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

by Alan Dean Foster

  Jon-Tom switched to rubbing his bitten finger. “Ever hear of Quasequa, Mudge?”

  The otter frowned down at him. “Qua wot?”

  “Quasequa. It lies far to the south of the Bellwoods. Exquisite country, a beautiful tropical city built out on a vast lake. The kind of place an otter, it seems to me, would find downright paradisaical.”

  “Charming, friendly inhabitants,” Clothahump added without glancing up from his meal, “who know how to make a stranger feel at home. Especially, I am told, the ladies.”

  Mudge seemed to waver, but only for an instant. Then his determination returned.

  “Oh, no, you ain’t goin’ to smooth-talk me into it again. Not this time. I know ’ow you two operate, I does.” He nodded again toward Jon-Tom. “This one’s ’alf solicitor and ’alf devil. Between the two of you, you could sell ice to polar bears. No, I’ll ’ave none of it this time. Do what you want to me.”

  Jon-Tom approached the cage, his best professional smile fairly lighting up the dim kitchen. He was careful, however, not to get within biting distance of his best friend.

  “Aw, c’mon, Mudge. One more time. For old times’ sake. Be a friend.” The otter didn’t reply, stared stolidly at the far wall.

  “I know you’re upset right now, and I can understand why. I sympathize, really. I meant it when I said I had nothing to do with bringing you here like this. I was going to come out and meet you, but Clothahump decided that it was important to try and save time, I guess, so he brought you here this way without telling me of his plans.”

  “Time. Let me tell you somethin’ about time, mate. Do you ’ave any idea where I was when ’is sorcerership there yanked me out of reality and into nothingness? Do you ’ave any idea what five minutes in Chaos is like?”

  “There are somewhat smoother methods of generating the transition,” Clothahump murmured, “but they take too much time.”

  “Do they now? Time, wot? I’ll tell you about time.” A wistful expression came over his face. “There I was, sittin’ in Shorvan’s Gambling Palace in downtown Toothrust … which is a good place for a gambling chap like meself to be … ’oldin’ twelve of a kind. Twelve of a kind!” He almost broke out sobbing, but managed to restrain himself.

  “And the pot … there was enough gold in that pot, me friends, to set me up for three, four years o’ comfort. So I’m gettin’ ready to make me play, see, because I know wot the score is and that the one chap with a chance to stop me ’as to be bluffin’ because ’e ain’t ’oldin’ diddly-squat in ’is paws. This bum’s a foxie with no moxie, see? I can read ’is bloomin’ whiskers, and I know I’ve got ’im beat, I know I do! So I push in all me chips, a great galumphin’ pile won at great labor and pain, and wot do you think ’appens to me and me twelve of a kind, eh? Wot?” Jon-Tom said nothing.

  “I’m jerked bodily into Unfamiliar Chaos, which ain’t no garden spot, I can tell you, and then Finds meself bound up like a B&D ’oliday gift in this bloody cage so’s that tuft o’ blotchy, moth-eaten feathers over there can tell me that I’ve been summoned hence because you, mate, needs me ’elp on one of your forthcomin’ suicidal excursions.”

  Jon-Tom glared at Clothahump, who appeared not in the least distressed. “You did say, my boy, that you wanted his company on this journey. If anything, I expressed a dissenting opinion.”

  “I said that I wanted his help, his willing help.”

  “Best not to waste time,” the turtle harrumphed, “debating semantics.”

  “If you don’t want to waste time,” Jon-Tom said, “why not send us to Quasequa the same way you brought him here?”

  “It’s not quite that simple, my boy. Bringing and sending are quite different things. The spells are more complex than you can imagine. Bringing takes enough out of you, and I am not at all adept, I confess, at sending. If I were better at either, I’d bring this Markus person here. That would simplify everything, wouldn’t it? Unfortunately, I cannot do that. I was only able to manage this recall because of your strong association with this creature and—”

  “Who’re you callin’ a ‘creature,’ you fat-brained …” Mudge hesitated, latched onto a new thought. “Wait a minim. Who’s this ‘Markus’ you’re talkin’ about?”

  “Someone I have to talk to,” Jon-Tom explained. “In beautiful Quasequa.”

