“The people of Ospenspri have always been famed for the accuracy of their observations,” Clothahump said blithely. “I only did what any traveler of my stature would have done.”
“But which none could do until now.” Sorenset closed his eyes and stared at the sun, luxuriating in its feel against his face. “The curse has been lifted. Ospenspri has suffered before, but such calamities have wrought their damage and then moved on. We began to fear that the black cloud was destined to stay with us forever.”
“It could return, in the same guise or another.”
Sorenset dropped his face and stared at the wizard. “Do not say such things. Have you not banished the cloud?”
“Yes, but not its cause. Until we can do that, no morning will be the same as the one that has preceded it, and none of us can go to sleep with any assurance that we will wake up recognizing what we are. It is to remedy this matter that the three of us have undertaken this journey from our home in the South.”
Sorenset nodded somberly. “Anything that you require that can be found in Ospenspri will be provided. We will help in any way that we can. You have restored our bodies, our city, and our souls.”
He turned toward the beautiful homes and apartments, no longer poor structures of mud and wattle, which fronted on the central square. Laughter, shouts of relief, and other sounds of merriment poured from open windows and doors. The cries might have been deafening except that many of Ospenspri’s restored citizens had ingested too much of the flavorful downpour and now lay savoring their restoration in stuporous slumber on porches and doorsteps, streets and benches.
Mudge leapt off the fountain enclosure and wrapped his arms around Jon-Tom, hooting and barking with delight. Jon-Tom staggered under the weight and collapsed to the ground with the otter on top of him. He wasn’t angry. He could only grin. The otter’s high spirits were infectious. Besides, he’d done more than taste of the alcoholic precipitation himself. He was feeling pleasantly giddy.
As for the wizard’s famulus, Sorbl was flying in tighter and tighter circles around the spire of the fountain, until his wings and coordination finally gave out. Mudge and Jon-Tom had to drag him from the pool.
As befitted their station, Sorenset and Clothahump observed this display of youthful celebration with a tolerant eye. “It appears that it is left to us to proceed with practical matters.”
“I am not displeased,” Clothahump told the fox. “We will not be interrupted with foolish questions. I will lay out our needs for you. They are modest in scope. We will also require proper lodging for the night, assuming any innkeeper has recovered sufficiently to serve us.”
“I know just the place,” Sorenset replied. “The finest establishment in the city. When the owners learn who their guests will be, they will be even more effusive in their praise than I. This I will attend to myself, in the name of the council and the people of a grateful Ospenspri.”
The music that the orchestra was playing for the enjoyment of the diners was soft and light, all flutes and strings. Such sounds ordinarily would have driven a hard-rock guitarist like Jon-Tom from the building. But after all they’d been through on the long journey northward, he found he was glad of the respite from anything harsh, including sounds. He was particularly fascinated by the multireeded flute the bobcat was tootling on and the thirty-stringed lyre the well-dressed gibbon was stroking. The latter made the double strings of his duar seem simple by comparison. But then, the gibbon had arms that trailed on the ground when he walked. No human could match his reach.
On the other hand, he told himself as he regarded his duar fondly, it wasn’t an easy matter to bring forth chords from strings that tended to blur into another dimension when you were playing on them, either.
It seemed that everyone in Ospenspri wanted to thank the city’s saviors personally. Sorenset politely but firmly warded off the multitude of well-wishers, explaining that their visitors were exhausted and still had many leagues to travel.
The deluge of hosannas was mitigated more than a little by the perturbation that struck later that afternoon. It was not as damaging to the spirit as the black cloud and it lasted less than ten minutes, but it was a sobering reminder to all that the world was still a long way from returning to a state of normalcy. Everyone became a multihued butterfly, each building a cocoon of varying size and shape. There was much nervous flapping of brilliantly colored wings before the perturbation ended and the real world returned with a snap.
It certainly took the edge off Clothahump’s achievement. Sorenset no longer had to fend off citizens who wanted to kiss the wizard’s feet.
