Spellsinger

by neetha Napew

  willingly like that."

  "Blimey lad, 'tis bloody ignorant you be about women. She did it for love of 'er

  fox-chap. Couldn't you see that? And so when you refused 'er, you insulted 'im

  as well. You don't know much about the leanin's o' ladies, do you?"

  "That's ridiculous. Of course I..." He looked away. "No. No, not a great deal,

  Mudge. My energies have been pretty much focused on intellectual pursuits.

  That's one reason why I wanted to be a musician so badly. Musicians don't seem

  to have to worry about women."

  "There not be much pleasure in ignorance, mate. You're a damn-sight better off

  understandin' the whys and wherefores o' what's goin' on." He nodded ahead.

  "Now 'ave a look at dear Talea there. Don't tell me you don't find 'er

  attractive."

  "I'd by lying if I said otherwise."

  "Well then? Close enough quarters we've been living in these past few days and I

  'aven't seen you so much as lean close t' 'er. Me she knows and won't let near,

  but you're a new factor."

  "You've got to be kidding." He watched that mane of red hair bob and weave its

  way among the herd. "If I so much as touched her she'd split me from brain to

  belly."

  "Don't be so sure, mate. You've already confessed your ignorance, you know."

  "And you're the expert, I suppose?"

  "I get by on experience, yes. Not much time for that now. But think on what I've

  said."

  "I will. Mudge, what she said about us having no place to go, are we that

  desperate?"

  " 'Ard to say, mate. Depends on whether anyone reported our late-night doin's in

  Lynchbany. But we'd best move on t' somewhere else for a while."

  "I know where I want to go." He looked longingly skyward, though he knew that

  his world was beyond even the stars that lay hidden behind the sunlight.

  Something stung the side of his face. He turned and looked in shock at Mudge.

  "A long way to reach with an open palm," the otter said tightly. "Now you listen

  well, mate. I've told you before and I don't aim to waste time on it again.

  These maudlin sorrowings for yourself 'ave to stop. You're 'ere. We can't get

  you back where you belong. Clothahump can't or won't get you back t' where you

  belong. That's bloody well it, and the sooner you get used t' it, the better

  it'll go for you. Or do you expect me t' wet-nurse you through your next sixty

  years?"

  Jon-Tom, still stunned, didn't reply. Sixty years... odd how he hadn't thought

  of his stay here in terms of years, much less decades. There was always the

  thought that he could be going home tomorrow, or the next day.

  But if Clothahump's genius was as erratic as Mudge insisted, he might never be

  going home. The wizard could die tomorrow. That night in Lynchbany outside Dr.

  Nilanthos' he'd reached a temporary accommodation with his situation. Maybe

  Mudge was right, and it was time he made that accommodation permanent.

  Try to regard it like negative thinking for an exam. That way you're only

  satisfied if you fail, happy with a fifty, and ecstatic with a hundred. That's

  how you're going to have to start thinking of your life. Right now he was living

  a zero. The sooner he got used to it, the less disappointed he'd be if

  Clothahump proved unable to send him back. Back to the lazy mental meanderings

  of school, the casual tripe mumbled by directionless friends, the day-to-day

  humdrum existence he'd been leading that inaccessibility now made so tempting.

  Zero, he told himself firmly. Remember the zero.

  "Goddam rotten son-of-a-bitch! Shit-holes, all of 'em!"

  The cry came from the other side of the corral. He and Mudge hurried through the

  packed animals. But Talea was not in danger. Instead she sat tiredly on a smooth

  rock while riding lizards of varying size and shape milled nervously around her.

  "Stinking sneaky bastards," she rumbled. Jon-Tom started to say something but

  turned at a touch on his arm. Mudge put a finger to his whiskers, shook his head

  slowly.

  They waited while the bile burned itself up. She finally looked up and seemed to

  take notice of them. Then she rose and swept an arm around the corral.

  "Our wagon's gone. I've been through the whole glade and it's not here.

  Neither's our team. Do you know what I went through to steal that team?"

  "Mossul's friends might have slipped out and run it off to help him cover 'is

  losses. Or it might 'ave been done as punishment for the insult we did the

  she-wolf," Mudge said thoughtfully, caressing his whiskers.

  "I'll fry the gizzards of whoever's responsible!" She started back toward the

  hall. Mudge intercepted her quickly. She pushed at him, tried to dodge around,

  but he was as heavy as she and far faster. Eventually she just stood there,

  glaring at him.

  "Be reasonable, luv. We barely slipped out of there without 'avin' to cut

  anyone. We can't go back in. Anger's no substitute for another sword. Even if we

  did get back in clear and free we're just guessin' as to who's responsible. We

  can't be sure it's Mossul or 'is friends."

  The glare softened to a look of resignation. "You're right, otter. As usual."

  She slumped down on the mossy earth and leaned back against a fence rail. "So

  much, then, for 'honor among thieves.' "

  "I'm sorry." Jon-Tom sat down next to her. "It was my fault. If it means

  anything, I'll be happy to pay you back for the cart." He jiggled the clinking

  hem of his cape meaningfully.

  "Don't be ridiculous. I stole it. You needn't worry about paying back what you

  don't owe."