  “Ain’t nowheres as beautiful as a gamin’ room with a big pot o’ gold lyin’ in it waitin’ for the takin’. Twelve of a kind. The draw o’ me life.” He looked back to Clothahump again. “The least you could’ve done, your sorcerership, was to ’ave brung me ’ere first-class instead of economy.”

  “I am not one to indulge in frivolous, unnecessary expense.”

  “Right, guv, and I’m sure you travels steerage every time you transpose, too. At least let me out o’ these blasted ropes!”

  “Yes, I believe I can do that, now that you have calmed down somewhat and decided to act halfway civilized. All that screaming and cursing, tch.” He mumbled something under his breath.

  Nothing happened. “Well,” Mudge asked, “is that it?”

  “Not quite. You have to sneeze.”

  “Oi, I do, do I? Just like that? You think sneezin’ on cue’s as simple as talkin’? As simple as drawin’ to twelve of a kind? Right then!” He inhaled sharply, tickled his nose with a whisker, and blew messily in Jon-Tom’s direction. No question but that his aim was deliberate.

  The ropes turned to dust at his feet. He stood and rubbed his arms to restore the circulation.

  Same old Mudge, Jon-Tom mused, cleaning himself up as he inspected his old friend. The otter boasted a new vest of gray shot through with silver thread together with matching silver-and-black shorts. His new boots were bright metallic blue. The familiar longbow and quiver of arrows were slung across his back. On his head rode the same battered green felt cap. New feather, though.

  “That’s an improvement, guv’nor. Now ’ow about this bloomin’ cage?”

  “What cage?” asked Clothahump with a half smile. “There is nothing barring your path save a few flimsy threads.”

  “Few they may be but flimsy they ain’t. Don’t think I ’aven’t tried.” He pushed out with a hand, casually, and several of the threads snapped. He had to rush to jump clear as the wooden roof started to collapse on top of him. Then he was standing unrestrained on the kitchen floor staring at what up until a moment ago had been an impenetrable prison but was now nothing more than a couple of blocks of wood lightly linked together by a few cloth threads.

  “The only thing worse than a bloody wizard,” he mumbled, “is a bloody wizard who likes to play jokes.”

  “I do not play jokes,” declaimed Clothahump with dignity. “Such mundane exercises in plebeian amusement are beneath my stature.” He coughed lightly. “I do admit to some slight subtle sense of humor, however. At my age you pass up no opportunity for some mild amusement.

  “As for your late lamented twelve of a kind, for that I am sorry. I have reason to believe that the wizard Oplode the Sly, whom you travel to visit, will be willing to reimburse you fully.”

  “Yeah, that’s wot you always say, guv.”

  “In any case, you will surely have the run of lovely, exotic Quasequa, whose climate and virtues the poets extol beyond—”

  “Oh, come off it, guv’nor, I’ve ’eard all this before.” He sniffled once. “Twelve of a kind.” A glance up at Jon-Tom. “You know ’ow long a player waits for a ’and like that, mate?”

  “No, I don’t. I thought the most you could get in a game was four of a kind.”

  Mudge mulled this over. “I can see we’re talkin’ different games ’ere, mate. You wouldn’t understand, then.” He turned to face Clothahump. “Right then; this brotherly dabbler in the back o’ beyond may or may not pay me for me time and trouble, but wot about me own ’ard-earned money I put on the table? Wot about the loss o’ me gamblin’ stake? Or don’t you think you’re responsible for me losin’ that?”

  “I am not res
ponsible for your gambling debts,” said the turtle slowly, “but I agree it would be wrong were you to suffer the loss of your own money on my account.”

  “Well now, that’s more like it.” Mudge looked surprised and somewhat mollified. “You know, guv, if you wouldn’t treat me like an old ’ammer and saw all the time, I might be a mite more inclined to participate willingly in these charmin’ little diversions you and the ’airless one ’ere come up with. Quasequa, wot? Never been there, ’tis true. Wot is it we’re supposed to do there?”

  “Check out a new chief advisor to the local rulers, a newly arrived wizard who calls himself Markus the Ineluctable,” Jon-Tom told him.

  “Sounds straightforward enough to me.” His gaze narrowed and darted back and forth between Jon-Tom and Clothahump. “You’re sure that’s all, now? You two wouldn’t be concealin’ somethin’ from old Mudge, now would you?”

