Spellsinger

by Alan Dean Foster

  "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."

  "Oh, it exists all right." His fists rubbed angrily on the table as he watched the subservient rat suddenly go down on his chest. A turtle with a disposition considerably less refined than Clothahump's had stuck out a stubby leg and tripped the unfortunate rodent. Once more the laboriously gathered garbage went flying while a new burst of merriment flared from the onlookers.

  "Why discrimination like that here?" Jon-Tom muttered. "Why here too?"

  "Discrimination?" Mudge seemed confused. "Nobody discriminates against 'em. That's all they're good for. Can't argue with natural law, mate."

  Jon-Tom had expected more from Mudge, though he'd no real reason to. From what he'd already seen, the otter was no worse than the average inhabitant of this stinking, backward nonparadise.

  There were a number of humans scattered throughout the restaurant. None came near approaching Jon-Tom in height. Nearby a single older gentleman was drinking and playing cards with a spider monkey dressed in black shot through with silver thread. They paired off against a larger simian Jon-Tom couldn't identify and a three-foot-tall pocket gopher wearing a crimson jumpsuit and the darkest sunglasses Jon-Tom had ever seen.

  No doubt they were as prejudiced and bigoted as the others. And where did he come off setting himself up as arbiter of another world's morals?

  "There ain't nothin' you can do about it, mate. Why would anyone want t' change things? Cor now, moppin' and sweepin' and such are out, unless you want t' lose all respeet due a regular citizen. Politickin' you're also qualified for, but that o' course ranks even lower than janitorial-type drudgeryin'. I'd hope you won't 'ave t' fall back on your abilities for minstrelin'." His tone changed to one of hope mixed with curiosity.

  "Now ol' Clothahump, 'e was bloody well sure you were some sort of sorcerer, 'e was. You sure you can't work no magic? I 'eard you questioning 'is wizard-wart's own special words."

  "That was just curiosity, Mudge. Some of the words were familiar. But not in the way he used them. Even you did the business with the dancing pins. Does everyone practice magic around here?"

  "Oh, everyone practices, all right." Mudge swilled down a snootful of black brew. "But few get good enough at it to do much more than a trick or two. Pins are my limit, I'm afraid. Wish to 'ell I knew 'is gold spell." His gaze suddenly moved left and he grinned broadly.

  "Course now, when the situation arises I ain't too bad at certain forms o' levitation." His right hand moved with the speed of which only otters are capable.

  How the saucily dressed and heavily made up chipmunk managed to keep from dumping the contents of the six tankards she was maneuvering through the crowd was a bit of magic in itself, Jon-Tom thought as he ducked to avoid the few flying suds.

  She turned an outraged look on the innocent-seeming Mudge. "You keep your hands to yourself, you shit-eating son of a mud worm! Next time you'll get one of these up your furry backside!" She threatened him with a tankard.

  "Now Lily," Mudge protested, " 'aven't you always told me you're always 'untin' for a way t' move up in the world?"

  She started to swing an armful of liquor at him and he cowered away in mock fear, covering his face with his paws and still smiling. Then she thought better of wasting the brew. Turning from their table she marched away, elbowing a path through the crowd. Her tail switched prettily from side to side, the short dress barely reaching from waist to knee. It was gold with a gray lining that neatly set off her own attractive russet and black and white striping.

  "What did I tell you, mate?" Mudge grinned over his mug at Jon-Tom.

  He tried to smile back, aware that the otter was trying to break the glum mood into which Jon-Tom had fallen. So he forced himself to continue the joke.

  "Mighty short levitation, Mudge. I don't see how it does her any good."

  "Who said anything about her?" The otter jabbed himself in the chest with a thumb. "It's me the levitatin' benefits!" He clasped both furry arms around his chest and roared at his own humor, threatening to upset table and self.

  Wooden shades were rolled down to cover the two windows, and someone dimmed the oil lamps. Jon-Tom started to rise, felt a restraining paw on his wrist.

