Spellsinger: A Spellsinger Adventure (Book One)

by Alan Dean Foster

  “Be reasonable, luv. We barely slipped out of there without ’avin’ to cut anyone. We can’t go back in. Anger’s no substitute for another sword. Even if we did get back in clear and free we’re just guessin’ as to who’s responsible. We can’t be sure it’s Mossul or ’is friends.”

  The glare softened to a look of resignation. “You’re right, otter. As usual.” She slumped down on the mossy earth and leaned back against a fence rail. “So much, then, for ‘honor among thieves.’”

  “I’m sorry.” Jon-Tom sat down next to her. “It was my fault. If it means anything, I’ll be happy to pay you back for the cart.” He jiggled the clinking hem of his cape meaningfully.

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I stole it. You needn’t worry about paying back what you don’t owe.”

  They considered their situation. “We could buy someone else’s cart,” he suggested.

  Mudge looked doubtful. “Good transportation’s dearer to a thief than any amount o’ money. We could buy such in town, but not ’ere.”

  “Well then, why don’t we steal some of these?”

  “Now that’s not a bad idea, mate. You’re startin’ to adapt. Save for one little complication.” He looked to his right. At first Jon-Tom saw nothing. Then he noticed the little knot of figures that had appeared outside the Hall entrance. Puffs of smoke rose from the small crowd, and he could see an occasional glance in their direction.

  “But they don’t know which cart or steeds are ours,” Jon-Tom protested. “If we acted like we knew what we were doing, they couldn’t tell we were up to anything.”

  Mudge smiled slightly. “On the other ’and, we don’t know that we might not pick on one o’ their mounts. A single shout could bring the whole o’ Thieves ‘All out on us.”

  “A pox on this!” said Talea abruptly, springing to her feet. “So we walk, but we’re going back to see this wizard of yours. He’s bound to put us up for a few days. Might even be safer than the Hall. And we can even pay him.” She indicated Jon-Tom’s winnings.

  “Now ‘old on a minim, luv.” Mudge looked worried. “If we return there so soon, I’ll ’ave t’ admit I’ve run into some difficulties in educatin’ this lad.”

  “Difficulties!” Jon-Tom laughed aloud. “You’ve already managed to involve me in a local tavern brawl, a police matter, and you,” he looked at Talea, “in a mugging and robbery. Two robberies. I suppose I have to count in the cart and team, now.”

  “Count it any way you like, Jon-Tom.” She gestured to the west. “But we can’t go to town just yet, and we can’t use the hall. I’m not about to strike off into the forest toward somewhere distant like Fifeover or Timswitty. Besides, they cooperate with the Lynchbany cops.”

  “Be that as it may,” said Mudge, folding his arms, “I’m not goin’ back t’ Clothahump’s. The old bugger’s too unpredictable for my comfort.”

  “Suit yourself.” She looked up at Jon-Tom. “I think you know the way. You afraid of Clothahump, too?”

  “You bet your ass I am,” he replied promptly, “but I don’t think he’s the vengeful type, and I can’t think of anything else to do.”

  She gestured expansively. “After you, Jon-Tom.” He turned and started out of the corral, heading south and hoping his sense of direction wasn’t too badly distorted by the time they’d spent riding the night. Mudge hesitated until they were nearly out of sight. Then he dropped a few choice words to the indifferent lizards and sprinted anxiously after the retreating humans… .

  IX

  THIEVES’ HALL WAS southeast of Lynchbany Towne. They had to cross the local roads carefully, for according to Talea you never knew when you might encounter a police patrol out for bandits. They also had to take time to hunt and gather food.

  It was three days of hard walking before some of the forest started to look familiar to Mudge. They were standing by the side of a muddy, narrow road when Jon-Tom noticed the large sack that had been caught in the crook of a pair of boulders. There was the sparkle of sunlight on metal.

  “Your eyes are good, Jon-Tom,” said Talea admiringly, as they fell on the sack like three jackals on the half-gnawed carcass of a zebra.

