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

by Alan Dean Foster

  “My pleasure. Please come visit us anytime, sir. The Friends of the Street encourages visitation.”

  The front door closed quietly behind them, leaving the trio standing on the cobblestone avenue outside. Roseroar started down the hill.

  “That’s done. Now we can get down to mo important business.”

  “I admit she’s better off here than with us,” Jon-Tom said. “Certainly it’s a more stable environment than any alternative we could come up with.”

  “Hang on a minim, you two.” Jon-Tom and Roseroar turned, to see Mudge inspecting the entrance.

  “What’s the matter, Mudge?” Come to think of it, Jon-Tom hadn’t heard a single comment from the otter during the tour. “I’d think that you, of any of us, would be anxious to get back to the inn.”

  “That I am, mate.”

  “Come on, then, ottah,” said Roseroar impatiently. “Don’t tell me you miss the cub? You liked her no mo than did ah.”

  “True enough, mistress of massive hindquarters. I thought ’er obstinate, ignorant, and nothin’ but trouble, for all that she went through. Life’s tough and I ain’t me sister’s keeper. But I wouldn’t leave a slick, slimy salamander who’d ooze all over me in a place like this.”

  “You saw something, Mudge?” Jon-Tom moved to stand next to him. “I thought it was neat, clean, and well-equipped.”

  “Bullocks,” snapped the otter. “We saw what they wanted us to see, nothin’ more. That Chokas chap’s as slick as greased owl shit and I’d trust ’im about as far as I can piss.” He turned to face them both. “I don’t suppose either o’ you sharp-eyed suckers ’appened to note that there are no windows on the first floor anywheres facin’ the streets?”

  Jon-Tom looked left, then right, and saw that the otter was correct. “So? I’m sure they have their reasons.”

  “I’ll bet they do. Notice also that all the second-story windows are barred?”

  “More decorative wrought iron,” murmured Jon-Tom, his eyes roving over the upper floors.

  “Decorative is it, mate?”

  “This is a rough city,” said Roseroar. “Orphans are vulnerable. Perhaps the bahs are to keep thieves from breakin’ in and stealing youngsters to sell into slavery.”

  “If that’s the case then the ‘Friends’ of the Street ’ave done a mighty professional job o’ protectin’ their charges from the outside. Observe that none of these trees overhang any part of any of the buildin’s.”

  That was true. A cleared expanse of street formed an open barrier between the nearest orchard and the outermost structures.

  “But what does all of it prove?” Jon-Tom asked the otter.

  “Not a bloody thing, mate. But I’ve been around a bit, and I’m tellin’ you that my gut tells me somethin’ ’ere ain’t right. Me, I’d be curious to ’ave a little chat with one or two o’ the occupants without that piranha-faced squirrel o’ our charmin’ guide Chokas about. I’ve ’eard descriptions o’ orphanages, and this place makes the best o’ them look like that dungeon we fled in Malderpotty. That’s wot bothers me, mate.” He gazed up at the silent walls. “It’s too sweet.”

  “I’m not sure I follow you.”

  “Look, guv. Cubs is dirty. They make filth the way I makes sweat. ’Tis natural. This place is supposed to be full o’ cubs and it’s as clean as milady’s intimates.”

  Roseroar spoke softly as she studied the barred upper windows. “Ah did think it uncommon neat fo such an establishment. Almost like a doctah’s office.”

  “You too, Roseroar?” Jon-Tom said in surprise.

  “Me too what? What the ottah says makes sense. Ain’t no secret ah’ve little love fo the cub, but ah’d sleep easier knowin’ she’s been properly cared fo.”

  “If you both feel that way, then we need to talk with her before we go.” Jon-Tom started back for the entrance. Mudge held him by an arm.

  “Slow there, spellsinger. Ol’ Chokas were friendly enough because we didn’t ask no awkward questions or try to poke into places ’e didn’t want us to see. If ’e’d wanted us to meet any o’ ’is kids ’e’d ’ave brought ’em down to us. I don’t think ’e’ll be likely to accede to our little request.”

  “He has a good reason. They’re likely to all be asleep. It’s late.”

  “All of ’em?” wondered Mudge. “I doubt it. Wot about those offspring of the night-lifers? The gophers and the moles?”