  "Nay, guv, 'tis nothing t' be concerned about." His eyes were sparkling. "Quite the contrary. Did I not promise you some entertainment?" He pointed to the circular serving counter and up.

  What looked like an upside-down tree was slowly descending from a gap in the center of the peaked ceiling. It was green with fresh growth, only the foliage had been tacked on and doubtless was periodically renewed. The still unseen band segued into an entirely new tune. The percussionist was doing most of the work now, Jon-Tom noted. The beat was heavy, slow, and sensuous.

  The yelling and shouting that filled the establishment changed also. Barely organized chaos faded to a murmur of anticipation spotted with occasional roars of comment, usually lewd in nature.

  Mudge had shifted his seat, now sat close to Jon-Tom. His eyes were on the fake tree as he elbowed his companion repeatedly in the ribs.

  "Eyes at the alert now, mate. There's not a fairer nor more supple sight in all Lynchbany."

  An animal appeared at the dark opening in the ceiling, prompting a bellow from the crowd. It vanished, then teasingly reappeared. It was slight, slim, and made its way very slowly from the hidden chamber above down into the branches of the ersatz conifer. About three and a half feet in length, it displayed another half foot of active tail and was completely, almost blindingly covered in snow-white fur save for a few inches of black at the tip of the tail.

  Its costume, if such so lithe a wrapping could be called, consisted of many layers of black veils of some chiffonlike material through which the brilliant white fur showed faintly. Its face was streaked with red painted on in intricate curlicues and patterns that ran from face and snout down onto shoulders, chest, and back before vanishing beneath the airy folds. A turban of matching black was studded with jewels. The final touch, Jon-Tom noted with fascination, were long false eyelashes.

  So absorbing was this glittering mammalian vision that for several moments identification escaped him. That slim form and muscular torso could only belong to some member of the weasel family. When the apparition smiled and displayed tiny sharp teeth he was certain of it. This was an ermine, still in full winter-white coat. That confirmed the time of year he'd arrived, though he hadn't thought to ask anyone. About the creature's femininity he had no doubt whatsoever.

  A hush of interspecies expectancy had settled over the crowd. All attention was focused overhead as the ermine ecdysiast began to toy with the clasps securing one veil. She unsnapped one, then its companion. Cries of appreciation started to rise from the patrons, an amazing assortment of hoots, whistles, squeaks, yowls, and barks. She began to uncoil the first veil with snakelike motions.

  Jon-Tom had never had occasion
to imagine an animal executing anything as erotic as a striptease. After all, beneath any clothing lay another layer of solid fur and not the bare flesh of a human.

  But eroticism has little to do with nudity, as he soon discovered. It was the movement of the creature, a supple twisting and turning that no human female could possibly match, that was stimulating. He found himself thoroughly engrossed by the mechanics of the dance alone.

  To rising cries of appreciation from the crowd one veil followed another. The cool indifference Jon-Tom had intended to affect had long since given way to a distinct tingling. He was no more immune to beauty than any other animal. The ermine executed a series of movements beyond the grasp of the most talented double-jointed human, and did so with the grace and demeanor of a countess.

  There was also the manner in which she oozed around the branches and leaves of the tree, caressing them with hands and body in a way only a chunk of cold granite could have ignored. The room was heavy with musk now, the suggestiveness of motion and gesture affecting every male within sight.

  The last veil dropped free, floated featherlike to the floor. The music was moving almost as fast as the performer. That white-furred derriere had become a gravity-defying metronome, a passionate pendulum sometimes concealed, sometimes revealed by the position of the twitching tail, all vibrating in time to the music.

  The music rose to a climax as the ermine, hanging by her arms from the lowermost branches, executed an absolutely impossible series of movements which incidentally revealed to Jon-Tom the reason for the circular, central nature of the main serving counter. It served now as fortress wall behind which the heavily armed cooks and bartenders were able to fend off the hysterical advances of the overheated patrons.

