“Gnuf—no, Master,” the owl managed to choke out. He was holding a thick napkin over his face, though whether to shield his mouth or hide his expression, no one could tell.
“Fine. We must meet this sturdy transporter and settle upon a contract immediately. We’ve no time to waste.”
“But, guv’nor,” Mudge protested, “I ’aven’t finished me breakfast yet.”
Jon-Tom rose and pulled the otter’s chair away from the table. “Come on, Mudge. You heard Clothahump. The way you’re gorging yourself this morning, you’d think you hadn’t had supper last night.”
The otter wiped at his whiskers. “’Ardly enough to keep a shrew alive. One little fish and I didn’t ’ave time to finish that proper.”
“The fish was nearly as big as you. Let’s go.”
“Right then, ’ave it your way.” Grumbling, the otter jumped out of his chair. “But wait until I catch you ’ungry someday.” He slipped his arrow quiver and bow over his back while Jon-Tom picked up his duar and ramwood staff. Together they followed Clothahump and Sorenset out into the street while Sorbl glided along overhead.
The fox led them past the central square, now restored to its original beauteous state, through busy commercial streets, and into the industrial end of Ospenspri. It took that long for Mudge to cease complaining.
The stables that comprised the transportation barracks were spacious and well maintained, with ample roads between them to allow for the movement of cleaning crews and feed delivery wagons. The buildings were owned, Sorenset told them, by an old and revered family of heavy horses, one of whom sat (or rather stood) on the city council. There were triple-sized stalls available for married teams and families, with quarters to either side for studs and mares.
At the head of each line of stalls was an office where the inhabitants’ business was transacted by hired help. This necessary arrangement was common to the warmlands, for while a percheron could do heavy work all day, managing a ledger with hooves was a next-to-impossible task. So capuchins and baboons and similarly dexterous individuals did the paperwork for them.
Sorenset led them past the fancier accommodations toward the back where a number of less elaborate but still spotlessly clean stalls faced a small stream. Such stable space was usually occupied by freelancers: those haulers and packers who preferred to work alone rather than in teams. Here hay was more in evidence in the feed delivery bays than oats or alfalfa.
Around a corner and down a pathway shaded by ancient wool wood trees, they found themselves facing a shuttered stall front and door. To the left of the double door was an oversize mailbox, a large round depository whose contents could be removed with equal ease by hands or lips. Above the box was a brass nameplate on which a single name was engraved in incongruously elegant script: DORMAS.
Sorenset smiled at them before pushing the door-bell button. Something clanged inside, was followed by a deep yet unmistakably feminine voice. It sounded slightly irritated.
“Get lost! I ain’t in the mood.”
Mudge was nodding approvingly. “Ah, a lady after me own ’eart.”
Sorenset looked embarrassed as he cleared his throat. “It’s me, Sorenset of the council, acting the part of guide.”
“I don’t care if it’s the Grand Randury of the Moshen Theatre Ensemble acting the part of the spasmed duck! I’m not interested in company.” A pause, then, “Oh—wait a minute. I do know you. You’re the one who told me about the southerners trekking north who needed someone to haul for them up onto the Plateau?”
Sorenset fought to retain his dignity as he replied. “I am. Of the city council. Could we come in, please?”
“Suit yourself. Door’s open.”
Sorenset pulled on the latch and swung the heavy wooden barrier aside, held it open while his charges filed through.
Wearing a beige blanket and standing before them was their volunteer. Jon-Tom’s eyebrows drew together as he frowned at the animal.
“You’re not a horse.”
Dormas immediately cocked a jaundiced eye at the fox. “Who’s this fountain of wit?”
“Oh, indeedy, my kind of lady,” said Mudge with a delighted chuckle as he crossed his legs and leaned back against the wall. Sorbl closed the door behind him.
“You’re a mule,” Jon-Tom added.
She turned her gaze from their guide back to him. “You don’t know much of anything, do you, human?” She went on to explain as if to an idiot. “For your information I am not a mule. I am a hinny.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“And about time too.” She looked back to Sorenset. “You told me I’d be traveling in the company of wizards and warriors, not idiot children.”