  “Maybe they have separate quarters so they can be active at night without disturbing the others,” Jon-Tom suggested. “If they’re nocturnal, they wouldn’t need lights in their rooms.”

  “There’d still be some hint o’ activity. Remember, mate, we’re talkin’ about a bunch o’ young cubs.”

  Jon-Tom chewed his lower lip. “It was awfully quiet in there, wasn’t it?”

  “Like a tomb, mate. Tell you wot. Why don’t you spellsing the lot o’ them to sleep the way you did that bunch on the pirate ship?”

  “Wouldn’t work. On the ship, everyone was within range of the duar and of my voice. Too many walls here.”

  Mudge nodded. “Right then. My turn to perform a little magic.”

  “You?”

  The otter grinned, his whiskers twitching. “You ain’t the only master o’ strange arts around ’ere, mate.”

  They followed him around the side, until they were far from the entrance. As they walked Jon-Tom noted that no other doors were visible in the complex. There was only the single entrance. Still, there might be other doors around the back. And the Friends of the Street were not constrained by, say, the Los Angeles Fire Code.

  Mudge halted near a tree that grew closer to the buildings than any of the others.

  “Now then, my petite purr-box, I ’ave a little job for you.” He pointed up into the tree. “See that branch there? The second one up?” She nodded. “Can you climb up there and then climb out along it?”

  She frowned. “What foah? It won’t hold mah weight.”

  “That’s precisely the idea, luv.”

  Jon-Tom immediately divined the otter’s intent. “It’s no good, Mudge. That branch’ll throw you headfirst into the wall. I’ll end up with a furry Frisbee on my hands instead of a valuable friend.”

  “Don’t worry about me, guv. I knows wot I’m about. We otter folk are born acrobats. Most o’ the time there’s nothin’ more to it than play, but we can get serious with it if we need too. Let me give ’er a try.”

  “One try is all you’ll get.” He swung the duar around until it rested against his chest. “Why don’t I try spell-singing you onto the roof?”

  Mudge looked unwilling. “That would work fine, wouldn’t it, mate? With you standin’ ’ere below these barred windows caterwaulin’ fit to shiver a bat’s ears.”

  “Ah resent the comparison, watah rat.” Roseroar advanced up the tree trunk.

  Mudge shrugged. “Don’t matter ’ow you describe it. You’d wake the ’ole place.”

  “I could try singing quietly.”

  “Aye, and likely catapult … sorry again, Roseroar … me into the middle o’ some far ocean. No offense, mate, but you know well as I that there be times when your spellsingin’ don’t quite strike the mark. So if it’s all the same, I’d rather take me chances with the tree.”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Jon-Tom muttered. A glance showed Roseroar already crawling carefully out onto the chosen limb. “Go ahead, but I think you’re nuts.”

  “Why, guv, I didn’t think me mental condition were a matter o’ dispute anymore. An’ the proof of it’s that I’m standin’ ’ere askin’ you to let me catapult meself toward a stone wall instead o’ lying in a soft bed somewhere back in the Bellwoods.”

  He moved aside as the thick branch began to bend toward the ground beneath Roseroar. She kept crawling along it until she couldn’t advance any more, then swung beneath and continued advancing toward the end of the limb hand-over-hand. Seconds later the leaves were brushing the street.

  Mudge nestled hi
mself into a crook between two smaller branches near the end. “Wot’s your opinion o’ this, luv?”

  Roseroar had to use all her weight to hold the branch down. She studied the distant roof speculatively. “A lot to miss and little to land on. Wheah do y’all wish the remains sent?”

  “Two optimists I’m blessed with,” the otter mumbled. “I thank the both o’ you for your encouragin’ words.” He patted the wood behind him. “Wortyle wood. I thought she’d bend without breakin’. They make ship’s ribs out o’ this stuff.” He glanced back at Roseroar. “Any time you’re ready, lass.”

  “Yoah sure about this?”

  “No, I’m not, but I ain’t doin’ no good sittin’ ’ere on me arse talkin’ about it.”

  “That ain’t the part that’s goin’ to get smashed,” she said as she stepped away from the quivering branch.

