Spellsinger

by neetha Napew

  Falameezar shook his head and muttered tiredly, "Is there no decency left in the

  world?"

  "Just keep your temper under control," Jon-Tom told him. "We don't want to

  accidentally incinerate any honest proletarians."

  "I will be careful," the dragon assured him, "but inside I am trembling with

  outrage. Yet even a filthy revisionist can be reedueated."

  "Yes, it's clear that the formation of instructional cadres should be a priority

  here," Jon-Tom agreed.

  The city of Polastrindu had suddenly taken on the aspect of a ghost town. At the

  dragon's continued approach all interested faces had vanished from the wall.

  Only an occasional spear showed itself, and that was the only sign of movement.

  Jon-Tom could feel the eyes of hidden sailors and stevedores on his back, but

  there was nothing to worry about from that quarter. In fact, so long as

  Falameezar remained with them there was little to fear from anywhere.

  He glanced at Caz. The rabbit smiled and nodded back at him. Being the one in

  control of the dragon, it behooved Jon-Tom to do the talking. So he marched up

  to the gate and rapped arrogantly on the wood.

  "Captain of the Gate, show yourself!" When there was neither a reply nor hint of

  movement from within, he added, "Show yourself or we'll burn down your gate and

  make you Captain of Ashes!"

  There were sounds of argument from within. Then a slight groaning of wood as the

  massive portal opened just wide enough to permit the egress of a familiar

  figure. The gate shut quickly closed behind him.

  "That's better." Jon-Tom eyed the beaver, who looked considerably less

  belligerent now. "We were discussing something about 'identity chits'?"

  "They're being prepared right now," the officer told him, his gaze continually

  darting up at the glowering crimson-eyed face of the dragon.

  "That's nice. There was also the matter of a large number of silver pieces?"

  "No, no, no. Don't be ridiculouth. And abthurd mithunderthanding!"

  A moment later a grateful expression came over his face as the gate opened

  again. He disappeared inside and came back with a handful of tiny metal

  rectangles. Each was stamped with tiny symbols and a few words.

  "Here we are." He passed them out quickly. "You are to have your own nameth

  engraved here." He indicated a wide blank place on each chit. "At your leithure,

  of courth," he added obsequiously.

  "But there are only seven chits here." The beaver looked confused. "Remember, by

  your own recognition there are now eight in our party."

  "I don't underthand," said the nervous officer. He nodded slightly in

  Falameezar's direction. "Thurely that ith not coming into the thity?"

  "A bourgeois statement if ever I heard one!" The dragon leaned close enough for

  the smell of brimstone and sulfur to overpower the odor of spilling sewage. That

  he could swallow the officer in one snap was a fact not lost on that worthy.

  "No, no... a mithunderthanding, thath all. I... I'm truly thorry, thir dragon. I

  didn't realize you were a part of thith party... not jutht... if you'll excuth

  me, pleath!" He back-pedaled through the opening faster than Jon-Tom would have

  believed those bandy legs could carry him.

  Several minutes went by this time before he reappeared. "The latht chit," he

  said, panting as he preferred the freshly stamped metal plate.

  "I'll take charge of it." Jon-Tom slipped it into a shirt pocket. "And now if

  you'd be so kind as to open the gate?"

  "Open up in there!" yelled the officer. The newcomers strolled through.

  Falameezar had to duck his head and barely succeeded in squeezing through the

  opening.

  They found themselves in a deserted courtyard. Hundreds of anxious eyes observed

  them from behind dozens of barely opened windows.

  Huge stone structures marched off in all directions. As in Lynchbany, they gave

  the impression of dozens of smaller buildings that had grown together, only here

  the scale was larger. The city had the appearance of a gray sand castle. Some of

  the structures were six and seven stories tall. Ragged apartment buildings

  displayed odd windows and individual balconies.

  The streets they could see were much wider than in provincial Lynchbany, though

  overhanging porches and window boxes made them appear narrower. The street that

  opened into their courtyard led to the harbor gate. It was only natural that it

  be wider than most. Undoubtedly the city possessed its share of alleys and

  closes.

  Evidence of considerable traffic abounded, from the worn domes of the

  cobblestones that projected like the bald skulls of buried midgets to the huge

  piles of discarded trash. Several dozen stalls ringed the courtyard square.

  Jon-Tom suspected that until a little while ago these had been crowded with busy

  vendors hawking wares to sailors and shoppers alike. A few salespeople still

  cowered within, too weak or too greedy to flee. Some of the frightened faces

  were furry, a few humanly smooth.

  "Look at 'em, ashrinkin' behind their bellies." Mudge made insulting faces at

  the half-hidden onlookers, feeling quite invulnerable with the bulk of

  Falameezar immediately behind him. "Welcome to wonderful Polastrindu. Pagh! The

  streets stink, the people stink. Sooner we've done with this business and can

  get back to the clean forest, the better this 'ere otter'll like it." He cupped

  his hands and shouted disdainfully.

  "You 'ear me, you quiverin' cowardly buggers! Yer 'ole city sucks! Want to argue

  about it?"