“Now look,” Jon-Tom began, “I don’t think—”
“A mule,” she explained, interrupting him, “is the offspring of a donkey and a horse, or more specifically, of a jackass and a mare. Whereas a hinny is the offspring of a stallion and a female donkey. Either of which is preferable to being the fruit of the union of a couple of hairless apes. The wonder of it is,” she added, looking him up and down, “is that so much could spring from so little effort.”
He made hurried placating gestures. “Hey, I’m sorry, I didn’t know. Quadrupedal biology isn’t one of my specialties.”
“Nor is diplomacy, apparently.”
“I said I was sorry. My name’s Jon-Tom. This is the great wizard Clothahump, his famulus Sorbl, and my friend and traveling companion, Mudge. We’re delighted that you’ve volunteered to help us.”
“Help you, hell.” She snorted once, glanced over at Clothahump. “It’s pretty clear that you’re the leader of this lot of mental defectives, hard-shell or not. The man’s too green, the owl too tipsy, and the water rat has shifty eyes. You’re acclaimed by default.”
“De fault of an unfair fate, I calls it,” murmured Mudge, low enough so that Clothahump couldn’t hear him.
“The fox told me I’d be paid in accordance with the danger involved. With winter threatening to bust open over our heads any day now, that’s danger enough.”
“I concur, and your recompense shall reflect that,” Clothahump told her.
She appeared somewhat mollified by this ready agreement. “Well, that’s better. Didn’t mean to appear contrary.”
“Nice to meet you,” said Sorbl, fluttering his wings. He’d found a proper perch on a crossbeam.”
“Me too,” added Jon-Tom. “I apologize for any offense I may have caused. I assure you it was unintentional. I still have a lot to learn about this world.”
“Um. I’m Dormas. None of us can help what we are.”
“How’s tricks, good-looking? I’m Mudge.” The otter added a cheery whistle.
“Shifty eyes, but I like you, otter. You don’t walk two inches above the ground.” She shifted her attention back to the council fox. “Get lost, Sorenset. I’ve got dealings to quantify. And thanks for the business. You’ll get your cut later.”
“My cut?” The fox was already retreating toward the door. “Why, I don’t know what you’re talking about!” He bestowed a wan smile on the saviors of the city. “I really do have to run anyway. Good-bye and good luck.” He departed with unseemly haste.
“And now it’s time to settle on a few details,” Dormas said brightly.
“Details? I thought Sorenset had taken care of those,” Clothahump said.
“Naw. Just brought us together, he did. Come in back and let’s sit a spell.”
The back room was a revelation. There was a finely worked straw bed whose contents were obviously changed and scented daily, a gilded water trough, and the usual assortment of equine-type accoutrements. There was also a large amount of artwork, much of it consisting of finely wrought renderings of rolling hills and lush meadows, but also several paintings of mountain scenery. Jon-Tom was particularly taken by one that showed their hostess flanked by a pair of mountain goats. All three had a hoof raised to wave at the recording artist.
“Speed p
ainter did that one for me. What do you think? Not a bad likeness.”
Mudge had strolled over to join Jon-Tom in inspecting the picture. “Looks like it were painted quite a few years ago.”
“Hmph.” Another snort as she turned and walked over to an oversize filing cabinet. Using lips and teeth, she opened the second drawer, sorted through the material inside, and pulled out a sheet of paper as thick as cardboard. This was placed on a nearby desk, between four raised pieces of wood that served to hold it in position.
“I can do moderately well with a toothpen, but anyone with hands and fingers can do better. It’s my standard contract. I’ve already had it modified to reflect our destination. Check it out.”
Clothahump waddled over, adjusted his glasses, and began to read. “I would think, madam, that judging from your age and circumstances, you are hardly in a position to dictate terms.”
“Is that a fact? Now let me tell you something, double-breather. I don’t need this job. I like living back here because this is where my friends are, because I like to look out at the creek, and because I can’t stand the way the swells in the high-rent district put on like their shoes are hammered out of gold. I’ve no need of external ornamentation, either on my body or in my home, to justify my competence to others. I’ve got plenty in the barracks bank, and I don’t ever have to work again unless it suits me. If you think you can do better, go up and down the lines and try to find somebody else to pack your junk up onto the Plateau this time of year.”
