Spellsinger: A Spellsinger Adventure (Book One)

by Alan Dean Foster

  “The missions and goings and comings of the warmlanders are of no interest to me.” The dragon sounded disgusted. “You are all economically and socially repressive.” His head dipped again and he moved closer, a black mountain emerging from the river. Now Falameezar was close enough to smash the duar player with one foot.

  Somewhere behind him he could hear Flor whispering loudly, “A real dragon! How wonderful!” Next to her, Talea was muttering sentiments of a different kind.

  “You live or become food,” said the dragon, “at my whim. That is the way of dragons who chance upon travelers. As is our way, I will offer you the chance to win your freedom. You must answer a riddle.”

  Jon-Tom sloshed water with one foot. “I’m not much at riddles.”

  “You have no choice. In any case, you need not worry yourself much.” Saliva was trickling from his lower jaw. “Know that not one who has come my way has been able to answer my riddle.”

  “’Ere now, mate,” Mudge called to him encouragingly, “don’t let ’im intimidate you. ’E’s just tryin’ t’ frighten you out o’ careful consideration o’ your reply.”

  “He’s succeeding,” Jon-Tom snapped back at the foolhardy otter. He looked back up at the mouth waiting to take him in one bite. “Isn’t there some other way we can settle this? It’s not polite to eat visitors.”

  “I did not invite you,” growled the dragon. “Do you prefer to end it now by passing over your right to try and answer?”

  “No, no!” He glanced sideways at Clothahump. The wizard was clearly mumbling some sort of spell soft enough so the dragon could not overhear, but either the spell was ineffective or else’s the wizard’s capricious memory had chosen this inopportune moment to turn to mush.

  “Go ahead and ask,” he said, still stalling. Sweat was making his indigo shirt stick to his back.

  The dragon smelled of mud and water and pungent aquatic things. The thick smell gave Jon-Tom something to concentrate on besides his fear.

  “Then riddle me this,” rumbled the dragon. He lolled in the shallow water, keeping a sharp, fiery eye on the rest of the frightened group.

  “What is the fundamental attribute of human nature … and of all similar natures?” He puffed smoke, hugely enjoying Jon-Tom’s obvious confusion.

  “Love!” shouted Talea. Jon-Tom was shocked at the redhead’s uncharacteristic response to the question.

  “Ambition,” suggested Flor.

  “Greed.” No need to see who’d said that. It could only have come from Mudge.

  “A desire to better one’s self without harming one’s fellows.” That was Caz’s graceful offering. At least, it was graceful until he added, “Any more than necessary.”

  “Fear,” said the stuttering Pog, trying to find a tree to hide behind without drawing the dragon’s attention.

  “The wish to gain knowledge and become wise,” said Clothahump, momentarily distracted from his spell weaving.

  “No, no, no, no, and no!” snorted the dragon contemptuously, searing the air with a gout of flame. “You are ignorant as all. All that fools have to recommend themselves is their taste.”

  Jon-Tom was thinking hectically about something the dragon had said before. Yes … his comment about the warmlanders being “economically and socially repressive.” Now the riddle sounded almost familiar. He was sure he recognized it, but where, and was there more to it that might be the answer? His brain fumbled and hunted desperately for the distant memory.

  Falameezar hissed, and water boiled around Jon-Tom’s boots. He could feel the heat even through the thick leather. He wondered if he would turn red, like a lobster … or black, like burnt toast.

  Perhaps the dragon could read minds as well as he could pose riddles. “I will now give you another choice. I can have you steamed or broiled. Those who would prefer to be steamed may step into the river. Those who prefer broiling remain where you are. It is of no matter to me. Or I can eat you raw. Most meals find precooking preferable, however.”

  Come on, meal, he chided himself. This is just another test, but it may be the last one if you don’t …

  “Wait. Wait a minute! I know the answer!”

  The dragon cocked a bored eye at him. “Hurry up. I’m hungry.”

  Jon-Tom took a deep breath. “The fundamental attribute of human nature is … productive labor.” For good measure he added casually, “Any fool knows that.”

