The Spellsinger Adventures Volume One: Spellsinger, the Hour of the Gate, and the Day of the Dissonance

by Alan Dean Foster

“It’s your size, mate,” Mudge told him.

  As they hurried on, Jon-Tom took time to look back at the citizens staring at him. None stood taller than Mudge. Most were between four and five feet tall. It did not make him feel superior. Instead, he felt incredibly awkward and out of place.

  He drew equally curious stares from the occasional human he passed. All the locals were similarly clad, allowing for personal differences in taste and station. Silk, wool, cotton, and leather appeared to be the principal materials. Shirts, blouses, vests, and pants were often decorated with beads and feathers. An astonishing variety of hats were worn, from wide-brimmed seventeenth-century-style feathered to tiny, simple berets, to feathered peaked caps like Mudge’s. Boots alternated with sandals on feet of varying size. He later learned one had a choice between warm, filthy boots or chilly but easily cleanable sandals.

  Keeping clean could be a full-time trial. They crossed the main street just in time to avoid a prestorm deluge when an irritable and whitened old possum dumped out a bucket of slops from a second-floor porch into the central stream, barely missing the pair below.

  “Hey … watch it!” Jon-Tom shouted upward at the closing shutters.

  “Now wot?”

  “That wasn’t very considerate,” Jon-Tom mumbled, his nose twisting at the odor.

  Mudge frowned at him. “Stranger and stranger sound your customs, guv. Now wot else is she supposed t’ do with the ’ouse’old night soil?” With a hand he traced the winding course of the steady stream that flowed through the center of the street.

  “This time o’ year it rains ’ere nigh every day. The rain washes the soil into the central flue ’ere and the stream packs it off right proper.”

  Jon-Tom let out fervent thanks he hadn’t appeared in this land in summertime. “It wasn’t her action I was yelling about. It was her aim. Damned if I don’t think she was trying to hit us.”

  Mudge smiled. “Now that be a thought, mate. But when you’re as dried up and ’ousebound as that faded old sow, I expect you grab at every chance for amusement you can.”

  “What about common courtesy?” Jon-Tom muttered, shaking slop from his shoes.

  “Rely on it if you wants t’ die young, says I.”

  Shouts sounded from ahead. They moved to one side of the street and leaned up against a shuttered storefront. A huge double wagon was coming toward them, one trailing behind another. The vehicle required nearly the entire width of the street for passage.

  Jon-Tom regarded it with interest. The haggard, dripping driver was a margay. The little tiger cat’s bright eyes flashed beneath the wide-brimmed floppy felt hat he wore. Behind him, riding the second half of the wagon, was a cursing squirrel no more than three feet tall. His tail was curled over his head, providing extra protection from the now steadily falling rain. He was struggling to tug heavy canvas or leather sheets over the cargo of fruits and vegetables.

  Four broad-shouldered lizards pulled the double wagon. They were colored iridescent blue and green, and in the gloom their startlingly pink eyes shone like motorcycle taillights. They swayed constantly from side to side, demanding unvarying attention from their yowling, hissing driver, who manipulated them as much with insults as with cracks from his long thin whip.

  Momentarily generating a louder rumble than the isolated bursts of thunder, the enormous wagon slid on past and turned a difficult far corner.

  “I’ve no sympathy for the chap who doesn’t know ’is business,” snorted Mudge as they continued on their way, hugging the sides of buildings in search of some protection from the downpour. “That lot ought long since to ’ave been under cover.”

  It was raining quite heavily now. Most of the windows had been closed or shuttered. The darkness made the buildings appear to be leaning over the street.

  From above and behind came a distant, sharp chirping. Jon-Tom glanced over a shoulder, thought he saw a stellar jay clad in yellow-purple kilt and vest alight on one of the fourth-floor landing posts and squeeze through an opening. There was a faint thump as the circular door was slammed behind him.

  They hurried on, sprinting from one rickety wooden porch covering to the next. Once they paused in the sheltering lee of what might have been a bookstore. Scrollstore, rather, since it was filled with ceiling-high wooden shelves punched out like a massive wine rack. Each hole held its thick roll of paper.

  As Mudge had indicated, the rain was washing the filth from the cobblestones and the now swollen central creek carried it efficiently away.