  No one did. Mudge looked satisfied, turned to face Jon-Tom. "What now, mate?"

  "We must meet with the local sorcerers and the city council," said Clothahump

  firmly, "during which meeting you will do me the pleasure of restraining your

  adolescent outpourings."

  "Ah, they deserve it, guv."

  "Council?" That ominous rumble came from a quizzical Falameezar.

  "Council of commissars," explained Jon-Tom hastily. "It's all a matter of

  semantics."

  "Yes, of course." The dragon sounded abashed.

  Looking around, Jon-Tom spotted the beaver hovering uncertainly in a nearby

  doorway. "You there, come here." The officer hesitated as long as possible.

  "Yes, you!"

  Reluctantly he emerged. Halfway across the square, perhaps conscious of all the

  eyes watching him from numerous windows, he seemed to regain some of his former

  pride and dignity. If he was going to his death, seemed to be his thinking, then

  he might as well make a good showing of it. Jon-Tom had to admire his courage,

  belated though it might be.

  "Very well," the beaver told him calmly. "You've bullied your way into my city."

  "Which was necessary only because you tried to bully us outside," Jon-Tom

  reminded him. "Let's say we're even now. No hard feelings."

  The beaver shot a whiskery glance at the quiescent form of Falameezar before

  staring searchingly back at Jon-Tom.

  "You mean that, thir? You are not going to take your revenge on me?"

  "No. After all," Jon-Tom added, hoping to gain a local ally, "you were only

  doing your duty as you, uh, saw it."

  "Yeth. Yeth, thath right." The officer was still reluctant to believe he wasn't

 
; being set up and that Jon-Tom's offer of friendship was genuine.

  "We have no grudge against you, nor against any citizen of Polastrindu. We're

  here to help you."

  "And every sentient inhabitant of our warmland world," Clotha-hump added

  self-importantly.

  The officer grunted. Clearly the beaver preferred talking with Jon-Tom, though

  staring up at the towering human hurt his short neck.

  "What then can I do to be of thervith to you, my friend?"

  "You could arrange for us to meet with the city council and military

  administrators and the representatives of the wizards of this region," Jon-Tom

  informed him.

  The beaver's eyes widened. Massive incisors clicked against lower teeth. "Thath

  quite a requetht, friend! Do you have any idea what you're athking?"

  "I'm sorry if it's going to be difficult for you, but we can't settle for

  anything less. We would not have traveled all this way unless it was on a matter

  of critical importance."

  "I can believe that. But you got to underthand I'm jutht a thubof-fither. I'm

  not in a pothition to--"

  Shouts came from behind him. Several of his soldiers were emerging from the door

  behind which they'd taken refuge and pointing up the main street.

  An elaborate sedan chair was approaching. It was borne aloft by six puffing

  mice. They hesitated at their first view of Falameezar, but shouts from inside

  the chair and the crack of the shrewish driver's whip forced them onward. The

  shrew was elegantly dressed in lace and silk, complete to lace cap.

  The chair halted a modest distance away. The three-foot-tall driver descended

  rapidly and opened the door, bowing low. The abused bearers slumped in their

  harnesses and fought to catch their breath. They'd apparently run most of the

  way.

  The individual who emerged from the vehicle was clad in armor more decorative

  than functional. It was heavily gilded, befitting its owner's high station and

  haughty demeanor. He appraised the situation in the square and ambled over.

  Open paw slapping across his chest, the beaver saluted sharply as the newcomer

  neared. A faint wave from the other was all the acknowledgment he gave the

  officer.

  "I am Major Ortrum, Commandant of the City Guard," the raccoon said unctuously.

  He managed the considerable feat of ignoring Falameezar as he talked to the rest

  of the arrivals.

  The dragon caught Jon-Tom's attention. The youth edged back alongside the black

  bulk while the raccoon recited some sort of official greeting in a bored voice.

  "Those poor fellows there," said the dragon angrily, nodding toward the

  exhausted bearers of the sedan chair, "appear to me the epitome of the exploited

  worker. And I don't care for the looks of this one now talking."

  Jon-Tom thought very fast. "I expect they take turns. That's only fair."

  "I suppose," said the dragon doubtfully. "But those workers," and he indicated

  the panting mice, "are all of the same kind, while the speaker is manifestly

  different."

  "Yeah... but what about the driver? He's different, too."

  "Yes, but... oh, never mind. It is my suspicious nature."

  Too suspicious by half, Jon-Tom thought, breathing a mental sigh of relief at

  having once again buffaloed the dragon. He hoped to God the Major didn't take

  his leave by kicking one or two of the bearers erect.

  "I gather," the raccoon was saying, inhaling a choice bit of snuff, "that you

  are here on some silly sort of important mission?"

  "That's true." Clothahump eyed the Major distastefully.

  "Ah, you must be the wizard who was mentioned to me." Ortrum performed a smooth,

  aristocratic bow. "I defer to one who has mastered the arcane arts, and to whom

  all must look up to." There was a short, sharp guffaw from the bat fluttering

  overhead, but Clothahump's opinion of the Major underwent a radical change.

