Spellsinger

by neetha Napew

little game playing would be good for him.

  Clothahump's purse still contained a few tiny copperpieces, the remnants of the

  Mudge-directed spending spree that had enriched several of Lynchbany's

  merchants. Cutting an impressive figure in his flashing green cape, Jon-Tom

  leaned on his club-staff and studied one of the several continuous games before

  finally deciding to join.

  The particular game he'd selected seemed to be the largest. With the greater

  number of participants he would have more opportunities between throws to study

  the play. No one objeeted to or commented on his joining. It was simply a matter

  of taking the place of a distraught lynx when the latter ran out of money and

  dropped out.

  Through no particular skill (the fickleness of dice being everywhere constant)

  he did quite well. Dutifully, he concentrated on doing still better. So intent

  on the game did he become that he failed to notice that he was drawing something

  of a crowd of onlookers.

  Players angrily left and were replaced by eager newcomers, full of fresh spirit

  and fresh cash. There were always nine or ten throwers seated or squatting

  around the circle.

  The rock was cold against his backside, even through the leather pants. Not

  quite as chilled were the well-traveled coins beginning to stack up in front of

  him. For the first time in a long while he was not only relaxed but enjoying

  himself.

  Much to the delight of the crowd, which always pulls for a big winner, he hit

  two nines in a row. Mutterings of magic came from a few of the other players.

  They remained mere mutterings. An aged bat named Swal hung himself from the

  overhead lamps. From there he could watch all the players. His opinion was well

  respected, Jon-Tom could tell, and his knowledge of magic extensive though he

  was no wizard himself. Very poor basketball players can make very fine coaches.

  Swal had a detailed knowledge of magic though he couldn't work any himself.

  Nevertheless, one of the other players tried to turn the tide in his own favor,

  attempting to magic the dice before his turn to throw came up. Neither Jon-Tom

  nor any of the other players or onlookers caught the unnatural vibration, but

  the outraged Swal noticed it immediately.

  "He muttered it softly, but I tasted the end of it," Swal explained to the

  crowd.

  At that point Jon-Tom had a sampling of thieves' justice in a world where normal

  justice was not known for its temperance. A group of angry spectators hauled the

  screaming, protesting gopher out of sight. This was followed by a brief pause,

  then a single nerve-twisting screech. Wiping their paws and looking grimly

  satisfied, the vigilantes soon returned.

  Another member of the game was throwing, and Jon-Tom had time to turn and ask an

  onlooker what had happened.

  The tall rabbit leaned low on his shoulder. "Swal say that one mutter it softly.

  You no cheat in Thieves' Hall. Like cheat you brother, you know? I expect they

  make punishment fit the crime." Jon-Tom continued to stare questioningly up at

  the other.

  The rabbit shrugged. "Since he whisper the formula, others probably cut out his

  tongue. If he done divinations with his hands, they would have cut them off.

  Same for eye, and so on."

  "Isn't that kind of extreme? It's only a friendly game."

  Oddly milky pink eyes looked down at him. "This an extreme business we all in,

  man. You know that. Difficult enough to get by without having to cope with

  cheating courts and sly lawyers. We can't stand backstabbingers among own

  family. Fair punishments like that," and he jerked a thumb back toward the

  region of the scream, "make sure fairness good sense. You stay healthy, hear;

  that one was lucky. What line you in?"

  "Sorry... my dice," Jon-Tom said quickly.

  The game continued. Sometimes he lost, more often he won. Now the continued

  absence of Talea and Mudge was making him nervous. He wondered if he dare take

  his winnings and drop out. Might not one of the game's big losers have a friend

  or associate in the crowd, ready to stick a small knife in Jon-Tom's back or

  accuse him of magic in order to protect his friend or boss?

  But the tall rabbit remained close by, reassuring and urging him on. That was

  only natural, since he was betting along with Jon-Tom's rolls. Yet Jon-Tom's

  thoughts kept returning to that horrible scream, kept imagining the knife coming

  down, the blood spurting....

  Swal the bat kept his post. Occasionally he would shift his perch on the hanging

  lamps or tug at the green-feathered cap secured by a strap to his head. His eyes

  roved steadily over the players.

  There were no more cries of cheating. The pile of coins in front of Jon-Tom

  continued its steady growth.

  Then there was an unexpected pause in the action. A very sleek, lupine figure

  stumbled into the playing circle. The players scrambled to protect their coins

  from uncertain feet. She seemed outraged and embarrassed, a condition not helped

  by the catcalls and hoots from the male and female spectators. The bitch replied

  to the insinuations with a rustle of petticoats and some choice execrations of

  her own.

  Jon-Tom looked to his rabbit friend for an explanation.

  "Sorry, man. I wasn't paying attention. But I think I see what's going on. See

  that fox over there?" He pointed to a tired but well-dressed thrower seated

  across the circle. Only two or three small silver coins lay on the stone in

  front of him.

  "He out of money I see, but he want to stay in. You know the type. So he bet the

  girl."

  Jon-Tom frowned. "Is she a slave?"

  That prompted a mildly angry response. "What you think we are here, barbarians?