  The sack was full of trade goods. Glass beads, some semiprecious gems that might have been garnets or tourmalines, and some scrolls. Talea threw the latter angrily aside as they searched the sack for other valuables. There were more scrolls, some clothing, and several musical instruments. Jon-Tom picked up a set of pipes attached to a curved gourd, puffed experimentally at the mouth openings.

  “Hell.” Talea sat back against the rocks. She picked up the empty sack and threw it over her shoulder. “Double hell. Even when we find some lucky, it turns out to be deceptive.”

  Mudge was inspecting the jewelry. “These might fetch two or three golds from a fair fence.”

  “How delightful,” Talea said sarcastically. “You just whistle up a fair fence and we’ll have a go at it.” The otter let out a long, sharp whistle no human could duplicate, then shrugged.

  “Never know till you try.” He tucked the jewelry into the pouch at his waist, caught Talea eyeing him. “You don’t trust me t’ share out.” He pouted.

  “No, but it’s not worth fighting over.” She was rubbing her left calf. “My feet hurt.”

  Jon-Tom had set down the gourd flute and picked up the largest of the three instruments. This one had six strings running in a curve across a heart-shaped resonator. Three triangular openings were cut into the box. At the top of the curved wires were tuning knobs. Near the base of the heartbox resonator was a set of six smaller metal strings, a miniature of the larger, upper set. Twelve strings altogether.

  He considered the arrangement thoughtfully. Let’s see, the smaller set wouldn’t be much good except for plucking the more delicate, higher notes. So the larger sextet is probably strummed. Except for the extra set of tiny strings it looked something like a plastic guitar left too long in an oven.

  Talea had picked up one of the flute-things. She tried to blow a tune, produced only a few sour notes that faded quickly, and tossed it away. The second was apparently more to her liking. She finished testing it, slipped it into her belt, and started off back into the forest. Mudge followed, but Jon-Tom, absorbed in the peculiar guitar, hung behind.

  Eventually she paused, turned to face him, and waited until he caught up with them. “What’s holding you back, larklegs?” He smiled as though he hadn’t heard her, turned his attention back to the instrument. A few notes from the small strings filled the air.

  “That’s a duar. Don’t tell me you can play that?”

  “Actually, the lad ’as made claims to bein’ somethin’ of a musician.” Mudge studied Jon-Tom’s obvious interest hopefully. “You always ’ave said that you sounded better with instrumental accompaniment, mate.”

  “I know. I remember.” Jon-Tom ran his fingers over the upper-level strings. The sound was much softer than he was used to. Almost lyrelike, but not very alien. He plucked once again at the lower strings. They echoed the upper, deeper tones.

  The curved arm running out from the heart-shaped box was difficult to cradle. The instrument had been designed to fit around a much broader chest than his own. The short strap that ran from the top of the arm to the base of the resonator helped a little, however. Letting the instrument hang naturally, he found that by leaning forward he could get at both sets of strings. It hurt his back a little, but he thought he could get used to it. He used both hands, trying to strum the upper strings while plucking in counterpoint at the lower.

  Talea sighed, turned away, and started off again, Mudge in tandem and Jon-Tom bringing up the rear. His heart still hurt more than his feet, but the music helped. Gradually he discovered how to swing his arm in an arc instead of straight down in order to follow the curve of bar and strings. Soon he was reproducing familiar chords, then snatches of song. As always the tranquilizing sounds made him feel better, lifting his spirits as well as his adrenaline level.

  Some of the songs
sounded almost right. But though he tuned and retuned until he was afraid of breaking the strings or the tuning knobs, he couldn’t create the right melodies. It wasn’t the delicate instrument, either, but something else. He still hadn’t discovered how to tune it properly.

  It was late afternoon when Talea edged closer to him, listening a while longer to the almost music he was making before inquiring, with none of her usual bitterness or sarcasm, “Jon-Tom, are you a spellsinger?”

  “Hmmm?” He looked up at her. “A what?”

  “A spellsinger.” She nodded toward the otter, who was walking a few yards ahead of them. “Mudge says that the wizard Clothahump brought you into our world because he thought you were a wizard who could help him in sorceral matters.”

  “That’s right. Unfortunately, I’m in prelaw.”