  “Certainly not,” said Clothahump, obviously insulted.

  “Would I do something like that, Mudge?”

  “I don’t like it. You two are too chummy. I feel safer when you’re arguing.” He focused on the turtle. “Wot’s the land like between ’ere and this Quasequa place?”

  “Tropical, friendly, largely uninhabited and unspoiled. I would be coming along myself if my arthritis were not acting up. That, and the fact that this is really a minor business, precludes my accompanying you.”

  “There’s something else.” Jon-Tom put a comradely hand on Mudge’s shoulder. The otter moved out from under it, but at least he didn’t try to bite. “This Markus the Ineluctable claims to have come from another world. If he comes from my world and the two of us strike up a friendship, it’s a chance for me to get home. Maybe for both of us to get home.”

  “Well now, that would be worth the journey, to see the last of you, mate, though I don’t know as ’ow I could stand more than one of you otherworldly twits in the same place at the same time. Nothin’ personal, but if you get back to your ’ome, maybe I can get back to ’aving a normal life o’ me own.”

  “A normal life,” said Clothahump dryly, “rich with thieving, fighting, wenching, and being in a condition verging on permanent inebriation all the time.”

  “Yes, that’s wot I said,” agreed the otter blithely, missing the wizard’s sarcasm entirely.

  Clothahump eyed him sadly. “I fear there is no hope for you, water rat.” He looked suddenly thoughtful. “I was led to believe that the most you could hold in a game of artimum was eleven of a kind.”

  “I thought artimum was a spice,” said Jon-Tom.

  “A spicy game of chance, my boy. Spices are involved as well as dice and cards.” He gave the otter a shrewd look. “You didn’t, by any chance, cardamom your hand?”

  “Oh, wonderful!” Mudge threw up his hands and beseeched the heavens for understanding. “I’m snatched away from the biggest winnings of me short life so’s I can be accused o’ cheatin’ by someone who wasn’t even there.”

  “Did you cardamom your cards?” Clothahump persisted.

  Shaking his head, Mudge turned to Jon-Tom, put a hand around his waist. “Right then, mate. Long as our course ’as been determined, we might as well be on our way. Sooner we gets there the sooner we can start ’ome, right?”

  “Might as well wait another day, since I’ve saved so much time what with Clothahump bringing you straight here. We can leave tomorrow morning.” He was taken aback by the otter’s sudden enthusiasm.

  “Let’s ’ave a chat then, must be a lot you ’ave to tell me, and I’ve plenty to tell you.” He eased Jon-Tom toward the doorway.

  “Twelve of a kind.” Clothahump was rubbing his lower jaw and gazing speculatively after the hurriedly departing otter.

  Mudge made sure to close the door behind him.

  V

  IT WAS RAINING when they departed the following morning. Mudge appeared to have undergone a complete change of heart and was all but pushing Jon-Tom out the door.

  “No reason to wake ’is nibs,” the otter told him, smiling reassuringly. “Let the poor bugger ’ave ’is rest.”

  “Tell me about this game called artimum. I’ve heard of it before but I don’t really know how—”

  “Now don’t you start, mate. Tell you about it when we’re well on our way. Wouldn’t want anyone else to get the wrong idea about old Mudge, would you? Besides, there’s more interestin’ tales I’ve yet to tell you. Did I mention yesterday about the vixen in Tenwattle who … ?”

  The rain slid off Jon-Tom’s waterproof iridescent lizard-skin cape, which he kept well over his head, while Mudge merely placed his felt cap in his pack to protect it. Other than that he ignored the rain, for otters are as comfortable soaking wet as they are bone dry.

  Heavier drops rang some of the bell leaves which gave this country its name, but for the most part the trees were quiet. A tendaria rested on a nearby branch. The blue-and-puce flying amphibian sat with its mouth agape and head back as it collected rainwater in the flexible sac attached to its lower jaw. It would carry the fresh water back to the clay-sealed nest it had made in the trunk of some hollow tree and add it to the growing basin therein. In time the female of the species would lay her eggs in the nest. The young flying amphibians would eventually hatch and mature in the protected pool, remaining there until they were old enough to fly and breathe air.

  “Really, Mudge, don’t you think it’s about time you gave some thought to altering your life-style?”