  They considered their situation. "We could buy someone else's cart," he

  suggested.

  Mudge looked doubtful. "Good transportation's dearer to a thief than any amount

  o' money. We could buy such in town, but not 'ere."

  "Well then, why don't we steal some of these?"

  "Now that's not a bad idea, mate. You're startin' to adapt. Save for one little

  complication." He looked to his right. At first Jon-Tom saw nothing. Then he

  noticed the little knot of figures that had appeared outside the Hall entrance.

  Puffs of smoke rose from the small crowd, and he could see an occasional glance

  in their direction.

  "But they don't know which cart or steeds are ours," Jon-Tom protested. "If we

  acted like we knew what we were doing, they couldn't tell we were up to

  anything."

  Mudge smiled slightly. "On the other 'and, we don't know that we might not pick

  on one o' their mounts. A single shout could bring the whole o' Thieves' 'All

  out on us."

  "A pox on this!" said Talea abruptly, springing to her feet. "So we walk, but

  we're going back to see this wizard of yours. He's bound to put us up for a few

  days. Might even be safer than the Hall. And we can even pay him." She indicated

  Jon-Tom's winnings.

  "Now 'old on a minim, luv." Mudge looked worried. "If we return there so soon,

  I'll 'ave t' admit I've run into some difficulties in educatin' this lad."

  "Difficulties!" Jon-Tom laughed aloud. "You've already managed to involve me in

  a local tavern brawl, a police matter, and you," he looked at Talea, "in a

  mugging and robbery. Two robberies. I suppose I have to count in the cart and

  team,
now."

  "Count it any way you like, Jon-Tom." She gestured to the west. "But we can't go

  to town just yet, and we can't use the hall. I'm not about to strike off into

  the forest toward somewhere distant like Fife-over or Timswitty. Besides, they

  cooperate with the Lynchbany cops."

  "Be that as it may," said Mudge, folding his arms, "I'm not goin' back t'

  Clothahump's. The old bugger's too unpredictable for my comfort."

  "Suit yourself." She looked up at Jon-Tom. "I think you know the way. You afraid

  of Clothahump, too?"

  "You bet your ass I am," he replied promptly, "but I don't think he's the

  vengeful type, and I can't think of anything else to do."

  She gestured expansively. "After you, Jon-Tom."

  He turned and started out of the corral, heading south and hoping his sense of

  direction wasn't too badly distorted by the time they'd spent riding the night.

  Mudge hesitated until they were nearly out of sight. Then he dropped a few

  choice words to the indifferent lizards and sprinted anxiously after the

  retreating humans....

  IX

  Thieves' Hall was southeast of Lynchbany Towne. They had to cross the local

  roads carefully, for according to Talea you never knew when you might encounter

  a police patrol out for bandits. They also had to take time to hunt and gather

  food.

  It was three days of hard walking before some of the forest started to look

  familiar to Mudge. They were standing by the side of a muddy, narrow road when

  Jon-Tom noticed the large sack that had been caught in the crook of a pair of

  boulders. There was the sparkle of sunlight on metal.

  "Your eyes are good, Jon-Tom," said Talea admiringly, as they fell on the sack

  like three jackals on the half-gnawed carcass of a zebra.

  The sack was full of trade goods. Glass beads, some semiprecious gems that might

  have been garnets or tourmalines, and some scrolls. Talea threw the latter

  angrily aside as they searched the sack for other valuables. There were more

  scrolls, some clothing, and several musical instruments. Jon-Tom picked up a set

  of pipes attached to a curved gourd, puffed experimentally at the mouth

  openings.

  "Hell." Talea sat back against the rocks. She picked up the empty sack and threw

  it over her shoulder. "Double hell. Even when we find some lucky, it turns out

  to be deceptive."

  Mudge was inspecting the jewelry. "These might fetch two or three golds from a

  fair fence."

  "How delightful," Talea said sarcastically. "You just whistle up a fair fence

  and we'll have a go at it." The otter let out a long, sharp whistle no human

  could duplicate, then shrugged.

  "Never know till you try." He tucked the jewelry into the pouch at his waist,

  caught Talea eyeing him. "You don't trust me t' share out." He pouted.

  "No, but it's not worth fighting over." She was rubbing her left calf. "My feet

  hurt."

  Jon-Tom had set down the gourd flute and picked up the largest of the three

  instruments. This one had six strings running in a curve across a heart-shaped

  resonator. Three triangular openings were cut into the box. At the top of the

  curved wires were tuning knobs. Near the base of the heartbox resonator was a

  set of six smaller metal strings, a miniature of the larger, upper set. Twelve

  strings altogether.

  He considered the arrangement thoughtfully. Let's see, the smaller set wouldn't

  be much good exeept for plucking the more delicate, higher notes. So the larger

  sextet is probably strummed. Except for the extra set of tiny strings it looked

  something like a plastic guitar left too long in an oven.

  Talea had picked up one of the flute-things. She tried to blow a tune, produced

  only a few sour notes that faded quickly, and tossed it away. The second was

  apparently more to her liking. She finished testing it, slipped it into her

  belt, and started off back into the forest. Mudge followed, but Jon-Tom,

  absorbed in the peculiar guitar, hung behind.