  The front moved through and the thunder faded. Instead of the heavy, driving rain the clouds settled down to shedding a steady drizzle. The temperature had dropped, and Jon-Tom shivered in his drenched T-shirt and jeans.

  “Begging your pardon, sir.”

  Jon-Tom uncrossed his arms. “What?” He looked to his right. The source of the voice was in a narrow alley barely large enough to allow two people to pass without turning sideways.

  A gibbon lay huddled beneath a slight overhang, curled protectively against several large wooden barrels filled with trash. His fuzzy face was shielded by several large scraps of wrapping paper that had been wound together and tied with a knot beneath his chin. This crude hat hung limp in the rain. Badly ripped trousers of some thin cotton material covered the hairy legs. He had no shirt. Long arms enfolded the shivering chest, and large circular sores showed where the hair had fallen out. One eye socket was a dark little hollow.

  A delicately fingered hand extended hopefully in Jon-Tom’s direction. “A silverpiece, sir. For one unlucky in war and unluckier still in peacetime? It was a bad upbringing and a misinformed judiciary that cost me this eye, sir. Now I exist only on the sufferance of others.” Jon-Tom stood and gaped at the pitiful creature.

  “A few coppers then, sir, if you’ve no silver to give?” The gibbon’s voice was harsh with infection.

  Suddenly he shrank back, falling against the protective trashcans. One fell over, spilling shreds of paper, bones, and other recognizable detritus into the alley. Dimensional dislocation does not eliminate the universality of garbage.

  “Nay, sir, nay!” An arm shook as the simian held it across his face. “I meant no harm.”

  Mudge stood alongside Jon-Tom. The otter’s sword was halfway clear of its chest scabbard. “I’ll not ’ave you botherin’ this gentleman while ’e’s in my care!” He took another step toward the ruined anthropoid. “Maybe you mean no ’arm and maybe you do, but you’ll do none while I’m about.”

  “Take it easy,” murmured Jon-Tom, eyeing the cowering gibbon sympathetically. “Can’t you see he’s sick?”

  “Sick be the word, aright. D’you not know ’ow to treat beggars, mate?” He pulled on his sword. The gibbon let out a low moan.

  “I do.” Jon-Tom reached into his pocket, felt for the small linen purse Clothahump had given him. He withdrew a small coin, tossed it to the gibbon. The simian scrambled among the stones and trash for it.

  “Blessings on you, sir! Heaven kiss you!”

  Mudge turned away, disgustedly sliding his sword back in place. “Waste o’ money.” He put a hand on Jon-Tom’s arm. “Come on, then. Let’s get you t’ the shop I ’ave in mind before you spend yourself broke. It’s a hard world, mate, and you’d better learn that soonest. You never saw the blighter’s knife, I take it?”

  “Knife?” Jon-Tom looked back toward the alley entrance. “What knife?” He felt queasy.

  “Aye, wot knife indeed.” He let out a sharp squeek. “If I ’adn’t of been with you you’d ’ave found out wot knife. But I guess you can’t ’elp yourself. Your brains bein’ up that ’igh, I expect they thin along with the air, wot? ‘Wot knife’ … pfagh!” He stopped, glared up at the dazed Jon-Tom.

  “Now if ’twere just up t’ me, mate, I’d let you make as much the idiot of yourself as you seem to ’ave a mind t’. But I can’t risk offendin’ ’is wizardship, see? So until I’ve seen you safely set up in the world and on your own way t’ where I think you might be able
t’ take some care for yourself, you’ll do me the courtesy from now on o’ takin’ me advice. And if you’ll not think o’ yourself, then ’ave some pity for me. Mind the threats that Clothahump put on me.” He shook his head, turned, and started on down the street again. “Me! Who was unlucky enough to trip over you when you tripped into my day.”

  “Yeah? What about me, then? You think I like it here? You think I like you, you fuzz-faced little fart?”

  To Jon-Tom’s dismay, Mudge smiled instead of going for his sword. “Now that’s more like it, mate! That’s a better attitude than givin’ away your money.” He spat back in the direction of the alley. “God-rotted stinkin’ layabout trash as soon split your gut as piss on you. D’you wonder I like it better in the forest, mate?”

  They turned off the main street into a side avenue that was not as small as an alley, not impressive enough to be a genuine street. It boasted half a dozen shopfronts huddled together in the throat of a long cul-de-sac. A single tall oil lamp illuminated the street. Cloth awnings almost met over the street, shutting out much of the lamplight as well as the rain. A miniature version of the central stream sprang from a stone fountain at the end of the cul-de-sac.