  The wortyle wood whipped upward so fast the air vibrated in its wake. Mudge was thrown with tremendous force into the night sky. The otter did a single flip and described an elegant arc as he began to descend.

  As it developed, his judgment was only slightly off. He didn’t reach the roof, but neither did he smash into the side of the building. He fell only a little short.

  At first it looked as if he was going to land hard on the cobblestones, but at the last instant he grabbed with his right hand. Short, powerful muscles broke his fall as his fingers locked onto the iron grating barring one window. He hung there for a long moment, catching his breath. Then he reached up with the other hand and pulled himself on to the iron.

  His companions stood beneath the window, staring up at him. “Can you get in?” Jon-Tom asked softly.

  Mudge responded with a snort of contempt, fiddled with the grate. Seconds later a metallic click reached Jon-Tom and Roseroar.

  “He’s very clevah, yo friend.”

  “He’s had a lot of experience with locks,” Jon-Tom informed her dryly. Another click from above signified the opening of the window.

  They waited below, feeling exposed standing there on the otherwise empty, moonlit street. Minutes passed. A pink rope snaked down from the open window. Jon-Tom reached up to take hold of the chain of knotted bedsheets.

  “They’ll support me,” he told Roseroar. “I don’t think they’ll hold you.”

  “Nevah mind. Y’all are just goin’ to spend a few minutes talkin’ to the girl-cub anyways.” She nodded toward the nearby grove. “Ah’ll wait foah y’all up in the same tree. Ain’t nobody goin’ to spot me up theah. If I see anyone comin’ this way and it looks tricky, I’ll whistle y’all a warnin’.”

  As she stood there in the pale light Jon-Tom was conscious of her strength and power, but her words struck him as odd. “I didn’t know tigers could whistle.”

  “Well, ah’ll let ya’all know somehow.” She turned and loped toward the trees.

  Jon-Tom braced his feet against the wall and pulled himself up. Mudge was waiting to help him inside.

  Jon-Tom found himself standing in near blackness. “Where are we?” he whispered.

  “Some sort o’ storage closet, mate.” Mudge’s night vision was several cuts above his friend’s.

  But as they moved cautiously through the darkness Jon-Tom’s eyes adjusted to the weak illumination, and he was able to make out buckets, pails, piles of dust rags, curry combs, and other cleaning supplies. Mudge stopped at the door and tried the handle.

  “Locked from the other side.” The otter hunted through the darkness, came back holding something that looked like an awl. He inserted it into the door lock and jiggled delicately. Though Jon-Tom heard nothing, the otter was apparently satisfied by some sound. He put the awl aside and pushed.

  The door opened silently. Mudge peered into a dark dormitory. Against opposite walls stood beds, cots, mats, and diverse sleeping stations for children of different species. On the far wall windows looked down into the courtyard with the trees and fountains. Unlike those on the outside, these were not barred.

  They tiptoed out of the closet and found themselves walking between rows of silent youngsters. All of them appeared to be neatly groomed and squeaky clean. There wasn’t a hair or patch of fur out of place. The dormitory itself was comfortably cool and as spotless as the dining room and entry hall had been.

  “I don’t see any indications of abuse here,” Jon-Tom whispered as they went from bed to bed.

  Mudge was shaking his head doubtfully. “Too neat, mate. Too perfect.” They reached the end of the long chamber without finding Folly. The door at the end was also locked from the outside. “And another thing, mate. Too many locks ’ere.” He used the tool to pick it.

  Beyond was a short hall. A stairway led downward off to the left. Mudge picked the lock on the door across the hall and they entered a second dorm.

  Grunts and whistles and snores covered their footsteps as they commenced an inspection of the new group of beds. Halfway down the line they found Folly. Jon-Tom shook her gently awake. She rolled over, woke up.

  She was gasping with fright. There was no mistaking the look in her eyes, the tenseness of her body, the expression on her face. It reminded Jon-Tom a little of the look she’d display on the pirate ship whenever Corroboc appeared.

  As soon as she recognized him she threw her arms around him and started sobbing.

  “Jon-Tom, Jon-Tom. And Mudge too. I thought you’d forgotten me. I thought you’d go off and leave me here!”

