Spellsinger

by neetha Napew

  through the shoving, tightly packed crowd and keeping a lookout for the

  occasional hanging lamps Mudge had warned him about. From outside there was no

  hint of the considerable, sweaty mob milling inside.

  Eight feet inside the entrance, the ceiling curved upward like a circus tent. It

  peaked a good two and a half stories above the floor. Beneath this central

  height was a circular counter dispensing food and brew. It was manned by a small

  battalion of cooks and mixolo-gists. A couple were weasels. There was also a

  single, nattily dressed rabbit and one scroungy-looking bat, smaller and even

  uglier than Pog. Not surprisingly, the bat spent most of his time delivering

  food and drink to various tables. Jon-Tom knew of other restaurants which would

  have been glad of an arboreal waiter.

  What tables there were spotted the floor like fat toadstools in no particular

  order. On the far side of the Pearl Possum were partially enclosed booths

  designed for discussion or dalliance, depending on the inclination of the

  inhabitants.

  They continued to make their way through the noisy, malodorous crowd. Isolated

  ponds of liquor littered the floor, along with several splinters from smashed

  wooden mugs. The owners had sensibly disdained the use of glass. Numerous drains

  pockmarked the wooden planking underfoot. Occasionally someone would appear with

  a bucket of water to wash down a section of floor too slippery with booze,

  sometimes of the partially digested variety.

  He was easily the tallest man--the tallest animal--in the room, though there

  were a couple of large wolves and cats who were built more massively. It made

  him feel only a little more confident.

  " 'Ere lad, over 'ere!" Following the triumphant shout Jon-Tom felt himself

  yanked down to a small but abandoned table. His knees pressed up toward his

  chest-the chairs were much too low for comfortable seating.

  Furry bodies pressed close on all sides, filling his nostrils with the stink of

  liquor and musk. Supporting the table was the sculpted plaster figure of a

  coquettishly posed female opposum. It had been scratched and engraved with so

  many lewd comments that the sheen was almost gone.

  Somehow a waiter noticed that their hands and table were empty, shoved his way

  through to them. Like the armorer he was wearing an apron, only this one was

  filthy beyond recognition, the pattern beneath obliterated by grease and other

  stains. Like the armorer he was a black-masked raccoon. One ear was badly

  mangled, and a white scar ran boldly from the ear down the side of his head,

  just past the eye, and on through the muzzle, but particularly noticeable where

  it crossed the black mask.

  Jon-Tom was too busy observing the life and action swirling around them to

  notice that Mudge had already ordered.

  "Not t' worry, mate. I ordered for you."

  "I hope you ordered food, as well as liquor. I'm hungrier than ever."

  "That I 'ave, mate. Any fool knows 'tis not good t' drink on an empty belly.

  'Ere you, watch yourself." He jabbed an elbow into the ribs of the drunken

  ocelot who'd stumbled into him.

  The animal spun, waving his mug and sending liquor spilling toward the otter.

  Mudge dodged the drink with exceptional speed. The feline made a few yowling

  comments about the rib jab, but was too sloshed to pick a serious fight. It

  lurched helplessly off into the crowd. Jon-Tom followed the pointy, weaving ears

  until their owner was out of sight.

  Two large wooden mugs of something highly carbonated and smelling of alcohol

  arrived. The hardwood mug looked oversized in Mudge's tiny hand, but it was just

  the right size for Jon-Tom. He tried a sip of the black liquid within, found it

  to be a powerful fermented brew something like a highly alcoholic malt liquor.

  He determined to treat it respectfully.

  The waiter's other hand deposited a large platter covered by a badly dented and

  scratched metal dome. When the dome was removed, Jon-Tom's nose was assailed by

  a wonderfully rich aroma. On the platter were all kinds of vegetables. Among

  strange shapes were comfortingly familiar carrots, radishes, celery, and tiny

  onions. A raft of potatoes supported a huge cylindrical roast. A single center

  bone showed at either end. It was burnt black outside and shaded to pink near

  the bone.