  Jon-Tom shook water from his hands, and squeezed it from his long hair as he ducked under the cover of one awning. It was not designed to shield someone of his height. He stared at the sign over the large front window of the shop. It was almost comprehensible. Perhaps the longer he spent here the more acclimated his brain became. In any case, he did not have to understand the lettering to know what kind of shop this was. The window was filled with vests and shirts, elaborately stitched pantaloons, and a pair of trousers with bells running the length of the seams. Some lay on the window counter, others fitted dressmaker dummies that sometimes boasted ears and usually had tails.

  A bell chimed brightly as Mudge pushed open the door. “Mind your ’ead now, Jon-Tom.” His tall companion took note of the warning, and bowed under the eave.

  The interior of the shop had the smell of leather and lavender. There was no one in sight. Several chairs with curved seats and backs were arranged neatly near the center of the floor. Long poles supported cross-racks from which clothing had been draped.

  “Hoy, Proprietor!” Mudged whooped. “Show yourself and your work!”

  “And work you shall have, my dear whoever-you-ares.” The reply issued from the back of the shop. “Work only of the finest quality and best stitchery, of the toughest materials and prettiest …” The voice trailed off quickly.

  The fox had come to a halt and was staring past Mudge at the dripping, lanky shape of Jon-Tom. Silk slippers clad the owner’s feet. He wore a silk dressing gown with four matching ribbons of bright aquamarine. They ran around his tail in intersecting loops to meet in a bow at the white tip. He also wore a more practical-looking belt from which protruded rulers, marking sticks, several pieces of dark green stone, and various other instruments of the tailor’s craft. He spoke very deliberately.

  “What … is that?” He gestured hesitantly at Jon-Tom.

  “That’s the work we’re chattin’ about, and a job it’s goin’ t’ be, I’d wager.” Mudge flopped down in one of the low-slung chairs with complete disregard for the upholstery and the fact that he was dripping wet. He put both short legs over one arm of the chair and pushed his feathered cap back on his forehead. “Off to it now, that’s a good fellow.”

  The fox put both paws on hips and stared intently at the otter. “I do not clothe monsters! I have created attire for some of the best-dressed citizens of Lynchbany, and beyond. I have made clothing for Madam Scorianza and her best girls, for the banker Flaustyn Wolfe, for members of the town council, and for our most prominent merchants and craftsmen, but I do not clothe monsters.”

  Mudge leaned over in the chair and helped himself to a long thin stick from a nearby tall glass filled with them. “Look on it as a challenge, mate.” He used a tiny flinted sparker to light the stick.

  “Listen,” said Jon-Tom, “I don’t want to cause any trouble.” The fox took a wary step backward as that towering form moved nearer. “Mudge here thinks that … that…” He was indicating the otter, who was puffing contentedly on the thin stick. Smoke filled the room with a delightfully familiar aroma.

  “Say,” said Jon-Tom, “do you suppose I could have one of those, uh, sticks?”

  “For the convenience o’ the customers, lad.” Mudge magnanimously passed over a stick along with his sparker. Jon-Tom couldn’t see how it worked, but at this point was more than willing to believe it had been treated with a good fire spell.

  Several long puffs on the glowing stick more than relaxed him. Not everything in this world was as horrible as it seemed, he decided. It was smoking that had made him accessible to the questing thoughts of Clothahump. Perhaps smoking would let something send him home.

  Ten minutes later, he no longer cared. Reassured by both Mudge and the giant’s dreamy responses, the grumbling fox was measuring Jon-Tom as the latter lay quite contentedly on the carpeted floor. Mudge lay next to him, the two of them considerably higher mentally than physically. The tailor, whose name was Cariemot, did not object to their puffing, which indicated either an ample supply of the powerful smokesticks or a fine sense of public relations, or both.

  He left them eventually, returning several hours later to find otter and man totally bombed. They still lay on the floor, and were currently speculating with great interest on the intricacies of the wormholes in the wooden ceiling.

  It was only later that Jon-Tom had recovered sufficiently for a dressing. When he finally saw himself in the mirror, the shock shoved aside quite a bit of the haze.