  “And wot’s wrong with me life-style?”

  “For one thing, you couldn’t exacdy call it productive. You’re a sharp guy, Mudge. Yet you choose to spend your life as a wastrel.”

  “I calls it freedom, mate. And it’s a challenge walkin’ the fine line between the legal and the debatable, leavin’ it to everyone else to guess which side o’ the line you’re on, on any particular day.” He winked broadly. “Of course, the trick o’ such livin’ is to ’ave one foot on each side o’ the line at all times, and to be able to dance back and forth without gettin’ caught on the one side or the other. Never a dull moment.”

  “I know it’s an exciting way to live, but it doesn’t seem to have much of a future to it. I’ll bet you don’t even have enough put aside to pay for a decent funeral.”

  “Funeral? Hell, mate, I know them that spends their ’ole lives worryin’ about ’ow they’re goin’ to be buried. The goal o’ their life is death. ’Ardly seems worth livin’ at all. Might as well slit your throat and miss out on all the worryin’.”

  “Go ahead and make light of it, but there’ll be no one to cry at your funeral. No pallbearers, no mourners. Or do you think your thieving acquaintances will take the trouble to show up?”

  Mudge shrugged. “I don’t worry about it none, but I do know there’ll be at least one there to weep for me passin’.”

  “Yeah, who?”

  “Why, you, mate,” and the otter grinned up at him so infectiously that Jon-Tom had to turn away lest Mudge see his own smile.

  “Maybe, just maybe, but I still think you could do more with your life.”

  “Plannin’ takes all the surprise out o’ life, mate. Me, I’d rather take it as it ’its me, even if it sometimes ’its kind o’ ’ard.”

  They marched on, arguing about life and meanings and directions. Mudge cited chapter and verse from personal experience—always frenetic, often foul, but never dull. Jon-Tom countered with quotes from everyone from B. F. Skinner to Woody Allen. None of his arguments had the slightest impact on the free-living otter.

  They passed the glade where the footprints of M’nemaxa still showed as deep depressions in solid granite; passed through dense, familiar woods; and finally emerged on the banks of the river Tailaroam. Westward the great river tumbled and churned on its way toward the distant Glittergeist Sea, while far off to the east lay the impressive range of mountains known as Zaryt’s Teeth, which gave birth to the Tailaroam’s tributaries.

  Their immediate concern was the broad section of fast-running r
iver directly in front of them. It flowed from east to west, and their course led due south.

  “How do we get across?”

  “As for me, mate,” Mudge told him, “I’d as soon swim it in a couple of minutes. I’d enjoy it more than these past days’ trek.” He glanced around, searching the shoreline. “If we can find a nice dry log, I’ll give you a push across. Wouldn’t want ’is nosyness to think I weren’t takin’ good care o’ you.”

  They hunted for and found a suitable log. Jon-Tom sat astride the fallen tree with his long legs stretched out in front of him, clinging to the otter’s clothing and his own belongings while struggling to balance himself as Mudge pushed out into the river. Fortunately, the otter’s sense of equilibrium was better developed than his own. Every time it looked like he was about to tip over, Mudge adjusted from behind. They arrived on the opposite shore of the Tailaroam without Jon-Tom’s getting his toes wet.

  Mudge climbed onto the sandy bank, shook himself off, and then lay down in the sun until his slick fur was completely dry. As soon as he’d dressed, they started south along a well-trod and easy-to-follow trail.

  Soon they found themselves in the Lower Dugga-kurra Hills, a landscape of rounded boulders worn smooth by the action of wind and rain. Thick brush thrived in pockets of dark soil between the rocks. Already they were starting to leave behind the larger conifers that dominated the expanse of forest called the Bellwoods, and the tall tropical hardwoods of the lake region would not put in an appearance for some time yet.

  Jon-Tom took his time breaking camp the following morning, quenching the embers of their camp-fire and scattering the ashes. Time was important, but he didn’t want to arrive in Quasequa too exhausted to think.

  The trail had grown more and more obscure the deeper they’d penetrated into the rocky terrain, so he wasn’t surprised to see the confused expression on the otter’s face when Mudge returned from scouting the path ahead.

  Or was there more there this morning than just confusion? He rose, kicked the last splinters of smoking wood apart, and brushed dust from his hands.