  He hunted in vain for silverware. Mudge pointed out that the restaurant would

  hardly provide instruments for its patrons to use on one another. The otter had

  a hunting knife out. It was short and triangular like the tooth of a white shark

  and went easily through the meat.

  "Rare, medium, or well burnt?" was the question.

  "Anything." Jon-Tom fought to keep the saliva inside his mouth. Mudge sliced off

  two respectable discs of meat, passed one to his companion.

  They ate as quietly as smacking fingers and gravy-slick lips would permit.

  Jon-Tom struggled to keep the juice off his freshly cut clothes. Mudge was not

  nearly so fastidious. Gravy ran down his furry chin onto his vest, was sopped up

  by vest and chest fur.

  They were halfway full when a partially sated Jon-Tom relaxed long enough to

  notice that in addition to the center bone running through the roast, there were

  thin, curving ribs running from the bone to meet like the points of calipers

  near the bottom.

  "Mudge, what kind of meat is this?"

  "Not tasty enough, mate?" wondered the otter around a mouthful of vegetables.

  "It's delicious, but I don't recognize the cut or the flavor. It's not any kind

  of steak, is it? I mean, beef?"

  "Beef? You mean, cattle?" Mudge shook his head. "They may not be smart, but

  we're not cannibals 'ere, we're not." He chewed ap-praisingly. "O' course, it

  ain't king snake. Python. Reticulated, I'd say."

  "Wonderful." Why be squeamish in the face of good taste, Jon-Tom mused. There

  was no reason to be. He never had understood the phobia some folk had about

  eating reptile, though he'd never had the opportunity to try it before. After

  all, meat was meat. It was all muscle fiber to the tooth.

  He did not think he'd care to meet a snake of that size away from the dinner

  plate, however.

  They were dismembering the last of the roast when the waiter, unbidden, appeared

  with a small tray of some fat puff pastries seared black across their crowns.

  Though he was no longer hungry, Jon-Tom sampled one, soon found himself

  shoveling them in as fast as possible. Despite their heavy appearance they were

  light and airy inside, full of honey and chopped nuts and encrusted with burnt

  cinnamon.

  Later he leaned back in the short chair and picked at his teeth with a splinter

  of the table, as he'd seen some of the other patrons doing.

  "Well, that may take the last of our money, but that's the best meal I've had in

  years."

  "Aye, not bad." Mudge had his short legs up on the table, the boot heels resting

  indifferently in the pastry tray.

  A band had begun playing somewhere. The music was at once light and brassy.

  Jon-Tom took a brief professional interest in it. Since he couldn't see the

  players, he had to be satisfied with deciding that they employed one or two


  string instruments, drums, chimes, and a couple of oddly deep flutes.

  Mudge was leaning across the table, feeling warm and serious. He put a

  cautionary paw on Jon-Tom's wrist. "Sorry t' shatter your contentment, mate, but

  we've somethin' else t' talk on. Clothahump charged me with seein' t' your

  well-bein' and I've a mind t' see the job through t' the end.

  "If you want t' continue eatin' like that, we're goin' to 'ave t' find you some

  way t' make a living, wot...?"

  V

  Reality churned in Jon-Tom's stomach, mixed unpleasantly with the pastry. "Uh,

  can't we just go back to Clothahump?" He'd decided he was beginning to like this

  world.

  Mudge shook his head slowly. "Not if 'e don't get that gold spell aright. Keep

  in mind that as nice and kindly as the old bugger seemed a few days ago, wizards

  can be god-rotted temperamental. If we go back already and pester 'im for money,

  'e's not going t' feel much proud o' you. Not to mention wot 'is opinion o' me

  would be. You want to keep the old twit feelin' responsible for wot 'e's done t'

  you, mate.

