Spellsinger

by neetha Napew

  so without disturbing any municipal construction, I won't report this incident

  to the Magistrates, or cut your friend's throat. Well though he deserves it!"

  "I'd appreciate that, and I agree," said Jon-Tom.

  "So do I, guv'nor." Mudge smiled toothily up at the gopher.

  Abelmar hesitated, then used the curved blade on the otter's ropes before

  slipping it through a catch in his lederhosen straps. Mudge scrambled across the

  floor until he was standing next to Jon-Tom. He stretched luxuriously, working

  the kinks out of his muscles and joints.

  "Now mate, quick now, while there still be time!" He bent and hefted one of the

  loose golden bricks. "Cover me with the knife while I slip a few o' those into

  me quiver an' pants." He hurried to recover his own weapons. "You're bigger than

  'im, and you've got the light."

  When the otter had finished gathering up his possessions, Jon-Tom said tiredly,

  "All right, Mudge. Put down the gold and let's go."

  The otter stared at him, both arms now full of gleaming paving-stones. "You gone

  daft, mate? I'm 'oldin' a bloody fortune right now. We've got us a chance t'-"

  "Put it down, Mudge!" The knife moved threateningly, not at the gopher now. "Or

  I swear I'll leave you the way I found you."

  "Cor," muttered the otter. Reluctantly he opened his arms.

  There was a heavy clattering as the gold bricks dented the pavement. Abelmar was

  nodding and looking satisfied. The cries of the approaching patrol were

  intelligible now. He peered down the tunnel and thought he could see dim, snouty

  shapes approaching. They wore gold earrings, clothing similar to Abelmar's, and

  very dark sunglasses. Their newly acquired weapons shone in the faint

  torchlight. Jon-Tom idly noted that the gopher's sickle-knife was made of gold.

  "You're a man of your word," said the gopher, "which is rare among sunlifers. Go

  in peace." He glared at Mudge. "If I ever run across your flea-flecked body

  again, sir, I'll see you skinned and thrown to the carrion herds."

  Mudge made quick use of the middle digit of his right hand. "Up yours, shit

  face!" He turned to Jon-Tom. "Right, then. It's done. You've kept your part o'

  the bloody bargain, but you've no guarantee 'is men will keep theirs."

  "Let's get going, then." They started back up the tunnel.

  "No need to worry," Abelmar shouted to them, "my men will be busily engaged." He

  turned to face down the tunnel.

  "So, you cowards have come back, have you?"

  Angry mutterings sounded from the ranks of armed moles. A few gophers were

  scattered among them.

  "They're getting away, sir!" shouted one of the moles, pointing up the tunnel.

  "When I'm finished with you lot you'll wish you'd gone with them!" roared

  Abelmar, letting loose a string of curses that reverberated around the tunnel.

  Their echoes followed Jon-Tom and Mudge out.

  "Keep going, Mudge." Jon-Tom gave the otter a gentle but insistent shove.

  " 'Ere now, mate, let's not panic, shall we? That officer's stopped t' give 'is

  troop a thorough bastin'. There's still plenty o' pavin' 'ere-abouts." He

  stomped on the bricks with one boot. "It wouldn't 'urt no one if we took a few

  minims 'ere and did a nice little bit o' work. There be no way that buck-toothed

  flat-faced cop would know we were the ones responsible. Perhaps if I just--"

  "Perhaps if I just stick this torch up your ass," Jon-Tom told him firmly.

  "All right, all right. It were only a thought, lad."

  The moon was bright when they emerged again into the forest. There were no

  indications of pursuit, though he had a feeling of movement from behind them. It

  was a distant rumbling, the sounds carried through the earth that indicated the

  burrow city of Pfeiffunmunter was coming awake for another busy night.

  "Just be thankful I got there when I did," he told the otter, "He might've cut

  your throat without waiting to present you to the Magistrates."

