon as circumstances permitted he would have to make his way back to Clothahump’s Tree, with or without Mudge’s assistance. There he would plead with the wizard to try sending him home, no matter the cost. He could not stand another day of this.

  But though he did not know it, he was destined to spend rather more time than that. Forces far greater than anything he could imagine continued to gather, the little sounds his boots made in the street puddles faint echoes of the thunder to come… .

  VII

  EVENTUALLY THEY TURNED a corner onto another street. Mudge and Talea heaved the motionless form of the squirrelquette onto the back of a low-slung buckboard. Clicking sounds like thick wire brushing against glass came to them. They froze, waited in damp silence. But the wagon they heard did not turn down their street.

  “Hurry up!” Talea urged Jon-Tom. She turned and snapped at Mudge, “Quit that and let’s get out of here.”

  Mudge removed his hand from beneath the squirrelquette’s dress as Jon-Tom bent his head and shoulders to dump the muskrat. That unfortunate landed with a dull thump in the wagon. Despite Mudge’s insistence that both victims were still alive and breathing, the muskrat felt very dead to the worried Jon-Tom.

  That was now a major concern. He thought he might be able to talk his way out of being in the same wagon with a couple of robbery victims, but if either one of them died and they were stopped by the police he doubted even Clothahump would be able to help him.