  She looked doubtful. “Wizards don’t make those kinds of mistakes.”

  “Well, this one sure did.”

  “Then you’re not …” She eyed him strangely. “A spellsinger is a wizard who can only make magic through music.”

  “That’s a nice thought.” He plucked at the lower strings and almost-notes danced with dust motes in the fading daylight. “I wish it were true of me.” He grinned, slightly embarrassed. “I’ve had a few people tell me that despite my less than mesmerizing tenor, I can make a little music-magic. But not the kind you’re thinking of.”

  “How do you know you can’t? Maybe Clothahump was right all along.”

  “This is silly, Talea. I’m no more a magician than I am any other kind of success. Hell, I’m having a hard enough time trying to play this thing and walk at the same time, what with that long staff strapped to my back. It keeps trying to slide free and trip me.

  “Besides,” he ran his fingers indifferently along the upper strings, “I can’t even get this to sound right. I can’t play something I can’t even tune.”

  “Have you used all the dutips?” When he looked blank, she indicated the tuning knobs. He nodded. “And what about the dudeeps?” Again the blank gaze, and this time he had a surprise.

  Set into a recess in the bottom of the instrument were two knobs. He hadn’t noticed them before, having been preoccupied with the strings and the “dutips,” as she’d called them. He fiddled with the pair. Each somehow contracted tiny metal and wood slats inside the resonator. One adjusted crude treble, the other lowered everything a couple of octaves and corresponded very roughly to a bass modulator. He looked closely at them and then looked again. Instead of the usual “treble” and “bass,” they read “tremble” and “mass.”

  But they definitely improved the quality of the duar’s sound.

  “Now you should try,” she urged him.

  “Try what? What kind of song would you like to hear? I’ve been through this with Mudge, so if you want to take the risk of listening to me… .”

  “I’m not afraid,” she replied, misunderstanding him. “Try not for the sound. Try for the magic. It’s not like a wizard as great as Clothahump, even if his powers are failing, to make such a mistake.”

  Try for the magic, he thought. Huh … try for the sound. That’s what the lead bass player for a very famous group had once told him. The guy had been higher than the Pope when Jon-Tom had accidentally run into him in a hall before a concert playing to twenty thousand. Stuttering, hardly able to talk to so admired a musician, he’d barely been able to mumble the usual fatuous request for “advice to a struggling young guitarist.”

  “Hey, man … you got to try for the sound. Hear? Try for the sound.”

  That hastily uttered parable had been sufficiently unspecific to stick in his mind. Jon-Tom had been trying for the sound for years, but he hadn’t come close to finding it. Most would-be musicians never did. Maybe finding the sound was the difference between the pro and the amateur. Or maybe it was only a matter of getting too stoked to notice the difference.

  Whatthehell.

  He fiddled a little longer with the pseudo-treble/bass controls. They certainly improved the music. Why not play something difficult? Stretch yourself, Jon-Tom. You’ve nothing to lose. These two critics can’t change your career one way or t’other. There was only one sound he’d ever hoped to reach for, so he reached.

  “Purple haze …” he began, and thereafter, as always, he lost himself in the music, forgetting the watching Talea, forgetting Mudge, forgetting the place and time of where he was, forgetting everything except reaching for the sound.

  He played as hard as he could on that strange curved instrument. It lifted him, juiced him with the natural high playing always brought him. As he played it seemed to him that he could hear the friendly prickling music of his own old electric guitar. His nerves quivered with the pleasure and his ears rang with the familiarity of it. He was truly happy, cradling and caressing that strange instrument, forgetting his surroundings, his troubles, his parents.

  A long time later (or maybe it was only a couple of minutes) he became aware that someone was shaking him. He blinked and stopped playing, the last rough chord dying away, soaked up by the earth and trees. He blinked at Talea, and she let loose of his arms, backed away from him a little. She was looking at him strangely.

  Mudge also stood nearby, staring.

  “What’s going on? Was I that bad?” He felt a little dizzy.