  Only the Plated Folk keep slaves. No, most likely he gotten her to agree to

  temporary contract." The rabbit winked. "Most likely a couple of nights or so."

  "She doesn't look very willing," said Jon-Tom critically.

  "Hard to say. Maybe she is, maybe not."

  "Then why is she doing it?"

  "Because she in love. Can't you see that?" The rabbit sounded surprised at

  Jon-Tom's evident naivete.

  "Hey... I can't play this round."

  "Why not, man?" Suddenly the rabbit sounded considerably less friendly.

  "I just think I've had enough." He was starting to gather up his winnings,

  looking for pockets in pants and shirt to shove handfuls of coins into. The

  other players looked upset and there were some movements in his direction.

  But there was honor among thieves here, too. For every angry grumbling from the

  players there were cries from the onlookers of, "He won fair.... The man can

  pull out any time!... Let him leave if he wants.... You can't stop him...." and

  so forth. But some of the comments were accompanied by eager looks at the pile

  of coins in front of him. It occurred to Jon-Tom that winning the money was no

  assurance he'd leave with it. Of course, no one would think of making an

  outright attack on an honest winner. But Thieves' Hall was full of tunnels and

  dark cul-de-sacs.

  He looked helplessly up at the rabbit, whispered, "What should I do?"

  The other's attitude softened, turned friendly once again.


  "Well first thing, pay attention to you own clothing." He laughed and reached

  for Jon-Tom's throat. Jon-Tom instinctively started to pull away, but the rabbit

  only paused and grinned hugely at him. "With you permission?"

  Jon-Tom hesitated, then nodded. There was no reason to assume the animal had

  turned suddenly hostile.

  Unclipping the cape while the rest of the players waited impatiently, the rabbit

  spread it out on the floor. "Ah, I thought right so. Good tailor you got," and

  he pointed out the hidden stitching and buttons lining the bottom hem of the

  cape.

  This he carefully unsnapped. With Jon-Tom's help, he filled the hidden

  compartment with handfuls of coins. When it was full to the snaps they sealed it

  tight again. Jon-Tom clipped it back around his neck. The weight was a tolerable

  drag.

  "There," said the rabbit with satisfaction, "that be more better. No one think

  to pickpocket a cape. Only these few here, and I see no skilled one among them.

  Others who see will think only rocks in there."

  "Why would I fill my cape with rocks?"

  "To keep it from blow over you head and blind you in a fight, or while riding in

  a storm. Also to use in a fight. You may look weaponless, but what you got now

  is five-foot flexible club to complement long staff." He turned his gaze

  skyward. "That how I like to go, though. Beaten to death with somebody's money.

  Or perhaps..." He looked back over at Jon-Tom. "It no matter my problems."

  "Maybe it does." Jon-Tom reached into the still sizable pile of coins in front

  of him and selected three large gold circles. "These are for your problems. And

  for your good advice and counsel."

  The rabbit took them gratefully, slipped them in a vest pocket, and sealed it.

  "That kind of you, man. I take because I need the money. Under better

  circumstances I refuse. More advice: don't go passing around gold too much like

  this. You attract attention of some not so noble as I.

  "Now as to what you should do, you pull out now if you really want. But you in

  middle of round. It be better if you finish this one go-round. Then no one can

  say shit to you."

  "But what about the girl?" The bitch was tapping feet clad in pastel blue ballet

  slippers and looking quite put out.

  "Well, I tell you man," and he winked significantly, "you finish out this round.

  I have three goldpieces you know. You have place in circle to finish. If you

  win, I give you back gold circle for her." He eyed the muscular, tawny form of

  the she-wolf. "Maybe two."

  "Oh, all right." He looked a last time at the ring of spectators. Still no sign

  of Mudge or Talea.

  The dice were passed as the watchers nudged one another, muttered, made side

  bets, or simply stared curiously. A ferret on the far side rolled a seven,

  moaned. Next to him was a mole wearing immensely thick dark glasses and a peaked

  derby. He dumped an eight, then a six, then a seven, and finally a losing three.

  The dice came around to Jon-Tom. He tossed them into the circle. Two fours and a

  two. Then a ten. The dice went to the fisher on his right. He rolled a ten.

  Cries went up from the crowd, which pushed and shoved discourteously at the

  circle of players. Jon-Tom rolled a six. Back to the fisher, who looked

  confident. Over went the three dice, came up showing a one, a two, and a three.

  The fisher kicked dirt into the circle. The shouts were ear-shaking.

  Jon-Tom had won again.

  He spoke as he turned. "There you go, friend. It's time to..." He stopped. There

  was no sign of the rabbit.

  Only a smartly dressed howler monkey nearby had noted the disappearance of

  Jon-Tom's advisor. "The tall fella? White with gray patches?" Jon-Tom nodded,

  and the simian gestured vaguely back down a main passage.

  "He went off that way a while ago. So little golden ground squirrel came up to

  him... delicate little bit of fluff she was... and he went off with her."

  "But I can't..."

  A hand touched his shoulder. He turned, found himself staring across into

  aluminum-like eyes, glistening and penetrating. "I have not done it with many

  humans, man. I understand some of you are fond of strange practices." The voice

  was low, husky, and not altogether uninterested. "Is that true also with you?"