“Ungrateful wretches.” The turtle sipped his soup. “It’s not enough that for them I turn their town right side up. They want me to tip the world for them.”
“Don’t be too hard on them.” Jon-Tom was finishing his own meal, savoring the subtle spices and the tender meat that now rested comfortably in his belly. After weeks of hasty meals followed by continuous jouncing in the old jeep, the meal at the inn had reminded him that eating could be a delight as well as a necessity. “They don’t understand what’s going on. We’re probably the only ones in the world who do—along with whoever’s restraining the perambulator, of course.”
“Ignorance is no excuse for bad manners,” grumped the wizard. But Jon-Tom had managed to soothe him somewhat.
Sorenset and several other members of the city council joined them at the oval table. A pouty Clothahump allowed Jon-Tom to tell their story and explain what they intended to try. The rulers of Ospenspri listened politely.
“One thing is certain.” The flying squirrel, Talla, was president of the council and wore his medals on the flaps of skin that connected his wrists to his ribs. “The vehicle in which you arrived will not take you where you wish to go. Between here and the northern reaches you will have to climb.”
“What about riding snakes?” Jon-Tom asked.
The squirrel shook his head. “No L’borian could survive the conditions on the Plateau. It’s far too cold.”
“Then we will have to continue on foot.” Clothahump was tapping the table with the fingers of both hands. “A daunting prospect, yet one that does not concern me a tenth so much as whatever we will encounter at the end of our journey.”
“What do you suggest?” Jon-Tom asked again.
Sorenset considered. “Ospenspri is home to many independent transporters. But to go north of the Plateau at this time of year, I don’t know. All we can do is inquire if any quadruped is willing to undertake such a journey. You will have all the supplies you need, but we cannot compel a citizen to risk a life against his will.”
“Of course not,” said Clothahump.
“I will go and make inquiries right now.” A nervous bandicoot excused himself from the gathering and hurried toward the door.
“Even a single horse willing to carry our supplies would be a great help,” Clothahump said, “though I am not sanguine about one volunteering.”
“What, after you saved the whole city?” Jon-Tom observed.
The wizard gave him a knowing look. “My boy, when you have lived as long as I have, you come to learn that among the virtues, altruism is not the most common.”
The contemplative silence that followed this wise observation was interrupted by a loud smacking sound from the table behind the conference oval. Jon-Tom turned a disapproving eye on Mudge. Only the top of the otter’s head was visible. His face was buried in the midsection of a two-foot-long broiled fish. Jon-Tom tilted back in his chair and whispered.
“Do you have to eat with your mouth open?”
Mudge promptly stopped munching to squint at his friend. Bits of meat and skin hung from his teeth and jaws, and his face was shiny with oil. “Well now, guv’nor, if you can show me ’ow to eat with me mouth closed, I’ll ’ave a shot at it. Otherwise, be a good chap and bugger off.” He plunged his face back into the hollowed-out fish and took an enormous bite, loudly crunching up meat, skin, and bones.
&
nbsp; “That’s not what I meant.” Jon-Tom struggled to remain patient. “It’s the noise you’re making.”
Again the otter glanced up. “Wot of it?”
“It’s disconcerting. You should eat quietly and chew with your mouth closed.”
Mudge sighed in amazement. “You ’umans. The notions you come up with. Mate, I couldn’t eat like that even if I wanted to.”
“Why not?”
“Because me mouth ain’t flat against me face like an ape’s, that’s why. ’Tis easy for you to keep your cud restrained behind your cheeks, but my jaws protrude. See?” He stuck his face close to Jon-Tom’s, and the spellsinger recoiled from the overpowering odor of fish. “The sound comes out both sides o’ me face. ’Tis a matter o’ design, not preference.”
“Oh. I hadn’t thought of that.” He sat silently for a moment while the otter resumed gorging himself. His forehead twisted in contemplation, and then he spoke sharply. “Hey, now wait a minute—” He didn’t get the chance to finish the thought. Clothahump was speaking again.
Only, this time the wizard’s words were directed not to the attentive members of Ospenspri’s ruling council but to the newest member of the expedition.
