Spellsinger

by neetha Napew

  line t' start with--'e was a confidence man. Fleeced farmers 'ereabouts for

  years and years, takin' their money most o' the time and their daughters on

  occasion.

  "Well, a bunch of 'em finally gets onto 'im. 'E'd been buyin' grain from one

  farmer, sellin' it t' another, borrowin' the money, and buyin' more. It finally

  came t' a 'ead when a couple o' 'is former customers found out that a lot o' the

  grain they'd been buyin' afore'and existed only in Tilo's 'ead.

  "They gets together, cornerin' 'im in this 'ere grove, and strings 'im up neat.

  At that point a couple o' travelin' craftsmen... woodworker and a silversmith, I

  think, or maybe one was a cobbler... decided that this 'ere valley with its easy

  water would be a nice place t' start a craft's guild, and the town sort o' grew

  up around it.

  "When folks from elsewhere wanted t' locate the craftsmen, everyone around told

  'em t' go t' the place where they'd lynched Tilo Bany, the confidence ferret.

  And if you 'aven't noticed yet, guv, you're breathin' right easy now."

  Much to his surprise, the queasiness had receded. The smell no longer seemed so

  overpowering. "You're right. It's not so bad anymore."

  "That's good. You stick near t' me, mate, and watch yourself. Some o' the local

  bully-boys like t' toy with strangers, and you're stranger than most. Not that

  I'd be afraid t' remonstrate with any of 'em, mind now."

  They were leaving the shade of the forest. Mudge gestured ahead. His voice was

  full of provincial pride.

  "There she be, Jon-Tom. Lynchbany Towne."

  IV

  No fairy spires or slick and shiny pennant-studded towers here, Jon-Tom mused as

  he gazed at the village. No rainbow battlements, no thin cloud-piercing turrets

  inlaid with gold, silver, and precious gems. Lynchbany was a community built to

  be lived in, not looked at. Clearly, its inhabitants knew no more of moorish

  palaces and peacock-patrolled gardens than did Jon-Tom.

  Hemmed in by forest on both sides, the buildings and streets meandered down a

  narrow valley. A stream barely a yard wide trickled through the town center. It

  divided the main street, which, like most of the side streets he could see, was

  paved with cobblestones shifted here from some distant riverbed. Only the narrow

  creek channel itself was unpaved.

  They continued down the path, which turned to cobblestone as it came abreast of

  the rushing water. Despite his determination to keep his true feelings inside,

  the fresh nausea that greeted him as they reached the first buildings generated

  unwholesome wrinkles on his face. It was evident that the little stream served

  as community sewer as well as the likely source of potable water. He reminded

  himself firmly not to drink anything in Lynchbany unless it was bottled or

  boiled.

  Around them rose houses three, sometimes four stories tall. Sharp-peaked roofs

  were plated with huge foot-square shingles of wood or gray slate. Windows turned

  translucent eyes on the street from see-ond and third floors. An occasional

  balcony projected out over the street.

  Fourth floors and still higher attics displayed rounded entrances open to the

  air. Thick logs were set below each circular doorway. Round windows framed many

  of these aerial portals. They were obviously home to the arboreal inhabitants of

  the town, cousins of the red-breasted, foul-mouthed public servant they had met

  delivering mail to Clothahump's tree several days ago.

  The little canyon was neither very deep nor particularly narrow, but the houses

  still crowded together like children in a dark room. The reason was economic;

  it's simpler and cheaper to build a common wall for two separate structures.

  A few flew pennants from poles set in their street-facing sides, or from the

  crests of sharply gabled rooftops. They could have been family crests, or

  signals, or advertisements; Jon-Tom had no idea. More readily identifiable

  banners in the form of some extraordinary washing hung from lines strung over

  narrow alleyways. He tried to identify the shape of the owners from the position

  and length of the arms and legs, but was defeated by the variety.

  At the moment furry arms and hands were working from upper-floor windows,

  hastily pulling laundry off the lines amid much muttering and grumbling. Thunder

  rumbled through the town, echoing off the cobblestone streets and the damp walls

  of cut rock and thick wooden beams. Each building was constructed for solidity,

  a small home put together as strongly as a castle.

  Shutters clapped hollowly against bracings as dwellers sealed their residences

  against the approaching storm. Smoke, ashy and pungent, borne by an occasional

  confused gust of wet wind, drifted down to the man and otter. Another rumble

  bounced through the streets. A glance overhead showed dark clouds clotting like

  black cream. First raindrops slapped at his skin.

  Mudge increased his pace and Jon-Tom hurried to keep up. He was too fascinated

  by the town to ask where they were rushing to, sufficiently absorbed in his

  surroundings not to notice the isolated stares of other hurrying pedestrians.

  After another couple of blocks, he finally grew aware of the attention they were

  drawing.

  "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 tryin
g 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.

  48

  "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 enoug
h 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 I 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.