  The dragon’s head reared back, dominating the sky. Bat-wing ears fluttered in confusion, and for a moment he was so startled he choked on his own smoke.

  Still menacingly, but uncertain now, he brought his massive jaws so near that Jon-Tom could have reached out and caressed the shiny black scales. The air was full of dampness and brimstone.

  “And what,” he rumbled, “determines the structure of any society?”

  Jon-Tom was beginning to relax a little. Unbelievable as it seemed, he felt safe now. “Its economic means of production.”

  “And societies evolve … ?”

  “Through a series of crises caused by internal contradictions,” Jon-Tom finished for him.

  The dragon’s eyes flashed and his jaws gaped. Though confident he’d found the answer, Jon-Tom couldn’t help but back away from those gnashing teeth. A pair of gigantic forefeet rose dripping from the water. Tiny crustaceans scrambled frantically for cover.

  The feet lunged toward Jon-Tom. He felt himself being lifted into the air. From somewhere behind him Flor was yelling frantically and Mudge was muttering a dirge.

  An enormous forked tongue as startlingly red as the slitted eyes emerged from the mouth and flicked wetly at Jon-Tom’s face.

  “Comrade!” the dragon declaimed. Then Jon-Tom was gently deposited back on dry land.

  The dragon was thrashing at the water in ecstasy. “I knew it! I knew that all the creatures of this world could not exist ignorant of the true way.” He was so happy he blew fire simply from pure joy, though now he carefully directed it away from his stunned audience.

  The otter ran out onto the sand, sidled close to the tall human. “Crikey, mate, be this more o’ your unexpected wizardry?”

  “No, Mudge.” He wiped dragon spit from his cheeks and neck. It was hot to the touch. “Just a correct guess. It was sparked by something he’d said to us earlier. Then it came back to me. What I don’t understand is how this bonafide dragon was transformed into a dedicated Marxist.”

  “Maziwhich? Wot’s that? Some otherworldly magickin’, maybe?”

  “Some people think so. Others would regard it more as pure superstition. But for God’s sake, don’t say anything like that to him or we’ll all find ourselves in the soup, literally.”

  “Pardon my curiosity,” he called to the dragon, “but how did you happen to stumble on the,” he hesitated, “‘true way’?”

  “It happens on occasion that dragons stumble into interdimensional warps,” Falameezar told him as he calmed himself down. “We seem prone to such manifestations. I was suspended in one for days. That is when it was revealed to me. I have tried to make others see but,” he shrugged massive black shoulders, “what can but one do in a world aswarm with voracious, ravenous capitalists?”

  “What indeed?” murmured Jon-Tom.

  “Even if one is a dragon. Oh, I try now and then, here on the river. But the poor abused boatmen simply have no comprehension of the labor theory of value, and it is quite impossible to engage even the lowliest worker in an honest socialist dialectic.”

  “I know the problem,” said Jon-Tom sympathetically.

  “You do?”

  “Yes. As a matter of fact, we’re all embarked on a journey right now, we seven comrades, because this land which you say is filled with capitalists is about to be invaded and overrun by an entire nation of totalitarian capitalists, who wish to enslave completely the, uh, local workers to a degree the primitive bosses hereabouts can’t begin to match.”

  “A terrible prospect!” The dragon’s gaze turned to the others. “I a
pologize. I had no idea I was confronting fellow crusaders of the proletariat.”

  “Dead right,” said Mudge. “You ought t’ be ashamed o’ yourself, mate.” He began cautiously moving back toward the sand. Clothahump looked at once intrigued and puzzled, but for the moment the wizard was quite content to let Jon-Tom do the talking.

  “Now then, comrade.” The massive black shape folded its forelegs and squinched down in the sandy shallows. “What can I do to help?”

  “Well, as you would say, from each according to his ability to each according to his need.”

  “Just so.” The dragon spoke in a tone usually employed for the raising of saints.

