The Moment of the Magician: A Spellsinger Adventure (Book Four)

by Alan Dean Foster

  “If he has any such intentions. That may be nothing more than your employer’s paranoia at work.”

  “That is something Oplode felt you would sense, sir. He said that you were wise and knowledgeable, brave and bold.”

  Clothahump removed his glasses, spoke while cleaning them. “Even as a student, I recall this Oplode being somewhat of a stickler for accurate descriptions.”

  “I wish I could tell you more, sirs, but I am only a messenger.”

  “You’ve done better than could have been expected of you.”

  “So you will send help?” asked Pandro hopefully.

  “Certainly I will.”

  “You’ll come yourself?”

  “I will send help,” Clothahump said firmly. “You may convey that message to Oplode. I’m sure he expects some sort of reply, and that should cheer him. As for specifics, I prefer not to divulge my methodology to the hired help.”

  “I understand, sir,” said Pandro, bowing and finishing his stiff drink. He set the glass aside and headed for the front door. “Any other messages, sir?”

  “Sorbl. Sorbl!” Clothahump yelled. “Never mind. I’ll do it myself.” The door swung inward at the flick of his hand. It was a tiny magic, very minor wizardry, but it impressed Pandro nonetheless. A good impression the raven would carry with him all the way back to Quasequa.

  “No, no other message. Tell Oplode if he feels the need to convey additional information to me to send you back again.”

  “Oh, no, sir! He may send more information back to you, but I won’t be bringing it. I’ve had enough of wizardly goings-on. Humans from other worlds, faceless demons, no thank you, sirs! I’ll inform him you’re sending help down to Quasequa and I’m sure he will be heartened by that, but if he wants to thank you he can do it himself. I’ve had more than enough of such doings. Never again.”

  “Don’t you mean ‘nevermore’?” Jon-Tom asked him.

  Pandro eyed him oddly for a moment before bowing a last time. Then he left, closing the heavy wooden door behind him.

  “Hope for the better rather than for the worst,” said Jon-Tom after the raven had taken his leave. “I’ll start packing our supplies.”

  Clothahump coughed softly. “What do you mean ‘our’ supplies, my boy?”

  Jon-Tom halted in mid-stride. “Now, wait a minute. What about all that business about your being ‘courageous, brave, and bold’?”

  “Dear me, is that what he said?” Clothahump was studying the ceiling. “I thought certain he said ‘courageous, brave, and old.’ Because that is an accurate description. In any case, I’m certainly not about to leave my work here to embark on some long hike simply to salve the injured feelings of a deposed wizard. As I said, this hardly sounds to me like a crisis.”

  “No crisis, eh? Some evil sorcerer from another world throws a colleague of yours out of office and is scheming to take over an entire city with who-knows-what eventual aims in mind, and you don’t call that a crisis?”

  “It’s not my city, and I’m not the one who’s been deposed. As for Oplode the Sly’s being a colleague, I’ve never worked with him and know of him only by reputation.”

  “That’s one hell of a cold attitude.”

  “I would rather say realistic. However, I did say I would send help, and so I shall. You are so convinced that this Markus the Ineluctable is from your world that I wouldn’t think of putting off the day of that meeting by so much as an hour. I would only slow you down, my boy.” He indicated the duar Jon-Tom cradled against his side.

  “You can handle anything that comes before you. You now know enough of this land and have mastered sufficient of your spellsinging skills to extricate yourself from any minor difficulties.” He grinned. “Should this Markus turn out to be as belligerent as Oplode feels, you can always threaten him with a bouquet.”

  Jon-Tom gave the wizard a sour look. “What would I do without your confidence and support?”

  “Oh, I support you, my boy, I support you. Your talent is developing nicely. I merely try to keep a close watch on the diameter of your head, lest in a dangerous moment of overconfidence it grow too large.

  “Oplode desires speed in this matter and so do you. I would be an encumbrance to you both. I am quite confident of your ability to manage this matter on your own.”

  “What if he’s not from my world?” wondered Jon-Tom, suddenly thoughtful. “What if he is some strange demonic being in human guise? That raven’s description of his attire and his attitude, those don’t make him sound much like an old friend from back home.”