“You.”
Silence. It finally penetrated Mudge’s food-sodden consciousness that everyone was looking at him. He turned, managed to mumble around a mouthful of food.
“Who, me?”
“Yes, you, river rat.” Behind the six-sided glasses the wizard’s gaze was intense. Jon-Tom watched with interest. Something serious was up.
Mudge could sense it too. Carefully he positioned the remainder of his fish on its plate and commenced an ostentatious licking of his fingers. “What can I do for your magicness?”
“Jon-Tom tells me that you have volunteered to accompany us northward to aid us in our endeavor.”
“Um. Well, if Jonny-Tom says that’s wot I said, then I guess I said it.”
Clothahump leaned forward. “I am curious to know why. It is uncharacteristic of you.”
“I’ll let that one by, guv’nor.” He began to preen his whiskers. “It’s like I told Jon-Tom. You ’elped me like you ’elped everyone else. I’m meself again. I’d ’ave ’ated to ’ave gone through life bent over under that bloody cloud. You saved me. So I figure I owes you. I couldn’t very well ’ave continued in me profession all twisted and gnarled like I was.”
“Your profession?” The wizard’s eyebrows would have lifted if he’d had any. “Are you referring to your practice of pickpocketing and general thievery?”
“’Ere now, sir, is that any way to treat an old friend who volunteers ’is ’elp out o’ the goodness of ’is ’eart to accompany you on a journey no doubt as dangerous as your usual travels? If all you can do is sit there and insult me, maybe I—”
“I do not mean to belittle your generous offer. I merely am trying to define your motives. I suspect you are in this because you sense the scope of the danger and, possessing a crude sort of native intelligence, realize that the safest place to be is as close as possible to me.”
Jon-Tom spoke softly to his friend. “Is he right, Mudge?”
“Mate, you do me a disservice. You both do me a disservice. Seems like every time I volunteers to ’elp you blokes without regard for the safety of me own person, all you can do is question me motivation. I can’t tell you ’ow much it ’urts me.”
“It will hurt you a great deal more if you insinuate yourself into our company only for your own selfish reasons. My concern, however, is not so much with your motivations as with your allegiance once we have reached our destination. I cannot afford to have you running off at a critical moment. I must be able to rely on all my companions.” Before Mudge could proffer the inevitable protest, Clothahump was pointing a heavy finger at him. Behind those thick glasses the wizard’s eyes seemed to have darkened from their natural brown to a deep, glowing crimson.
“Swear, son-of-a-stream, miscreant offspring of a midden maiden, that you come on this journey of your own free will, that you will do what is required of you as a companion in peril, and that you will do so without thought or regard for your own safety, for the good of all the inhabitants of the warmlands.” A red haze had enveloped the table and the awed patrons of the inn. Everyone had turned to watch.
“Swear this to me now, by the blood that flows in your veins, by the intellgence that may hide in your brain, and by the desire that rules your loins.”
“Okay, okay,” said Mudge disgustedly, putting up both paws defensively. “Take it easy! Jump me tail if I don’t think you like overdoi’ these things, Your Wizardship. Be that as it may, I swear.”
The red haze dissipated into the walls of the inn, and Clothahump’s eyes regained their normal placid hue. Satisfied, he settled back into his chair. It was higher than most in order to raise his midsection to table level. He picked up a fork and jabbed at the soggy mass of colorful river-bottom greens that had been served earlier.
“Very well. I accept your oath and your company. Needless to say, the consequences of reneging on your agreement are too horrible to mention.”
“I know.” Mudge sighed. He did not appear in the least upset or, for that matter, impressed. “All that fuss over nothing.” He picked up his fish, was about to bite into it again when Jon-Tom leaned close.
“That’s the first time Clothahump’s made you swear an oath.”
“Wot of it, mate?”
“It doesn’t give you much leeway for slinking off on side trips the way you like to when we’re traveling. You’ll have to toe the line pretty tightly or something dreadful’s likely to happen to you.”