  Eventually she paused, turned to face him, and waited until he caught up with

  them. "What's holding you back, larklegs?" He smiled as though he hadn't heard

  her, turned his attention back to the instrument. A few notes from the small

  strings filled the air.

  "That's a duar. Don't tell me you can play that?"

  "Actually, the lad 'as made claims to bein' somethin' of a musician." Mudge

  studied Jon-Tom's obvious interest hopefully. "You always 'ave said that you

  sounded better with instrumental accompaniment, mate."

  "I know. I remember." Jon-Tom ran his fingers over the upper-level strings. The

  sound was much softer than he was used to. Almost lyrelike, but not very alien.

  He plucked once again at the lower strings. They echoed the upper, deeper tones.

  The curved arm running out from the heart-shaped box was difficult to cradle.

  The instrument had been designed to fit around a much broader chest than his

  own. The short strap that ran from the top of the arm to the base of the

  resonator helped a little, however. Letting the instrument hang naturally, he

  found that by leaning forward he could get at both sets of strings. It hurt his

  back a little, but he thought he could get used to it. He used both hands,

  trying to strum the upper strings while plucking in counterpoint at the lower.

  Talea sighed, turned away, and started off again, Mudge in tandem and Jon-Tom

  bringing up the rear. His heart still hurt more than his feet, but the music

  helped. Gradually he discovered how to swing his arm in an arc instead of

  straight down in order to follow the curve of bar and strings. Soon he was

  reproducing familiar chords, then snatches of song. As always the tranquilizing

  sounds made him feel better, lifting his spirits as well as his adrenaline

  level.

  Some of the songs sounded almost right. But though he tuned and retuned until he

  was afraid of breaking the strings or the tuning knobs, he couldn't create the

  right melodies. It wasn't the delicate instrument, either, but something else.

  He still hadn't discovered how to tune it properly.

  It was late afternoon when Talea edged closer to him, listening a while longer

  to the almost music he was making before inquiring, with none of her usual

  bitterness or sarcasm, "Jon-Tom, are you a spellsinger?"

  "Hmmm?" He looked up at her. "A what?"

  "A spellsinger." She nodded toward the otter, who was walking a few yards ahead

  of them. "Mudge says that the wizard Clothahump brought you into our world

  because he thought you were a wizard who could help him in sorceral matters."

  "That's right. Unfortunately, I'm in prelaw."

  She looked doubtful. "Wizards don't make those kinds of mistakes."

  "Well, this one sure did."

  "Then you're not..." She eyed him strangely. "A spellsinger is a wizard who can

  only make magic through music."

  "That's a nice thought." He plucked at the lower strings and al-most-notes

  danced with dust motes in the fading daylight. "I wish it were true of me." He

  grinned, slightly embarrassed. "I've had a few people tell me that despite my

  less than mesmerizing tenor, I can make a little music-magic. But not the kind

  you're thinking of."

&nbs
p; "How do you know you can't? Maybe Clothahump was right all along."

  "This is silly, Talea. I'm no more a magician than I am any other kind of

  success. Hell, I'm having a hard enough time trying to play this thing and walk

  at the same time, what with that long staff strapped to my back. It keeps trying

  to slide free and trip me.

  "Besides," he ran his fingers indifferently along the upper strings "I can't

  even get this to sound right. I can't play something I can't even tune."

  "Have you used all the dutips?" When he looked blank, she indicated the tuning

  knobs. He nodded. "And what about the dudeeps?" Again the blank gaze, and this

  time he had a surprise.

  Set into a recess in the bottom of the instrument were two knobs. He hadn't

  noticed them before, having been preoccupied with the strings and the "dutips,"

  as she'd called them. He fiddled with the pair. Each somehow contracted tiny

  metal and wood slats inside the resonator. One adjusted crude treble, the other

  lowered everything a couple of octaves and corresponded very roughly to a bass

  modulator. He looked closely at them and then looked again. Instead of the usual

  "treble" and "bass," they read "tremble" and "mass."

  But they definitely improved the quality of the duar's sound.

  "Now you should try," she urged him.

  "Try what? What kind of song would you like to hear? I've been through this with

  Mudge, so if you want to take the risk of listening to me...."

  "I'm not afraid," she replied, misunderstanding him. "Try not for the sound. Try

  for the magic. It's not like a wizard as great as Clothahump, even if his powers

  are failing, to make such a mistake."

  Try for the magic, he thought. Huh... try for the sound. That's what the lead

  bass player for a very famous group had once told him. The guy had been higher

  than the Pope when Jon-Tom had accidentally run into him in a hall before a

  concert playing to twenty thousand. Stuttering, hardly able to talk to so

  admired a musician, he'd barely been able to mumble the usual fatuous request

  for "advice to a struggling young guitarist."

  "Hey, man... you got to try for the sound. Hear? Try for the sound."

  That hastily uttered parable had been sufficiently unspecific to stick in his

  mind. Jon-Tom had been trying for the sound for years, but he hadn't come close

  to finding it. Most would-be musicians never did. Maybe finding the sound was