  “Then you must deal with him as the circumstances dictate,” the wizard told him firmly. “I can’t wet-nurse you through maturity.”

  “I’m already mature.”

  “Then act like it.” He winced. “Besides, my arthritis is acting up.”

  “Funny how your arthritis always seems to act up whenever there’s a long journey to be taken.”

  “Yes, it is peculiar, isn’t it?” Clothahump admitted without batting an eye. He lumbered toward his bedroom, peered through the doorway. “Ah! Sorbl has excavated my bed. I can hear him shearing away in there. Presumably he is not so drunk that he has cut off either of his wings.” He raised his voice. “Sorbl! How are you managing in there, you useless befeathered sot?”

  “I am tired, Master,” came the faint reply from somewhere deep within the thorny brambles. “These vines are tough.” A pause, then, “Can’t you just magic them away?”

  “Perhaps I could, but I did not acquire an apprentice so that I might engage in menial labor. Besides, a little exercise is good for the system, especially when that system is overloaded with ethyl molecules.”

  “With what, Master?”

  “Liquorish magical symbols.”

  “Not me, Master! I would never—!”

  Clothahump closed the door to the rosebush-ridden bedroom, shutting off Sorbl’s too-emphatic protestations of innocence. He turned back to Jon-Tom, peered up at him over steepled fingers.

  “Oplode has a reputation for exaggeration, my boy, and all salamanders are notoriously paranoid. I know that you will enjoy the journey to Quasequa. It will be a long but pleasant trip. The city itself is rumored to be most beautiful, constructed on a series of islands out in the middle of a body of water called the Lake of Sorrowful Pearls. If I were a hundred years younger, I would not hesitate to accompany you.”

  Jon-Tom was nodding knowingly. “Sounds delightful. In fact, it sounds a lot like our recent relaxing vacation jaunt to distant Snarken.”

  Clothahump shifted his eyes away from the tall youth. “Ah, any excursion can be dogged by unforeseen bad luck.” He cleared his throat self-consciously. “This time you will encounter no oceans to cross, no morose moors to traverse. Merely shallow tropical lakes and lagoons, such as the one on which Quasequa itself is constructed. A land of moderate temperatures and quiet beauty. A veritable paradise compared to these cold Bellwoods. Oftens the time I’ve thought of traveling there with an eye toward retiring in such a place.”

  “You’ll never retire. You like your reputation too much.”

  “No, I mean it, my boy. Someday I will consider it seriously. Perhaps when I turn three hundred.”

  “When you hit three hundred I hope I won’t be around to see it.”

  “Yes, your unquenchable desire to return home. Perhaps this Markus the Ineluctable will turn out to be helpful.”

  “You’re just trying to make me feel better about going off without you, but you’re right. I’d go anywhere, under any conditions, if I thought there was a chance I could get a little closer to home.”

  “And what of Oplode’s concerns?”

  “Maybe he exaggerates, just like you say. If this Markus is from my own world, I’m sure that if the two of us can get together and chat for a while, he’ll be as happy to see me as I will be to see him, and we can work something out.”

  “And if he’s not of your world, and Oplode does not exaggerate?”

&
nbsp; Jon-Tom took a deep breath. “In that case, I’ve got my duar. If it comes to a battle of sorceral skills, I think I can handle anything.” Except my own mistakes, he added silently to himself.

  “Good for you, my boy! That’s the spirit! Maintain that attitude and I’m sure you’ll have things in Quasequa sorted out in no time.”

  Jon-Tom looked uncertain. “There is one drawback. I can’t make a journey like that all by myself. Oh, I understand if you don’t feel up to coming along or don’t feel it’s necessary, or whatever. But I won’t risk a trip like this all by my lonesome. I know that flier wouldn’t have guided me. Not his job, and fliers get bored having to hang back with us land-bound types. That much I’ve learned. What about making use of public transportation systems along the way?”

  “A good thought, except that there aren’t any, my boy. There is no commerce between the Bellwoods towns and Quasequa. All trade from Lynchbany and Timswitty and the like goes to the Glittergeist Sea or Polastrindu.”