  One long-eared rabbit which Jon-Tom supposed to be a jack actually managed to grab a handful of black-tipped tail which was coyly but firmly pulled out of reach. A burly bobcat dumped the rabbit back among the surging patrons as the ermine blew a last kiss to her audience. Then she slithered back through branches and leaves to disappear inside the ceiling with a last fluid bump and grind.

  Shades and tree were promptly rolled up. Conversation resumed and normality returned to the restaurant. Waitresses and waiters continued to wend their way through the crowd like oxygen in the bloodstream.

  "D'you see now wot I mean, mate?" Mudge said with the contentment of one who'd just cashed a very large check, "when I say that there's no one who--" He stopped, stared strangely across the table.

  "What's wrong?" asked Jon-Tom uncomfortably.

  " 'Ave me for breakfast," was the startled reply, "if you ain't blushin'! You 'umans..."

  "Bull," muttered Jon-Tom, turning angrily away.

  "Nope." The otter leaned over the table, peering closely at Jon-Tom despite his attempts to keep his face concealed. "Blimey but it's true... you're as red as a baboon's behind, lad." He nodded upward, toward the peak of the roof." 'Ave you ne'er seen such a performance before, then?"

  "Of course I have." He turned forcefully back to face his guardian, rocked a little unsteadily. It seeped into his brain that he might have become a little bit tipsy. How much of that black booze had he downed?

  "That is, I have... on film."

  "What be that?"

  "A magic apparition," Jon-Tom explained facilely.

  "Well if you've gazed upon such, though not, I dare to say," and he gazed admiringly ceilingward, "of such elegance and skill, then why the red face?"

  "It's just that," he searched for the right words to explain his confusion, "I shouldn't find the actions of..." How could he say, "another animal" without offending his companion? Desperately he hunted for an alternate explanation.

  "I've never seen anything done with quite that... well, with quite that degree of perverse dexterity."

  "Ah, I understand now. Though perverse I wouldn't call it. Crikey, but that was a thing of great beauty."

  "If you say so, I guess it was." Jon-Tom was grateful for the out.

  "Aye." Mudge growled softly and smiled. "And if I could once get my paws on that supple little mother-dear, I'd show 'er a thing of beauty."

  The thick, warm atmosphere of the restaurant had combined with the rich food and drink to make Jon-Tom decidedly woozy. He was determined not to pass out. Mudge already did not think much of him, and Clothahump's warnings or no, he wasn't ready to bet that the otter would stay with him if he made a total ass of himself.

  Determinedly he shoved the mug away, rose, and glanced around.

  "What be you searchin' for now, mate?"

  "Some of my own kind." His eyes scanned the crowd for the sight of bare flesh.

  "What, 'umans?" The otter shrugged. "Aw well, never 'ave I understood your peculiar affinity for each other's company, but you're free enough to choose your own. Espy some, do you?"

  Jon-Tom's gaze settled on a pair of familiar bald faces in a booth near the rear of the room. "There's a couple over that way. Two men, I think."

  "As you will, then."

  He turned his attention down to the otter. "It's not that I'm not enjoying your companionship, Mudge. It's just that I'd like one of my own kind to talk to for a while."

  His worries were groundless. Mudge was in entirely too good a mood to be offended by anything.

  "Wotever you like, mate. We'll go and 'ave a chat then, if that's wot you want. But don't forget we've still the little matter o' settlin' you on some proper course o' employment." He shook his head more to clear it than to indicate displeasure.

  "Minstrel... I don't know. There might still be the novelty factor." He scratched the fur just under his chin. "Tell you what. Give us another song and then we'll go over and see if we can't make the acquaintance o' those chaps."

  "I thought you'd heard enough the first time."

  "Never go on first appearances, mate. Besides, 'twas a damn blue and gloomy tune you let out with. Try somethin' different. Many's the minstrel who well mangles one type o' tune yet can warble clearly another."