  “We need to warn the people against the invasion of the bosses. To do so we must warn the local inhabitants of the most powerful center of government. If we could get upstream as quickly as possible—”

  “Say no more!” He rose majestically on hind legs. A great surge of water nearly washed away their packs. As the dragon turned, his thick black and purple tail, lined with rigid bumps and spinal plates, stretched delicately onto the sand.

  “Allow me the honor. I will take you wherever you wish, and far more quickly than any capitalist pig of a boat master could manage. On one condition.” The tail slipped partway back into the river.

  Jon-Tom had been about to start up the tail and now hesitated warily. “What’s that?”

  “That during the course of our journey we can engage in a decent philosophical discussion of the true nature of such matters as labor value, the proper use of capital, and alienation of the worker from his output. This is for my own use. I need all the ammunition I can muster for conversing with my fellows. Most dragons are ignorant of the class struggle.” He sounded apologetic. “We tend to be solipsists by nature.”

  “I can understand that,” said Jon-Tom. “I’ll be happy to supply whatever arguments and information I can.”

  The tail slid back onto the sand. Jon-Tom began the climb up the natural ladder and glanced back at his companions.

  “What are you all waiting for? It’s safe. Falameezar’s a fellow worker, a comrade.”

  The dragon positively beamed.

  When they had all mounted and found seats and had secured their baggage, the dragon moved slowly out into the water. In a few minutes they had reached the center of the river. Falameezar turned upstream and began to swim steadily and without apparent effort against the considerable current.

  “Tell me now,” he said by way of opening conversation, “there is a thing I do not understand.”

  “There are things none of us understand,” said Jon-Tom. “Just now I’m not too sure I understand myself.”

  “You are introspective as well as socially conscious. That’s nice.” The dragon cleared his throat, and smoke drifted back over the riders.

  “According to Marx, the capitalists should long since have been swept away and the world should now exist in a stateless, classless society. Yet nothing could be further from the truth.”

  “For one thing,” Jon-Tom began, trying not to sound too much like a tutor, “this world hasn’t yet fully emerged from the feudal stage. But more importantly … surely you’ve heard of Rosa Luxemburg’s Accumulation of Capital?”

  “No.” A crimson eye blinked curiously back at him. “Please tell me about it.”

  Jon-Tom proceeded to do so, with caution and at length.

  They had no problems. Falameezar could catch more fish in one snap than the entire party could in a day’s trying, and the dragon was quite willing to share his catch. Also to cook it.

  The assured, easy supply of fresh food led Mudge and Caz to grow exceedingly lazy. Jon-Tom’s biggest worry was not occupying Falameezar but that either of the two dragon-borne lotus-eaters might let something slip in casual conversation which would tell the dragon that they were no more Marxists than they were celibate.

  At least they were not merchants or traders. Mudge, Caz, and Talea qualified as free agents, though Jon-Tom couldn’t stretch the definition of their erstwhile professions far enough to consider them craftsmen. Clothahump could be considered a philosopher, and Pog was his apprentice. With a little coaching from Jon-Tom, the turtle was able to acquire a semantic handle on such concepts as dialectical materialism and thus assist with some of the conversational load.

  This was necessary because while Jon-Tom had studied Marxism thoroughly it had been over three years ago. Details returned reluctantly. Each was challenged by the curious Falameezar, who had evidently committed to memory every word of both The Communist Manifesto and Das Kapital.

  There was no talk of Lenin or Mao, however, for which Jon-Tom was thankful. Any time the subject of revolution arose the dragon was apt to wonder if maybe they oughtn’t to attack this or that town or cluster of traders. But without much of a practical base on which to operate he grew confused, and Jon-Tom was able to steer their debate to less violent aspects of social change.

  Fortunately, there were few traders plying the river to stimulate the dragon’s ire, and the moment they spotted the black silhouette of Falameezar they hastily abandoned both their boats and the water. The dragon protested that he would like to talk with the crews as much as he would like to cremate the captains, but sadly admitted he did not seem to have the ability to get close to people.