  The indigo silk shirt felt like cool mist against his skin. It was tucked neatly into straight-legged pants which were a cross between denim and flannel. Both pants and shirt were secured with matching buttons of black leather. The jet leather vest was fringed around the bottom and decorated with glass beadwork. The cuffs of the pants were likewise fringed, though he couldn’t tell this at first because they were stuffed into calfhigh black leather boots with rolled tops. At first it seemed surprising that the tailor had managed to find any footgear at all to fit him, considering how much larger he was than the average local human. Then it occurred to him that many of the inhabitants were likely to have feet larger in proportion to their bodies than did men.

  A belt of metal links, silver or pewter, held up the pants, shone in sharp contrast to the beautifully iridescent hip-length cape of some green lizard leather. A pair of delicate but functional silver clips held the cape together at the collar.

  Despite Mudge’s insistence, however, he categorically refused to don the orange tricornered cap. “I just don’t like hats.”

  “Such a pity.” Carlemot’s attitude had shifted from one of distress to one of considerable pride. “It really is necessary to complete the overall effect, which, if I may be permitted to say so, is striking as well as unique.”

  Jon-Tom turned, watched the scales of the cape flare even in the dim light. “Sure as hell would turn heads in L.A.”

  “Not bad,” Mudge conceded. “Almost worth the price.”

  “‘Almost’ indeed!” The fox was pacing round Jon-Tom, inspecting the costume for any defects or tears. Once he paused to snip a loose thread from a sleeve of the shirt. “It is subdued yet flashy, attention-gathering without being obtrusive.” He smiled, displaying sharp teeth in a long narrow snout.

  “The man looks like a noble, or better still, a banker. When one is confronted with so much territory to cover, the task is at first daunting. However, the more one has to work with, the more gratifying the end results. Never mind this plebian, my tall friend,” the fox continued, gazing up possessively at Jon-Tom, “what is your opinion?”

  “I like it. Especially the cape.” He spun a small circle, nearly fell down but recovered poise and balance nicely. “I always wanted to wear a cape.”

  “I am pleased.” The tailor appeared to be wait
ing for something, coughed delicately.

  “Crikey, mate,” snapped Mudge, “pay the fellow.”

  Some good-natured haggling followed, with Mudge’s task made the more difficult by the fact that Jon-Tom kept siding with the tailor. A reasonable balance was still struck, since Carlemot’s natural tendency to drive a hard bargain was somewhat muted by the pleasure he’d received from accomplishing so difficult a job.

  That did not keep Mudge from chastising Jon-Tom as they left the shop behind. The drizzle had become a heavy mist around them.

  “Mate, I can’t save you much if you’re goin’ t’ take the side of the shopkeeper.”

  “Don’t worry about it.” For the first time in a long while, he was feeling almost happy. Between the lingering effects of the smoke session and the gallant appearance he was positive his new attire gave him, his mood was downright expansive. “It was a tough task for him and he did a helluva job. I don’t begrudge him the money. Besides,” he jingled the purse in his pocket, “we still have some left.”

  “That’s good, because we’ve one more stop t’ make.”

  “Another?” Jon-Tom frowned. “I don’t need any more clothing.”

  “That so?” Far as I’m concerned, mate, you’re walkin’ around bloody naked.” He turned right. They passed four or five storefronts on the wide street, crossed the cobblestones and a little bridge arcing over the central stream, and entered another shop.

  It possessed an entirely different ambiance from the warm tailor shop they’d just left. While the fox’s establishment had been spotless, soft-looking, and comfortable as an old den, this one was chill with an air of distasteful business.

  One entire wall was speckled with devices designed for throwing. There were dozens of knives; ellipsoidal, stiletto, triangular, with or without blood gutters grooved nastily in their flanks, gem-encrusted little pig-stickers for argumentative ladies, trick knives concealed in eyeglass cases or boot soles … all the deadly variety of which the honer was capable.

  Throwing stars shone in the lamplight like decorations plucked from the devil’s Christmas tree. A spiked bolo hung from an intricate halberd. Maces and nunchaku alternated wall space with spears and shields, pikes and war axes. Near the back of the shop were the finer weapons, long bows and swords with more variety of handle (to fit many different size and shape of hand) than of blade. One particularly ugly half-sword looked more like a double scythe. It was easy to envision the damage it could do when wielded by a knowledgeable arm. That of a gibbon with a deceptive reach, for example.