  Jon-Tom sat down again, linked his fingers, and considered. "I don't know. What would you like to hear? Classical, pop, blues, jazz?" He tried to sound enthusiastic. "I know some classical, but what I really always wanted to do was sing rock. It's a form of popular music back where I come from."

  "I don't know either, mate. 'Ow 'bout ballads? Everyone likes ballads."

  "Sure." He was warming again to his true love. "I know a number of 'em. What subject do you like best?"

  "Let me think on it a minute." Actually, it was only a matter of seconds before a gleam returned to the black eyes, along with a smile.

  "Never mine," Jon-Tom said hastily. "I'll think of something."

  He thought, but it was hard to settle on any one song. Maybe it was the noise and smell swirling around them, maybe the aftereffects of the meal, but words and notes flitted in and out of his brain like gnats, never pausing long enough for him to get a grip on any single memory. Besides, he felt unnatural singing without his trusty, worn Grundig slung over his shoulder and across his stomach. If he only had something, even a harmonica. But he couldn't play that and sing simultaneously.

  "Come on now, mate," Mudge urged him. "Surely you can think o' something?"

  "I'll try," and he did, launching into a cracked rendition of "Strawberry Fair," but the delicate harmonies were drowned in the bellowing and hooting and whistling that filled the air of the restaurant.

  Nonetheless, he was unprepared for the sharp blow that struck him between the shoulderblades and sent him sprawling chest-down across the table.

  Angry and confused, he turned to find himself staring into a ferocious dark brown face set on a stocky, muscular body as tall as Mudge's but more than twice as broad....

  VI

  The snakeskin beret and red bandana did nothing to lessen the wolverine's intimidating appearance.

  "Sorry," Jon-Tom mumbled, uncertain of what else to say.

  The face glared down at him, powerful jaws parting to reveal sharp teeth as the li
ps curled back. "You ban not sorry enough, I think!" the creature rumbled hollowly. "I ban pretty sorry for your mother, she having much to listen to a voice like that. You upset my friends and my meal."

  "I was just practicing." He was beginning to feel a mite indignant at the insults. The warmth of the roast was still with him. He failed to notice the queasy expression that had come over Mudge's faee. "It's difficult to sing without any music to accompany me."

  "Yah, well, you ban practice no more, you hear? It ban hurt my ears."

  Mudge was trying and failing to gain Jen-Tom's attention. Jon-Tom rose from his seat to tower over the shorter but more massive animal. It made him feel better, giving proof once again to the old adage about the higher, the mightier. Or as the old philosopher said, witness the pigeon's tactical advantage over man.

  However the wolverine was not impressed. He gazed appraisingly up and down Jon-Tom's length. "All that voice tube and no voice. Maybe you ban better at singing in harmony, yah? So maybe I put one half neek here and the other half across the table," and powerful clawed hands reached for Jon-Tom's face.

  Dodging nimbly, Jon-Tom slipped around the table, brought up his staff, and swung the straight end down in a whistling arc. Having had plenty to consume himself, the wolverine reacted more slowly than usual. He did not quite get both hands up in time to defend himself, and the staff smacked sharply over one set of knuckles. The creature roared in pain.

  "Look, I don't want any trouble."

  "You stick up for your rights, mate!" Mudge urged him, beginning a precipitous retreat from the vicinity of the table. "I'll watch and make sure it be a fair fight."

  "Like hell you will!" He held the staff tightly, trying to divide his attention between the wolverine and the otter. "You remember what Clothahump said."

  "Screw that!" But Mudge hesitated, his hand fumbling in the vicinity of his chest sword. Clearly he was sizing up the tense triangle that had formed around the table and debating whether or not he stood a better chance of surviving Clothahump's vengeful spell-making than the wolverine and his friends. The latter consisted of a tall marten and a chunky armadillo who displayed a sword hanging from each hip belt. Of course, earrying weapons and knowing how to use them were two different matters.