  "At last, someone who recognizes the worth of knowledge! Maybe now we will get

  somewhere."

  "That will depend," said the Major. "I am told you seek an audience of the

  council, the military, and the sorceral representatives as well?"

  "That's right," said Mudge, "an' if they know wot's good for them they'll give

  us a hard listen, they will."

  "Or... ?"

  "Or..." Mudge looked helplessly at Clothahump.

  "A crisis that threatens the entire civilized world looms closer every day,"

  said the wizard. "To counter it will require all the resources of the

  warmlands."

  "Understand that I do not dispute your word, knowledgeable sir," the Major said,

  closing his silver snuffbox, "but I am ill prepared to consider such matters.

  Therefore I suppose you must have your audience. You must realize how difficult

  it will be to gather all the notables you require in a brief period of time."

  "Nevertheless, it must be done."

  "And at the audience you will of course substantiate all your claims."

  "Of course," said the turtle irritably.

  Jon-Tom took note of the implied threat. There was more to Major Ortrum than met

  the eye, or the nose. It took considerable bravery to stand there showing

  apparent disregard for the massive presence of Falameezar. Even Jon-Tom himself,

  at first sight, made many of the locals pause.

  Then it occurred to him that bravery might have nothing to do with it. He

  wondered at the contents of the snuffbox. Major Ortrum might be stoned out of

  his socks.

  "It will take a little time."

  "As soon as possible, then," said Clothahump with a harrumph of impatience.

  "Naturally, you will give me the particulars of this supposed threat, so that

  the sorcerers at least will know, excuse my boldness sir, that they are not

  being dragged from their burrows and dens to confront only the ravings of a

  senile fraud." He put up a mollifying hand. "Tut, tut, sir. Think a moment.

  Surely you yourself would want some assurance if the positions were reversed?"

  "That seems reasonable enough. The wizards of the greater territories are a

  supercilious bunch. They must be made to understand the danger. I will give you

  such information as will be sufficient to induce them to attend the audience."

  He hunted through his plastron.

  "Here, then." He removed a handful of tiny scrolls. "These are curse-sealed."

  "Yes, I see the mark," said the raccoon as he carefully accepted them.

  "Not that it would matter if you saw their contents," Clothahump told him. "All

  the world will know soon enough. But there are certain snobbish types who would

  resent the intrusion of mere laymen into sorceral affairs."

  "Rest assured they will not be tampered with," said the Major with a fatuous

  smile. He placed the scrolls in his side purse.

  "Now to less awesome matters. It is growing late. Surely you must be tired from

  the day's work"--he eyed the unfortunate beaver sharply--"and from your

  extensive journeying. Also, it would help settle the populace if you would

  retire."

  Caz brushed daintily at his lace cuffs and silk stockings. "I for one could

  certainly use a bath. Not to mention something more elaborate than camp cuisine.

  Ah, for an epinard and haricot salad with spiced legume dressing!"

  "A gourmet." Major Ortrum l
ooked with new interest at the rabbit. "You will

  pardon my saying so, sir, but I do not understand you falling in with this kind

  of company."

  "I find my present company quite satisfactory, thank you." Caz smiled thinly.

  Ortrum shrugged. "Life often places us in the most unexpected situations." It

  was clear he fancied himself something of a philosopher. "We will find you your

  bath, sir, and lodgings for you all."

  The beaver leaned close, still stiffly at attention, and jerked his head toward

  the dragon. "Lodgings, thir? Even for that?"

  "Yes, what about Falameezar?" Jon-Tom asked. "Comrades are not to be separated."

  The dragon beamed.

  "No trouble whatsoever," the raccoon assured him. He pointed behind them. "That

  third large structure there, behind you and to your left, is a military barracks

  and storehouse. At present it is occupied only by a small maintenance crew, who

  will be moved. Should your substantial reptilian friend desire to return to his

  natural aquatic habitat, whether permanently or merely for a washup, he will

  find the river close at hand. And there is ample room inside for all of you, so

  you will be able to stay together.

  "If you will please follow me?" He returned to his chair. Curses and urgings

  came from the driver. Though high-pitched and squeaky, they were notable for

  their exceptional vileness.

  Divide and promote a selected few, Jon-Tom thought angrily. That's how to keep

  the oppressed in line. The treatment of the smaller rodents was a source of

  continuing unease to him.

  They followed the chair to the entrance of a huge wooden building. A pair of

  towering sliding doors were more than large enough to admit Falameezar.

  "This building is often used to house large engines," Ortrum explained. "Hence

  the need for the oversized portal.

  "I will leave you here now. I must return to make my report and set in motion

  the requests you have made. If you need anything, do not hesitate to ask any of

  the staff inside for assistance. I welcome you as guests of the city."

  He turned, and the chair shuffled off under the straining muscles of the

  mice....

  XIX

  Their quarters were Spartan but satisfactory. Falameezar declared himself

  content with the straw carried in from the stables, the consistency being drier

  but otherwise akin to the familiar mud of his favorite riverbottom.