“I know that, lad. ’Tis no big deal.” He chomped down on the fish. Bones splintered under his sharp teeth.
Still Jon-Tom was not satisfied. “Mudge, this isn’t like you. You’ve changed.”
“Who, me? I ’aven’t changed a bit, mate. The truth o’ the matter is that I’m bei’ agreeable because it suits me, not old armor-britches over there. I’ve ’ad a taste or two o’ these perambulations and wot ’is wizardship says about the safest place in the world bei’ close to ’is arse is mighty near the truth.”
“I can’t argue with that myself,” Jon-Tom admitted. “It’ll be good to have you with us, especially when we have to confront whoever’s trapped it.”
Mudge paused, the fish halfway to his mouth. “Wot are you babbli’ on about, mate? Once His Magicsty there frees this perbambulator or wotever the ’ell it is, we can all come a-skippi’ ’ome safe a’ clear, right?”
“Maybe not. We still have to deal with the instigator of this crisis, and there’s no telling what he, or it, is like or how it’ll react to our attempts to intervene. Freeing the perambulator will assure that the world is saved, but it won’t do anything for us. We still have to get away from whoever’s restrained it. I imagine that psychotic will be more than a little upset when his plans are ruined.”
“I see now.” The otter carefully returned the remnants of the fish to his plate. “I think I’ve ’ad enough. Nothi’ was said about deali’ with no psychotic monster once this ’ere peramutraitpr was freed to go on its way.” He started to rise.
Jon-Tom put a hand on one furry shoulder. “Your oath, Mudge.”
“Oath? I don’t recall anything in me oath that says I ’ave to stay at this table. So if you’ll all excuse me.” He pushed his chair back quickly and made a dignified dash for the bathroom.
Sorbl was sitting on a perch behind the oval conference table. “What’s wrong with the water rat?” He plucked another fried lizard from the brochette stuck into one end of the perch and gulped it down. “Did he eat too fast? He certainly ate enough.”
“I’ve never known Mudge to get sick from overeating,”
Jon-Tom told the owl. “I think he’s just realized what he’s gotten himself into, and he’s choking on his oath.”
Sorbl nodded sadly. “Those can be hard to swallow. Few of us truly have the foresight to consider all the
consequences of our actions. My signing on as wizard’s famulus, for example.”
“What was that? Did you say something, Sorbl?” Clothahump was glaring up at his apprentice.
“I said that Jon-Tom’s singing was an example to us all, Master.” The owl belched politely and smiled.
V
THE INN’S BEDS were as well prepared as the food, and they all enjoyed their soundest sleep in weeks. As usual, Clothahump was awake and making notes before Jon-Tom arose. Sorenset met them for breakfast. The fox looked tired.
“There is much to be done in the city. Some people are still suffering from the aftereffects of the perturbation, as you call it. Not to mention the aftereffects of that remarkable rainstorm. I have some good news for you. When you have finished your meal, I am to escort you to the transport barracks.”
“You found us a volunteer, then?” Sorenset nodded and Clothahump looked satisfied. “Good. That will speed us up considerably.”
“Not quite a volunteer, exactly.” The fox looked apologetic.
“What do you mean ‘not quite’? Did you find us someone willing to haul our supplies or not?”
“It’s likely. The problem is, I’m not sure you’ll find this particular transporter to your taste. She’s something of an iconoclast, very strong-willed, and apt to cancel a contract at the smell of the slightest ill wind.”
“She?” Clothahump grunted. “No matter. As long as she has a strong back and legs. As for the possibility of some imagined personality conflict, that does not concern me. I am the most agreeable person in the world, quite able to get along with anyone I have to work with.”
A strange noise came from the far side of the table. Clothahump’s gaze narrowed as he eyed his apprentice. “Something in your breakfast not to your liking, Sorbl?”
“Gnuf—no, Master,” the owl managed to choke out. He was holding a thick napkin over his face, though whether to shield his mouth or hide his expression, no one could tell.
The Paths of the Perambulator: A Spellsinger Adventure (Book Five) Page 8