  “I didn’t forget you, Folly.” Acutely conscious of her curves beneath the thin black nightdress, he gently pushed her away. “What’s wrong?”

  She looked around wildly. “You’ve got to get me out of here! Quickly, before the night patrol shows up.”

  “Night patrol? You mean, someone looks in on you?”

  “No, I mean patrol. No one’s allowed out of bed after dark. If they catch you, they beat you. Bad. Not like Corroboc, but bad enough.”

  “But we were here earlier, and we didn’t see any indications of—”

  “Don’t be a fool, mate,” said Mudge tightly. “D’you think these servants o’ the downtrodden would be stupid enough to hit their charges where it’d show?”

  “No, I guess not. They beat you here?”

  Folly spat on the floor. “Only out of love, of course. Every time they beat you it’s out of love. They beat you if you don’t learn your lessons, they beat you if you don’t hold your knife right at mealtime, they beat you for not saying yes sir and no ma’am, and sometimes I think they beat you for the fun of it, to remind you how bad the world outside is.” Her nails dug into his arms.

  “You’ve got to get me out of here, Jon-Tom!” How much truth there was to her accusations, he couldn’t tell, but the desperation in her voice was genuine enough.

  Mudge kept a paw on the hilt of his short sword. “Let’s make up our feeble minds, mate. Some o’ these cubs are startin’ to move around.”

  “I’m awake.” Jon-Tom turned to the bed next to Folly’s. It was occupied by a young margay. She sat up rubbing at her eyes. She wore the same black nightdress.

  “Is what Folly says true?” he asked the young cat.

  “Who … who are you?” asked the now wide-awake youngster. Folly hastened to reassure her.

  “It’s okay. They’re friends of mine.”

  “Who’re you?” Jon-Tom countered.

  “My name’s Myealn.” To his surprise she began to sniffle. He’d never seen a feline cry before. “Pu-please, sir, can you help me get away from this place, too?”

  Then he was being assailed by a volley of anxious whispers.

  “Me too, sir … and me … me also … !”

  The whole dorm was awake and crowding around Folly’s bed, pawing at the adults, pleading in a dozen dialects for help. Tails twitched nervously from the backsides of dozens of nightclothes, all black.

  “I don’t understand,” he muttered. “This looks like such a nice place. But it’s not right if they beat you all the time.”

  “That’s not all t
hey do,” said Folly. “Haven’t you noticed how perfect this place is?”

  “You mean, clean?”

  She shook her head. “It’s not just clean. It’s sterile. Woe unto any of us caught with a dirt smudge or piece of lint on us. We’re supposed to be perfect at mealtime, perfect at study, and perfect at devotions, so we can be perfect citizens when we’re old enough to be turned out on the street again.

  “A bunch of the supervisors here were raised here and this is the only home they know. They’re the worst. We wear only black because a perfect person can’t have any distractions and color is distracting. There’re no distractions of any kind. No dancing, no singing, no merriment at all. Maybe all the jokes the pirates told were brutal and crude, but at least they had a sense of humor. There’s no humor in this place.”

  Myealn had slipped out of her bed. Now she leaned close to Folly. “The other thing,” she whispered urgently. “Tell them about the other thing.”

  “I was getting to that.” Nervously, Folly glanced at the doorway at the far end of the room. “Since a perfect person doesn’t need silly things like merriment and pleasure, one of the first things they do here is make sure you’re made perfect in that regard.”

  Mudge frowned. “Want to explain that one, luv?”

  “I mean, they see to it that no pleasurable diversions of any kind remain to divert you from the task of becoming perfect.” The otter gaped at her, then waved to take in the shuffling crowd of anxious, black-clad youngsters.

  “Wot a bloody ’ouse o’ devils we stumbled into! You mean every one o’ these … ?”

  Folly nodded vigorously. “Most of them, yes. The males are neutered and the females spayed. To preserve their perfection by preventing any sensual distractions. They’re going to operate on me tomorrow.”

  “Against your will?” Jon-Tom struggled to come to grips with this new, coldly clinical horror.

  “What could we do?” Myealn sobbed softly. “Who would object on our behalf? We’re all orphans, none of us even have guardians. And the Friends of the Street have a wonderful reputation with the people who run the city government because there’s never any trouble here.”