  "Poppycock," snorted Mudge. "I could've made me way loose eventual-like." He

  straightened his vest and tugged his cap tight on his head. "All that beautiful

  gold!" He shook his head regretfully. "More gold than even wizards can make! An'

  those bloody dirt-eaters defile it by usin' it just t' walk upon."

  "That's better than the other way around."

  "Huh?" Mudge eyed him perplexedly. "Are you wizard riddlin' me, mate?"

  "Not at all." They turned off into the woods.

  The otter looked bemused. "You be either the sharpest spellsinger that ever came

  up the river, mate, or else the biggest fat'ead."

  Jon-Tom smiled faintly. "Hardly much thanks for the one who saved your life." He

  pushed at the clinging brush.

  "Better to die tryin' for wealth than to live on in poverty," the otter

  grumbled.

  "Okay. Go on back to the entrance, then. I won't try to stop you. See if you can

  help yourself to some pavement. I'm sure Abelmar and his troops will be happy to

  welcome you. Or do you think him fool enough to trust us to the point of leaving

  the gateway unguarded?"

  "On the other 'and," Mudge said, without breaking stride, " 'tis a wise chap who

  bides 'is time and rates 'is chances. I told you once I ain't no gambler, not

  like old Caz. But if you'd come back an' give me a 'and, lad...."

  "No way." He shook his head. "I gave my word."

  The otter looked crushed, shoved aside a branch, and cursed his foul luck as he

  stumbled over a projecting root.

  "If you expect to make anythin' o' yourself 'ere, mate, you're goin' to 'ave to

  discard these otherworldly ethical notions."

  "That sounds funny coming from you, Mudge. If you'll think a moment, you'll

  remember that you're embarked on an ethical sort of journey."

  "Under duress," Mudge insisted.

  Jon-Tom looked back and smiled at him. "You know, I think you use that as an

  excuse to keep from having to admit your real feelings." The otter grumbled

  softly.

  "We'll tell them you had an unsuccessful hunt, which is hardly a lie. That'll do

  you better than telling them what a greedy, self-centered little prick you

  really are."

  "Now that 'urts me to me 'eart, lad," Mudge said in mock pain.

  "It would have hurt you a lot more if you'd returned with your arms full of gold

  and Falameezar saw you. Or hadn't you stopped to consider that? Considering the

  strength of his feelings where personal accumulation of wealth is concerned, I

  don't think even I could have argued him out of making otter chips out of you."

  Mudge appeared genuinely startled. "You know wot, mate? I truly 'adn't given the

  great beastie a thought. 'E is a mite quick-tempered, even for a dragon."

  "Not quick-tempered at all," Jon-Tom argued. "He simply believes in his own

  ethical notions...."

  The beginnings of real distress were stirring through the camp when they finally

  walked into the glow of the camp fire. Falameezar was vowing he'd burn down the

  entire forest to find Jon-Tom, while Pog had volunteered to lead a night search

  party.

  It was difficult for Jon-Tom to restrain himself from telling them the truth as

  he watched Talea and Flor fawn over the otter.

  "Are you all right?" asked Flor, running concerned fingers through the fur of

&n
bsp; his forehead.

  "What happened out there?" Talea was exhibiting more coneern than she had for

  anyone since the journey'd begun.

  " 'Twas a chameleon," said Mudge bravely, sitting down on a rock near the fire

  with the look of one who'd run far and hard. "You know 'ow dangerous they can

  be, Talea Blendin' their colors in with the landscape and waitin' with those

  great sticky tongues o' theirs for some unwary travelersby."

  "Chameleons?" Flor looked confusedly over at Jon-Tom. He muttered something

  about much of the reptilian life growing to the size of buffaloes and why should

  chameleons be any exception.

  "I just 'ad crept up on 'im and was drawin' back me bow," said Mudge tensely,

  warming to his story, "when the brute saw me against a light-barked tree. Turned

  on me right there, 'e did, with all three horns a flashin' in the moonlight an

  'im so close I could smell 'is fetid breath."