  “They don’t understand,” he was saying softly one morning. “I merely wish to be accepted as an equal member of the proletariat. They will not even stop to listen. Of course, most of them do not have the necessary grasp and overview of their society’s socioeconomic problems. They rant and rave and are generally so abusive that they give me heartburn.”

  “I remember what you said about your fellow dragons’ independent natures. Can’t you organize them at all?”

  Falameezar let out a disgusted snort, sending orange fire across the water’s surface. “They will not even stop to listen. They do not understand that to be truly happy and successful it is necessary for all to work together, each helping his comrade as we march onward toward the glorious, classless, socialist future.”

  “I didn’t know dragons had classes.”

  “It embarrasses me to admit it, but there are those among us who hold themselves better than their fellows.” He shook his great head dolefully. “It is a sad, confused world we live in, comrade. Sad and exploitative.”

  “Too true,” agreed Jon-Tom readily.

  The dragon brightened. “But that makes the challenge all the greater, does it not?”

  “Absolutely, and this challenge we go to confront now is the most dangerous one ever to face the world.”

  “I suppose.” Falameezar looked thoughtful. “But one thing puzzles me. Surely among all these invaders-to-come there must be some workers? They cannot all be bosses.”

  Oh, lord, now how, Jon-Tom? “That’s the case, I suppose,” he replied as quickly as he could, “but they’re all irrevocably imbued with the desire to be bigger bosses than those they now serve.” Falameezar still seemed unsure.

  Inspiration served. “And they also believe implicitly that if they can conquer the rest of the world, the warmlands and the rest, then they will become capitalist bosses over the workers here, and their old bosses will remain master over them. So they will give rise, if successful, to the most implacable class of capitalists the world has ever known, a class of bosses’ bosses.”

  Falameezar’s voice echoed like an avalanche across the water. “This must be stopped!”

  “I agree.” Jon-Tom’s attention for the past hour had been more and more on the shoreline. Hills had risen in place of low beaches. On the left bank they merged into sheer rock walls almost a hundred feet high, far too high for even the powerful Falameezar to negotiate. The dragon was swerving gradually toward his right.

  “Rapids ahead,” he explained. “I have never traveled beyond this point. I dislike walking and would much rather swim, as befits a river dragon. But for the cause,” he said bravely, “I will of course dare anything, so I will wal
k the rapids.”

  “Of course,” Jon-Tom murmured.

  It was growing dark. “We can camp the first place you can easily climb ashore, comrade Falameezar.” He looked back in distaste. Mudge and Caz were playing at dice on a flat section of the dragon’s back. “For a change maybe our ‘hunters’ can find us something to eat besides fish. After all,” he murmured with a wicked grin, “everyone must contribute to the welfare of the whole.”

  “How very true,” said the dragon, adding politely, “not that I mind catching you fish.”

  “It’s not that.” Jon-Tom was enjoying the thought of the two somnolent gamblers slogging through the muck to find enough meat to feed the voracious dragon. “It’s time some of us did some real work for you. You’ve sure as hell done enough for us.”

  “Well put, comrade,” said the dragon. “We must bow to social decorum. I would enjoy a change from fish.”

  The hilly shore bordered a land of smaller trees, narrower of bole and widely scattered amid thick brush. Despite his insistence that he preferred water to land, the dragon had no trouble smashing hs way through the foliage bulwarking the water’s edge.

  A small clearing close to the river was soon located. They settled into camp to the accompaniment of rising moonlight. Ahead was the steady but soothing roar of the rapids Falameezar would have to negotiate the next day.

  Jon-Tom dumped a load of wood by the fire, brushed bark and dirt from his hands, and asked Caz, “What do ships traveling past this point do about the rapids?”

  “Most are constructed and designed so as to make their way safely through them when traveling down to the Glittergeist,” the rabbit explained. “When traveling upstream it is necessary to portage around. There are places where it can be done. Logs have been laid across ancient, well-known paths. The ships are then dragged across this crude cellulose lubrication until quieter water is reached.” He nodded curiously toward the dragon. Falameezar lay contentedly on the far side of the clearing, his tail curled across his jaws.