“If you’re so well-off,” Jon-Tom asked her, “why’d you volunteer to take us on in the first place?”
“Because, my dough-faced young human, I appreciate what you did in raising the curse from our city, and I believe in what you’re trying to do, according to what Sorenset told me. And unlike most of my colleagues, I have a broad mind as well as a broad back, not to mention a modicum of ethics. I think you deserve help—albeit at a fair price.
“Besides, I can always use some petty cash.” Jon-Tom felt as though he were being lectured by a maiden aunt. “And there’s nothing to hold me here. I like to travel for my own entertainment and elucidation, not just on business. There’s nothing to draw me back here, if this should turn out to be my last gallop. I’m between books.”
“Books? You read a lot, huh?” Jon-Tom asked.
She shook her head. “You have a fine facility for seeking out the inaccurate. I am a writer, and one with quite a reputation. Though you don’t strike me as the type to delve into a heavy romance, especially one featuring four-legged protagonists—though you never can tell about an individual’s reading preferences. I take it you haven’t heard of the authoress Shiraz Sassway?”
“I’m afraid not, though I haven’t had a chance to do much light reading lately,” Jon-Tom told her. “I’ve been studying hard.”
“Shame.” She looked wistful. “I’ll have to give you a copy of my latest when we return. Long-legged Love’s Lust Lost. I’m told it’s very big in the south.”
“Maybe you and I could do some research some time, luv—with other company, o’ course.” Mudge gave her a lecherous wink.
“I don’t do much research anymore, water rat. I draw instead upon previous experiences. I had an industrious youth. It’s all behind me now.”
“I’ll bet it was behind you most of the time,” Mudge put in, making sure he was out of biting range.
It was Clothahump who spoke next, however. “There are more clauses in this one document than in a binding between a witch and its familiar.”
“I’ve been cheated once or twice. Nothing personal, wiz. Don’t you read your contracts?” She looked thoughtful as she enumerated a few favorite phrases. “Packs to be arranged and bound according to my design, not yours. Weight to be predetermined—no last-minute additions, not even a sandwich. The usual hazardous-duty bonus clauses. In return, you get everything I can give. I can carry more than any horse and move faster than any donkey. I can climb grades that would give your average packhorse a stroke on the spot, and I can do it blindfolded if necessary. I can do all that on less food, which I’m not as particular about. Plain wild grains and grasses suit me when I’m packing. I’m a good scavenger, and I can survive on stuff you’d use to brace your house with.
“You’re going north. I can handle the cold better than any horse except maybe a Pryzwalski, and there ain’t any in this neck of the woods. Plus you get the benefit of all my experience. I’ve been around. I’m not citified like some of these tenderfoots who haul produce from door to door out in the suburbs.”
“W’re not exactly innocents abroad ourselves,” Jon-Tom told her.
“Glad to hear it. I’m not in the nursing business, colt. Oh, and one more thing. Absolutely no riding unless someone gets hurt too bad to hoof it. I’m a packer, not personal transport, and I don’t intend to change my ways now. If that’s what you have in mind, you need to move upstall and talk to the Appaloosas and pintos.”
“We’ll walk,” Clothahump declared. “We’ve done so before and we can do so now. There is nothing wrong with our feet, albeit that we are reduced to traveling on two instead of four. I promise you that you will only be required to haul our supplies. We will haul ourselves.” He indicated the contract.
“But before I put my name to this, I must in turn be certain of your commitment. We may well find ourselves in mortal danger at the hands of an opponent whose face and name remain a mystery to us and whose motivation is driven by an unknown madness. In addition we must somehow deal with an incredibly powerful and dangerous phenomenon that is not of this universe. Issues of great gravity are at stake here. We will in all likelihood have to face dangerous moments together, and at such times we must stand as one. I cannot have any member of our small party backing out at such times, whether for personal reasons or because of some footnote on a piece of paper.”