  "What happened then?" wondered Flor, leaning close. The exhausted otter rested

  the back of his head against the cushion of her bosom and tried with difficulty

  to concentrate on his spellbinding invention, while Talea soothingly stroked one

  limp arm.

  "I 'eard that slick raspy noise they make when they open their jaws just afore

  the strike, so I dove right back between two trees. That tongue came after me so

  fast you'd o' swore it 'ad wings o' its own. Came right between the trees after

  me an' went over me 'ead so near it took off the top o' me cap.

  "I started runnin' backward, just to keep 'im in sight. The damn persistent cham

  followed 'is tongue right through those trees. I tell you, 'is nose 'orn 'twere

  no farther from me 'eart than you are from me now." He patted the cushion

  against which he rested.

  "Then how did you get away?" asked the rapt Flor, her black hair mixing in his

  short fur.

  "Well, 'e charged so fast and reckless, so 'ungry was 'e for me flesh, that 'e

  gets 'imself pinned between the trunks, 'is top right 'orn pierced 'alfway

  through one. For all I know 'e's still there a-tuggin' and a-pullin', tryin' to

  free 'imself." Whiskers twitching, the otter wiped a hand across his forehead.

  " Twere a near thing, luv."

  A disgusted Jon-Tom was angrily tossing twigs into the fire. A warm paw came

  down on his shoulder. He looked up to see Caz, the orange firelight sparkling on

  his monocle, grinning down at him around a pair of blunt white incisors.

  "Something less than the truth to our friend's tale, Jon-Tom?" Another twig

  bounced into the flames. "I know, I've heard him spin stories before. What he

  lacks in literacy he compensates for with a most fecund imagination. By the time

  he finishes he will half believe it actually happened."

  "I don't mind him spinning a yarn," Jon-Tom said, "it's the way those two are

  lapping it up."

  "Don't let it dig at you, my friend," said the aristocratic lepus. "As I said,

  it is his enthusiasm that carries his storytelling. Before very long cleverness

  instinctively gives way to a natural lack of subtlety coupled with an inability

  to let well enough alone."

  In confirmation, a startled yelp came from the other side of the fire, followed

  by the sound of a hand striking furry flesh. An argument filled the misty night

  air. Jon-Tom saw both Flor and Talea stalking angrily away from the recumbent

  and protesting otter.

  "You see?" Caz sounded disapproving. "Mudge is a good fellow, but at heart he is

  crude. No style."

  "What about you?" Jon-Tom looked curiously up at his companion. "What's your

  style? What do you expect to get out of this journey?"

  "My style... is to be myself, friend." It was spoken with dignity. "To be true

  to myself, my friends, and forgiving to my enemies."

  "Including those who chased you off the boat?"

  "Tut! They were justified in their feelings, if not the extremity of their

  reaction." He winked with his unglassed eye. "I was doubtless guilty of some

  indelicate prestidigitation of the dice. My mistake was that I was found out.

  "If they had actually caught and killed me, of course, I would have been

  somewhat more upset."

  Jon-Tom couldn't help breaking into a grin.

  "As to what I expeet to 'get out of this journey,' I have already stated that I

  feel assisting this worthy cause is reason and therefore satisfaction enough.

  You have been too long in the company of likable but amoral types such as Mudge

  and Talea. I believe implicitly everything our currently comatose wizard leader

  says.

  "I have been studying him closely these past few days. Any idiot can see plainly

  that all the woes of the world weigh squarely upon his head. I am no hero,

  Jon-Tom, but neither am I such a fool that I cannot see that the destruction of

  the world as it currently exists would mean the end of my pleasant manner of

  living. I'm quite fond of it.

  "So you see, it is in my own best interest to go along with and to help you, as

  it would be for any warmlander satisfied with his existence. I will help

  Clothahump in any way I can. I am not much for soldiering, but I have some skill

  in the use of words. Even he realizes, I think, that he has a tendency to be

  impatient with fools. On the other hand I am quite used to dealing with them."