  "Oh, 'e might 'ave a fair supply of silver tucked away neat and pretty

  somewhere. But 'is supply of silver's bound to be limited. So long as 'e's got

  'is feeble old mind set on this dotty crisis of 'is, 'e's not goin' to be doin'

  much business. No business, no silver. No silver, no 'andouts, right? I'm afraid

  you're goin't' 'ave t' go t' work."

  "I see." Jon-Tom stared morosely into his empty mug. "What about working with

  you, Mudge?"

  "Now don't get me wrong, mate. I'm just gettin' t' where I can tol'rate your

  company."

  "Thanks," said Jon-Tom tartly.

  "That's all right, it is. But huntin's a solitary profession. I don't think I

  could do much for you there. You don't strike me as the type o' chap who knows

  'is way 'round a woods. You'd as soon trip over a trap as set one, I think."

  "I won't deny that I feel more at home around books, or a basketball court."

  "Otherworldly sports won't do you ant's piss good 'round 'ere, lad. As far as

  the learnin' part of it... wot was it then you were acquiring?"

  "I'm into prelaw, Mudge."

  "Ah, a barrister-t'-be, is it? Never 'ad much use for the species meself," he

  added, not caring what Jon-Tom might think of his detrimental opinions of the

  legal profession. "Wot did you study besides the law itself, for the laws 'ere

  as you might imagine are likely a mite different from those o' your own."

  "History, government... I don't guess they'd be much use here either."

  "I suppose we might get you apprenticed to some local barrister," Mudge

  considered. He scratched the inside of one ear, moved around to work on the

  back. "I don't know, mate. You certain there's nothin' else? You ever work a

  forge, build furniture? Do metalwork, build a house, cure meat... anythin'

  useful?"

  "Not really." Jon-Tom felt uncomfortable.

  "Huh!" The otter let loose a contemptuous whistle. "Fine life you've led for a

  so-called wizard."

  "That's Clothahump's mistake," Jon-Tom protested. "I never claimed to be that.

  I've never claimed to be anything other than what I am."

  "Which don't appear to be much, as far as placin' you's concerned. Nothin' more

  in the way of skills, is it?"

  "Well..." Another ambition flooded through him. With it came the laughs of his

  friends and the condemnations and horrified protests of his family. Then they

  were drowned by a vision of himself with a guitar and by the memories of all the

  groups, all the performances he'd collected and mimicked in his less

  intellectual, more emotional moments of introspection. Memories and sounds of

  Zepplin and Harum, of Deep Purple and Tangerine Dream and Moody Blues and a

  thousand others. Electric melodies tingled in his fingertips. Logic and reason

  vanished. Once more good sense and truth clashed within him.

  Only here good sense did not serve. Heart's desire again took control of him.

  "I play a g... an electric bass. It's a kind of a stringed instrument. It's only

  a hobby. I thought once I might try to make a career out of it, only..."

  "So you're a musician then!" Consternation vanished as understanding filled the

  otter. He pushed back his chair, let his feet down on the floor, and stared with

  new interest at his companion. "A minstrel. I'll be bloody be-damned. Aye, there

  might be a way there for you t' make some coppers, maybe even some silver. You'd

  be a novelty, anyways. Let me 'ear you sing something."

  "Right here?" Jon-Tom looked around nervously.

  "Aye. No one's goin' to 'ear you anyway. Not between the babble and band."

  "I don't know." Jon-Tom considered. "I need to warm up. And I don't have my

  guitar with me."

  "A pox on your bleedin' instrument," growled the otter. " 'Ow do you expect t'

  act a proper minstrel if you can't sing on demand, when someone requires it o'

  you? Now don't mind me, mate. Get on with it." He sat expectantly, looked

  genuinely intrigued.

  Jon-Tom cleared his throat self-consciously and looked around. No one was paying

  him the least attention. He took a fortifying swallow from Mudge's mug and

  considered. Damn silly, he thought. Oh well, best try an old favorite, and he

  began "Eleanor Rigby." Am I one of all the lonely people now? he thought as he

  voiced the song.