  “’Tis a fine chap you are, foolin’ your mate like this,” said the otter with a mixture of awe and irritation. “Forgive me, lad. I’d no idea you’d been toyin’ with me all this time. Don’t go too harsh on me. I’ve only done what I thought best for you and…”

  “Stop that, Mudge. What are you blubbering about?”

  “The sounds you made … and something else, spellsinger.” He gaped at her. “You’re still trying to fool us, aren’t you? Just like you fooled Clothahump. Look at your duar.”

  His gaze dropped and he jumped slightly. The last vestiges of a powerful violet luminescence were slowly fading from the edges of the instrument, slower still from the lambent metal strings.

  “I didn’t … I haven’t done anything.” He shoved at the instrument as though it might suddenly turn and bite him. The strap kept it secure around his neck and it swung back to bounce off his ribs. The club-staff rocked uncomfortably on his back.

  “Try again,” Talea whispered. “Reach for the magic again.”

  It seemed to have grown darker much too fast. Hesitantly (it was only an instrument, after all) he plucked at the lower strings and strummed again a few bars of “Purple Haze.” Each time he struck a string it emitted that rich violet glow.

  There was something else. The music was different. Cold as water from a mountain tarn, rough as a file’s rasp. It set a fire in the head like white lightning and sent goosebumps down his arms. Bits of thought rattled around like ball bearings inside his skull.

  My oh, but that was a fine sound!

  He tried again, more confidently now. Out came the proper chords, with a power and thunder he hadn’t expected. All the time they reverberated and echoed through the trees, and there was no amplifier in sight. That vast sound was pouring purple from the duar resting firm on his shoulder and light beneath his dancing fingers.

  Is it the instrument that’s transformed, he thought wildly, or something in me?

  That was the key line, of course, from another song entirely. But it rationalized, if not explained, he thought, what was happening there in the forest.

  “I’m not a spellsinger,” he finally told them. “I’m still not sure what that is.” He was surprised at the humbleness in his voice. “But I always thought I had something in me. Every would-be musician does. There’s a line that goes, ‘The magic’s in the music and the music’s in me.’ Maybe you’re right, Talea. Maybe Clothahump was more accurate than even he knew.

  “I’m going to do what I can, though I can’t imagine what that might be. So far all I know I can do is make this duar shine purple.”

  “Never mind ’ow you do it, mate.” Mudge swelled with pride at his co
mpanion’s accomplishment. “Just don’t forget ’ow.”

  “We need to experiment.” Talea’s mind was working furiously. “You need to focus your abilities, Jon-Tom. Any wizard …”

  “Don’t … call me that.”

  “Any spellsinger, then, has to be able to be specific with his magic. Unspecific magic is not only useless, it’s dangerous.”

  “I don’t know any of the right words,” he protested. “I don’t know any songs with scientific words.”

  “You’ve got the music, Jon-Tom. That’s magic enough to make the words work.” She looked around the forest. Dusk was settling gently over the treetops. “What do we need?”

  “Money,” said Mudge without hesitation.

  “Shut up, Mudge. Be serious.”

  “I’m always serious where money be concerned, luv.”

  She threw him a sour look. “We can’t buy transportation where none exists. Money won’t get us safely and quickly to Clothahump’s Tree.” She looked expectantly at Jon-Tom.

  “Want to try that?”

  “What? Transportation? I don’t know what kind …” He broke off, feeling drunk. Drunk from the after effects of the music. Drunk from what it seemed he’d done with it. Drunk with the knowledge of an ability he hadn’t known he’d possessed, and completely at a loss as to what to make of it.

  Make of it some transportation, dummy. You heard the lady.

  But what song to play to do so? Wasn’t that always the problem? No matter whether you’re trying to magic spirits or an audience.

  Beach Boys … sure, that sounded right. “Little Deuce Coupe.” What would Talea and Mudge make of that! He laughed wildly and drew concerned looks from his companions.

  His hands moved toward the strings … and hesitated. “Little Deuce Coupe”? Now as long as we’re about this, Meriweather, why fool around with small stuff? Try for some real transportation.

  He cleared his throat self-consciously, feeling giddy, and started to sing. “She’s real fine, my four-oh-nine.”