Dormas drew herself up until she looked every bit as proud as an Arabian. “I won’t be the one to break when push comes to pull and the Black Wind threatens to sweep us away. You can rest assured on that.” Her dark eyes swept over them to settle on Mudge. “What about you, otter? You’re not afraid?”
Mudge had resumed his place against the wall. He’d appropriated a sliver of straw from the ninny’s bed and was chewing on it as he examined the claws of his right paw.
“Well now, lass, actually I’m terrified out o’ me gourd. But I’ve seen wot ’Is Socerership can do, as well as me not-too-bright but well-meani’ spellsinger friend ’ere, and I ’ave confidence in the both o’ them. This perambulator’s perturbi’ strikes me as a worldwide problem. Since there ain’t no runni’ aways from it, I figure we might as well ’ave a try at putti’ it right. I’ve been through this sort o’ thing with this one”—and he jerked a thumb in Jon-Tom’s direction—“a couple o’ times previous. Not that I’m getti’ used to ’avi’ me precious self regularly threatened with dismemberment, but I ain’t surprised when somethi’ takes a try at it.
“See, I’m beginni’ to feel that me fate is some’ow bound up with this ’ere spellsinger chap and that I might as well trot along with ’im. You know, sort of like bei’ in an accident where two wagons smash into one another at this intersection, and the owners can’t get themselves untangled?”
“That’s not a very sweet metaphor, Mudge,” Jon-Tom groused.
“It ain’t a very sweet relationship, mate.” He turned back to Dormas. “Anyways, seei’ as ’ow there ain’t no place to run to for getti’ away from the effects o’ this perambudiscombobulator, I figure I might as well tag along. Maybe there’ll be some profit in it, wot?”
“I see. Strong feelings are involved as well as strong reasons. I like that. Hand me that pen there, in the wall holder.”
Clothahump passed it over. Taking it in her teeth, she signed the contract with an unexpected flourish. The wizard nodded approvingly. Then he touched his signet ring to the blank place below her name, leaving behind the imprint of a turtle shell cut by a large letter C.
Dormas studied the signet admiringly. “A neat trick.”
“Cheaper than buying new pens,” the wizard told her. “I’d have one made up for you and sell you the necessary permanent ink spell, but your hoofprint would cover half the page. Your solicitor wouldn’t like that. He’d have less room to complain in the margins.”
She smiled, deposited the contract in a drawer, and closed it with a nudge of her muzzle. “Really, I’m not as cantankerous as I seem. On the trail you’ll find me an agreeable and pleasant companion.”
“Another one like ’Is Magicness,” Mudge whispered to Jon-Tom. “Spirits preserve us!”
“When do we start climbing?”
“Tomorrow morning, if you are amenable.”
“Fine. I’ll be up with the sun. We can pack and be off fast.”
“Another go-getter,” Mudge muttered glumly. “Won’t I ever fall in with sensible folks wot knows ’ow to take their time and their lives easy?”
“It’s pretty hard to relax when the stability of the entire world is at stake, Mudge.”
The otter stretched and yawned. “I don’t know as ’ow it’s all that stable now, mate. Not that it matters very much. You know what they say: ‘Everyone’s crazy but me and thee, and I ain’t so sure about thee.’”
Jon-Tom studied him with a shrewd and familiar eye. “All that blather about your duty to Clothahump and your fellow beings—you’re really coming along to protect youself, aren’t you?”
“I never denied that were part o’ the reason behind me decision, guv. Anyways, things are slow ’ere in Ospenspri, especially since that cloud come over the city, and you know ’ow quickly yours truly can get dead-bored. Leavi’ aside ’ow ’ard it is to ’old a set o’ dice properly when your back’s all bent out o’ shape.”
“I might have guessed. You wouldn’t be coming along if you weren’t broke as well as worried about your own skin.”
Mudge winked at him. “Mate, I wouldn’t go to a friend’s funeral if I didn’t think I’d ’ave a shot at the ’ankerchief concession. You know me that well, at least.”
The Paths of the Perambulator: A Spellsinger Adventure (Book Five) (Spellsinger Series) Page 9