  “Then I’d like to have an old buddy accompany me.”

  Clothahump shook his head sadly. “I wonder that your choice of company does not otherwise mirror your normal good taste.”

  “I just feel comfortable with Mudge around. He’s clever with words, knows the customs and ins and outs, is good with weapons, and is reasonably trustworthy so long as I keep an eye on him round the clock and don’t let him get his paws on the expense money.”

  Clothahump shrugged beneath his shell. “It’s your neck, my boy. You choose your own companions.”

  Jon-Tom frowned. “The only problem is, I haven’t the slightest idea where he’s to be found. Last time I had to track him all the way up to Timswitty. Since Quasequa lies in the other direction, I’d lose a lot of time if I had to hunt through the Bellwoods in search of him.” He finished on a hopeful note.

  “I agree. And don’t give me that innocent-apprentice look. It doesn’t have the slightest effect on me. However, if you will insist on having him with you…”

  “I wouldn’t insist,” Jon-Tom said quickly. “It would just make me a lot more confident about the whole business.”

  “Very well, very well. I will see what I can do. I will attempt to locate him and explain that he is wanted here.

  “As for yourself, you’d best begin preparing for the journey. Fill your backpack with care, make certain you have ample spare strings for your duar, and try to get a good night’s sleep. I will be able to discuss this matter of your ‘friend’ with more certainty tomorrow morning.”

  “How long do you think it will take for you to locate him and give him the message?”

  “We will just have to wait and see, my boy. We will have to wait and see.”

  Jon-Tom arose the next morning still excited by the prospect of meeting someone else from home, someone who might be able to help him get back where he belonged. It wasn’t that Clothahump hadn’t been good to him. In his own distinctive, demanding fashion, the wizard had gone out of his way to make the displaced human feel welcome.

  Nor had his sojourn in this land been uneventful. Quite the contrary. But he was more than ready to return to the calm, familiar life of an anxiety-ridden pre-law student in Westwood, CA.

  He washed his hands and face in the wooden basin that grew from one of the tree’s inner walls, wondering not for the first time what kind of intricate magical spell could provide indoor plumbing within the dimensionally expanded trunk of an oak. After drying himself and dressing carefully, he went through the contents of his backpack.

  It held jerked meat, dried fruit and nuts, a selection of medicinal herbs and potions, a small metal box holding the few Band-Aids and pills he’d had on his person when he’d been sucked into this world, a change of underclothing, and a small assortment of toiletry items and personal effects. Packed to bursting, it was heavier than it had been when he’d set out on a previous journey to distant Snarken. On that trip Clothahump had informed him he would encounter towns and villages in which to purchase food and other necessities. The land between here and Quasequa, however benign, was apparently a good deal less urbanized.

  That meant living more off the land. Well, he’d always enjoyed camping out, and if Clothahump’s description of the country south of the river Tailaroam was accurate, it should be a relaxing experience.

  First breakfast, then he’d ask if the wizard had succeeded in locating Mudge. Probably he’d have to meet the otter somewhere. A couple of quick hellos, and off they’d go, traveling at a brisk but unhurried pace southward, enjoying the clear weather while reminiscing about—

  A terrible scream split this image and pushed everything else into the background. It pierced the thick walls of living wood, was followed by a second and third. Each howl was more horrible than its predecessor. Jon-Tom’s skin prickled.

  His first thought was that Markus the Ineluctable was everything Oplode feared and more, and that he’d somehow tracked the course of Pandro the raven and had sent his faceless demons to do away with any potential allies the flier might have made contact with. Jon-Tom grabbed his ramwood staff and rushed for the next rooms.

  He flicked the concealed switch in the wooden shaft, and six inches of sharp steel emerged from the base of the staff. If only he wasn’t too late and whatever had entered the tree hadn’t gotten ahold of Clothahump! The screams continued, but their intensity had fallen somewhat. They seemed to be coming from the vicinity of the kitchen. He turned down a narrow hall, keeping his head low, and bounced off a wall, then skidded to a halt just inside the dining area.