  "This group could sure use a diplomat," agreed Jon-Tom. "I've tried my best at

  mediating but... I guess I just don't have the experience for it."

  "Do not belittle that which you have no control over, which is your youth, my

  friend. You strike me as wise for your years. That's more than anyone could ask,

  from what I've learned of your unwilling presence here. It strikes me you want

  not for ability but for goals.

  "Though I have more experience than you, I am always willing to listen to

  others. And I could never do what you've done with the dragon. There is

  experience and there is experience. You handle him who breathes fire and I will

  take care of those who breathe insults and threats. We will complement each

  other. Agreed?"

  "Fair enough." Man and rabbit shook hands warmly. The sensation no longer

  surprised Jon-Tom. It was like shaking hands with someone wearing mittens.

  Camp was growing quiet and the nightly rain had hesitantly begun a late fall.

  "You see?" Caz pointed to the motionless figure of Clothahump, still seated on

  his log. He seemed not to have moved since Jon-Tom left the camp to search for

  Mudge. Now he sat glaze-eyed and indifferent to the falling rain.

  "Our friend broods on larger matters. Yet often is the greater lost for lack of

  attention to the lesser."

  "Meaning what?"

  "Meaning that we have posted no sentries. This is strange country to all of us."

  "In this case I don't think we have to worry. You're forgetting something." He

  pointed.

  " 'Pon my soul," laughed the rabbit, "so I have." He sounded embarrassed. "It is

  not easy to forget a dragon. How quiet he is, though."

  "Dreaming sweet dreams of a classless society, no doubt."

  Caz removed his monocle, absently polished it with the hem of his beautiful

  shirt. "Then it seems we can sleep soundly ourselves. The dragon's presence is

  worth more than any hundred sentries. I wil
l enjoy the security of sleeping near

  to so powerful an ally."

  "Just be careful he doesn't turn in his sleep." Caz waved smilingly back to him,

  and Jon-Tom watched the bobbing white tail recede toward the black bulk

  shielding their camp.

  A gentle voice reached back to him. "Dragons don't toss and turn in their sleep,

  my friend. They're not built that way. But I surely hope he does not snore. I

  wouldn't enjoy waking up with my pants on fire."

  Jon-Tom laughed with him. Pog was asleep, dangling like a dark decoration from

  the branch of an overhanging oak. Talea and Flor were chatting quietly beneath

  bedrolls on the other side of the fire. He thought of joining them, shrugged,

  and spread out his own blanket. He was dead tired, and it would soon be morning.

  Right then his body needed comforting more than his ego....

  XVIII

  Two days of climbing the rapids followed, during which the only danger they had

  to cope with was the burning in Jon-Tom's ears as he was compelled to endure

  Mudge's reciting and embroidering of the story of his escape from the monstrous

  chameleon. When the horned color-changer grew to twice the size of Falameezar,

  even Flor threatened to beat the glib otter.

  On the fourth day they encountered signs of habitation. Plowed fields, homes

  with neatly thatched or slate-tiled roofs, smoking chimneys, and small docks

  with boats tied to them began to slip past.

  Falameezar would glide deeper in the water, keeping only his eyes, ears, and

  passengers above the surface as he breathed through his gills. Anyone on shore

  watching would think the several travelers were floating atop a peculiarly low

  boat.

  On the tenth day Clothahump noted a group of low hills off to their left. Rapids

  lay directly ahead, though they were not nearly as swift as those that cut

  through the Duggakurra hills close by buried Pfeiffunmunter.

  "You may put us ashore here, friend dragon. We are quite close to the city."

  "But why?" Falameezar sounded disappointed. "The river is still deep and the

  current not too strong." He puffed smoke ahead. "I can pass on easily."

  "Yes, but your presence with us might panic the inhabitants."

  "I know." The downcast dragon let out a sigh. "I shall put you in to land, then.

  What shall I do next?"