  "Listen, I don't think you understand."

  "Try me."

  "No, no... that's not what I meant. I mean..." He was more flustered than at any

  tune since they'd entered the hall. "It's just that I can't, I don't want you.

  Go back there." He waved across the circle. "Go back to him."

  "Just what the hell are you implying, man?" Her eyes flashed and she stepped

  back.

  The fox was suddenly standing next to her, angry at something other than his

  losing. "Something wrong with Wurreel? Do you think I need your charity?"

  "No, it's not that at all." He slowly climbed to his feet, kept a firm grip on

  the staff. Around him the crowd was murmuring in an unfriendly manner. The looks

  he was receiving were no longer benign.

  "Please," he told the bitch, "just go back to your master here, or friend, or

  whatever."

  The fox moved nearer, jabbed a clawed finger in Jon-Tom's stomach. "Just what

  kind of fellow are you? Do you think I don't pay my debts? Do you think I'd

  renege on my obligations?"

  "Screw your obligations, Mossul," said the wolf haughtily, "What about my

  honor?" Her tone and gaze were now anything but interested. "See how he looks at

  me, with disgust. I am insulted."

  That brought a nasty series of cries from the crowd. "Shame, shame! ...down with

  him!"

  "It's not that. I just... don't want you."

  She made an inarticulate growl, hit him in the chest with a fist. "That does

  it!" She looked around at the shifting circle of spectators. "Is there a male

  here who will defend my reputation? I demand satisfaction... of this kind if not

  the other!"

  "Your reputation..." Jon-Tom was becoming badly tongue-tied. "I didn't insult...

  what about him?" He pointed at the fox. "He was the one selling you."

  "Loaning, not selling," countered the fox with dignity. "And it was mutually

  agreed upon."

  "That's right. I'd do anything for Mossul. Except be insulted, like this, in

  public." She put an affectionate arm around the fox's silk-clad shoulders.

  "Turn him out, turn him out!" came the rising shouts.

  "Wot's 'appening 'ere, mate. I leave you alone for a bit and you manage t' upset

  the 'ol 'all." Mudge was at Jon-Tom's back and Talea nearby.

  "I don't understand," Jon-Tom protested. "I've been winning all day."

  "That's good."

  "And I just won that," and he indicated the she-wolf, "for a couple of nights."

  "That's very good. So what's your problem, mate?"

  "I don't want her. Don't you understand? It's not that she's unattractive or

  anything." The subject of that appraisal growled menacingly. "It's just that...

  I can't do it, Mudge. I'm not prejudiced. But something inside me just...

  can't."

  "Easy now, mate. I understand." The otter sounded sympathetic. "Tis part o' your

  strange customs, no doubt, and you're the loser for it."

  "Well, tell them tha
t. Tell them where I'm from. Explain to them that I'm..."

  Mudge put a hand momentarily over Jon-Tom's mouth. "Hush, lad. If they think

  that you're from some other land, no matter 'ow alien, you won't longer 'ave

  their protection. As it be, they think you're a local footpad like Talea and

  meself." His eyes noted the weight dragging down the hem of Jon-Tom's cape. "And

  judgin' from wot you've won from some 'ere, they'd be more than 'appy to see you

  made fair game. You wouldn't last twenty seconds." He pulled at an arm. "Come on

  now. Quiet and confident's the words, while they're still arguin' wot t' do."

  They were bumped and even spat upon, but Mudge and Talea managed to hustle their

  thoroughly confused friend out of the gambling chamber, through the tunnels, and

  back out the iron door that sealed off the hall from the outside world.

  It was mid-morning outside. Jon-Tom suddenly realized how exhausted he was. He

  must have played through the night. That explained why he hadn't seen Talea or

  Mudge. They'd been sleeping. But it was time-deceptive inside Thieves' Hall,

  where the lamps burned round the clock, much in keeping with the activities of

  the members.

  "Why didn't you go with her?" Talea sounded bitter. "Now look at us! Forced out

  of the one refuge where we'd be impregnable." She stalked on ahead, searching

  the nearby corral for their team and wagon.

  "I suppose I should have lost." He and Mudge had to hurry to keep pace with her.

  "That would have made you happy, wouldn't it?"

  "It would be better than this," she snapped back. "Where do we go now? When

  you're turned out of Thieves' Hall, there's no place else to run to, and we

  haven't been in hiding near long enough. We'll still be fresh in the minds of

  citizens and police, if anyone noticed us. Damn it all!" She jumped the fence,

  kicked at the flank of an innocent riding lizard. It hissed and scuttled out of

  her way.

  "It's too bad you weren't around, Mudge. You could have played that last round

  for me."

  "It don't work that way, mate. You 'ad t' play it out yourself, from what I

  'eard. 'Tis a pity your peculiar customs forced you t' insult that lovely lady's

  honor. You refused 'er. I couldn't 'ave substituted meself for you thatawise,

  much willin' as I would've been."

  Jon-Tom stared morosely at the ground, "I can't believe she was trading herself