  Clothahump sat in his reinforced chair next to the table that grew out of the floor. He was spooning ground fish and water plant from a steaming bowl. A tall glass of murky, aged pond water stood nearby. Heat rose from the iron cookstove where Sorbl labored diligently over two bubbling pots and baking bread. As he watched, the owl dropped from the perch welded to the front of the stove, slid a couple of fried mice out of the oven and slipped them between slices of fresh bread, and began to munch on his own breakfast. The bread smelled delicious.

  At the moment, though, his thoughts were not on food. Instead, he stared openmouthed at the construction which had appeared in the middle of the floor.

  It was a cage, and not a very elegant cage at that. Six feet tall and three or four square, it seemed to hover in midair a foot or so above the kitchen tiles. It had six sides instead of four. Instead of bars, thin threads connected top and bottom. They did not ripple in the heat of the room. They did not move at all.

  Not even when the berserk, spitting, squalling creature caged within chose to bang against them with its body. It bounced off as if the threads were fashioned of inch-thick steel. It used its shoulders because its arms were tied to its sides. In fact, the occupant of the cage wore a mummylike cylinder of heavy rope that encased him from ankle to neck.

  “Good morning, my boy,” said Clothahump cheerily, as though nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. “Have some breakfast?”

  “In a minute.” Jon-Tom put his staff aside. He moved into the kitchen and walked slowly around the hovering cage, never taking his eyes from it. With a finger, he tested one of the threads. It refused to move no matter how hard he pushed or pulled on it. He had to pull away fast because the bound creature inside tried to bite off his finger. Sharp teeth just managed to nick his skin. He sucked on the thin cut.

  “I’m sorry, Mudge,” he said, “but I didn’t have anything to do with this.”

  “Oi now, didn’t you, you stretched-out offspring of an otherworldly bitch? You slippery sliver-tongued bastard. Of course you didn’t ’ave nothin’ to do with it, you and that calcified lump of solid bone wot calls ’imself a sorcerer.”

  Clothahump ignored this tirade and continued to slurp daintily at his meal.

  “Don’t give me that crap, mate! You and ’im ’ave always been in league with one another against me. Don’t try to deny it! ’Tis been that way all along.”

  Jon-Tom continued to suck on the finge
r his friend had attempted to amputate, spoke quietly. “He was just supposed to find you and send you a message.” He turned to face the wizard. “You were just supposed to send him a message.”

  Clothahump considered, the spoon halfway to his mouth. “I did send a message, my boy, and you were correct in your concerns. He was quite a distance away, in a town near Kreshfarm-in-the-Geegs.”

  “It weren’t far enough!” Mudge howled. He tried to sit down, but the enveloping ropes prevented the maneuver, and he had to settle for leaning up against the threads. “Seems it’ll never be far enough to get me away from you two arseholes! It won’t stop me from tryin’, though. I’ll never stop tryin’!” He glared accusingly at Jon-Tom.

  “Why, mate? I thought after that little sea voyage I ’elped you out with we were even up.”

  Jon-Tom found himself unable to meet the otter’s gaze. “We were … as far as that particular trip was concerned. Unfortunately, something new has come up.” He tried to smile. “You know how highly I value your company and assistance.”

  “And you want good old ’appy-go-lucky Mudge along to ’old your bleedin’ ’and, right? Or maybe to push you along in your pram?”

  When Jon-Tom didn’t reply, the otter turned his attention back to the kitchen table. “Untie me, you disgustin’ ball of reptilian corruption, or when I get out of ’ere, I swears I’ll shove you in on yourself and cement up all the openin’s!”

  “Now, now.” Clothahump dabbed delicately at his mouth with a linen napkin. “Let us remember who we are talking to.”

  “Oh, I know who I’m talkin’ to, all right. The world’s master meddler. I don’t care anymore, you see? So I can say wotever I want. Turn me into a snake, turn me into a worm, even turn me into a bloody ’uman. See if I care. Because you’ve gone too far this time, the two of you, and I’ve ’ad it! I’m not goin’ anywhere.” He nodded in Jon-Tom’s direction. “Especially not with ’im. Not across any oceans, not into any fights, not to the local market to buy chestnuts. Nowhere, nohow, no way!”