  When he'd finished, he looked anxiously at the otter. Mudge's expression was

  fixed.

  "Well? How was I?"

  Mudge leaned back in his seat, smiled faintly. "Maybe you were right, Jon-Tom.

  Maybe it 'twould be better with some instrumental accompaniment. Interestin'

  words, I'll grant you that. I once knew a chap who kept several faces in jars,

  though 'e didn't 'ave 'em up by 'is door."

  Jon-Tom tried not to show his disappointment, though why he should have expected

  a different reaction from the otter than from previous audiences he couldn't

  imagine.

  "I'm really much more of an instrumentalist. As far as voice goes," he added

  defensively, "maybe I'm not smooth, but I'm enthusiastic."

  "That's so, mate, but I'm not so sure your listeners would be. I'll try t' think

  on what else you might do. But for now, I think maybe it would be a kindness t'

  forget about any minstrelin'."

  "Well, I'm not helpless." Jon-Tom gestured around them. "I don't want to keep

  imposing on you, Mudge. Take this place. I'm not afraid of hard work. There must

  be hundreds of mugs and platters to wash and floors to be mopped down, tables to

  be cleaned, drains to be scoured. There's a helluva lot of work here. I

  could..."

  Mudge reached across the table and had both paws digging into Jon-Tom's indigo

  shirt. He stared up into the other's surprise and whispered intently.

  "You can't do that! That's work for mice and rats. Don't let anyone 'ear you

  talk like that, Jon-Tom." He let go of the silk and sat back in his chair.

  "Come on now," Jon-Tom protested softly. "Work is work."

  "Think you that now?" Mudge pointed to his right.

  Two tables away from theirs was a rat about three feet tall. He was dressed in

  overalls sewn from some heavy, thick material that was badly stained and

 
darkened. Thick gloves covered tiny paws, and knee-high boots rested on the

  floor as the rodent scrubbed at the planking.

  The others nearby completely ignored his presence, dropping bones or other

  garbage nearby or sometimes onto his back. As Jon-Tom watched, the rodent

  accidentally stumbled across the leg of a drunken gull hunting a table with

  perches to accommodate ornithological clients. The big bird cocked a glazed eye

  at him and snapped once with its beak, more taunting than threatening.

  Stumbling clear, the rat fell backward, tripped over his own feet, and brought

  his bucket of trash and goo down on himself. It ran down his boots and over the

  protective overalls. For a moment he lay stunned in the heap of garbage. Then he

  slowly struggled to his knees and began silently gathering it up again, ignoring

  but not necessarily oblivious to the catcalls and insults the patrons heaped on

  him. A thick bone bounced off his neck, and he gathered it up along with the

  rest of the debris. Soon the watchers grew bored with the momentary diversion

  and returned to their drinking, eating, and arguing.

  "Only rats and mice do that kind of work?" Jon-Tom inquired. "I used to do

  something like it all the time. Remember, that's what confused Clothahump into

  bringing me here in the first place."

  "What you do elsewhere you'd best not try 'ere, mate. Any self-respectin' animal

  would sooner starve before doin' that, or go t' beggin' like our sticker-hiding

  friend, the gibbon."

  "I don't understand any of this, Mudge."

  "Don't try t', mate. Just roll with the waves, wot? Besides, those types are

  naturally lazy and dumb. They'd rather lie about and guzzle cheese all day than

  do any honest work, they would. Spend all their time when not eatin' in

  indiscriminate screwing, though you wouldn't think they'd 'ave enough brains t'

  know which end to work with."

  Jon-Tom was fighting to control his temper. "There's nothing wrong with doing

  menial work. It doesn't make those who do it menial-minded. I..." He sighed,

  wondered at the hopelessness of it all. "I guess I just thought things would be

  different here, as far as that kind of thing goes. It's my fault. I was

  imagining a world that doesn't exist."

  Mudge laughed. "Little while back I recall you insistin' that this one didn't

  exist."