Spellsinger: A Spellsinger Adventure (Book One)

by Alan Dean Foster

  He shook his head dolefully. “Why a primate as attracteeve as yourseelf would eendulge een such neefarious doings ees more than I can fathom, Taleea.”

  She moved back from the table. “You fix them up, and let me take care of me.”

  Several minutes passed and the examination continued. “Thee Counceelman weel bee fine. Hee has onlee a mild concussion and minor cuts and bruises. I know. I weel make arrangements to have heem deeposited on hees front doorstep by a couple off rats I know who weel do that sort off work weethout letting cureeosity get een their way.” He turned his gaze on the squirrelquette, long fingers moving carefully through her hair.

  “Theese one ees not as good. There ees a chance off a skull fracture.” He looked up at Talea. “That means posseeble eenternal eenjuries.” The subject of the examination moaned softly.

  “She seems lively enough,” Talea commented.

  “Appeerances can deeceive, eespecially weeth head eenjuriees.” He was applying disinfectant and then bandaging to the wound. The bandage promptly began to show a dark stain. “I’ll just have to watch her carefullee. Do you by any chance know her?” Talea shook her head.

  “Neither do I. The Counceelman’s lady for thee evening. Probably lady off thee eevening, too. Shee’ll bee angry when shee regains consciousness, but no dangeer. I’ll see to that, too.”

  “Good.” Talea started for the exit, hesitated, put a hand on the orang’s broad shoulder. “Thanks, Nilanthos. You’ve more than canceled out our debt. Now I owe you. Call on me if you need my services.”

  The physician replied with a wide simian leer.

  “Professionally, I mean.” The leer broadened. “You are impossible, Nilanthos!” She feigned a swing at him.

  “Do not strike thee doctor while hee ees een thee process off performing hees heeling duties.”

  “That’s a laugh! But I still owe you.”

  “Honor among theeves, ees that eet?” He looked seriously down at the squirrelquette and the now badly stained bandage wrapped around her skull. “Veree weel. For now eet’s best eef you all geet out off heer.” He said it while staring at Mudge.

  The otter nodded, moved away from the slipcatch-latched drug-and-narcotics case where he’d been idling the past several minutes.

  “What’s the hurry?” Jon-Tom wanted to know.

  Mudge put a hand on his arm, pulled him along. “Be you daft, mate? We’ve got t’ get out o’ town.”

  “But I don’t … I thought …” He barely remembered to duck as they exited the surgery. “If Doctor Nilanthos is going to take care of things as he said, why do we have to run?”

  “Cor, he can take away the worries as far as those two in there be concerned, but someone else might ’ave seen us. They might even now be reportin’ us t’ the police. Your size makes us too conspicuous, lad. We ’ave t’ leave, especially after that fight in the Pearl Possum.”

  “But I still don’t see …”

  “Not now, mate.” Mudge was insistent. They were out in the dark street again.

  “Come on, Jon-Tom,” said Talea. “Don’t make trouble.”

  He halted, stared open-mouthed at her. “Me make trouble? I’ve been the innocent victim of trouble ever since I set foot in this stinking, lousy excuse for a world.”

  “Easy now, mate.” Mudge looked sideways at him. “Don’t be sayin’ somethin’ you may be sorry for later.”

  Jon-Tom’s carefully constructed calm had lasted about ten minutes. His voice rose unreasonably, echoing in the mist. “I don’t regret anything I have to say!” Talea was looking back toward town, clearly upset. “I want to see some of the goodness, the kindness that this world should have.”

  “Should ’ave?” Mudge looked confused. “By who’s determination?”

  “By the …” His voice trailed off. What could he say? By rights of legend. What legend? By logic? Mudge was right.

  “Oh, never mind.” The anger and frustration which had flared inside faded quickly. “So we’re fugitives. So I make us conspicuous. That’s the way it is.” He nodded at nothing in particular. “Let’s get going, then.”

  He vaulted into the back of the wagon. Mudge climbed into the front seat, caught Talea’s questioning glance, and could only shrug blankly. She hefted the reins and let out a vibrant whistle. The somnolent lizards came awake, leaned forward into their reins. The wagon resumed its steady forward motion, the thick feet of its team sounding like sacks of flour landing on the damp pavement.

  Jon-Tom noted that they were headed out of town, as Mudge had insisted they must. Houses decorated with little gardens slipped past. No lights showed in their windows at this stygian hour.

  They passed the last street lamp. Here the road turned from cobblestone to gravel. Even that gave way to a muddy track only a little while later. All light had vanished behind them.

  It was deep night of early morning now. The mist continued to dog them, keeping them wet and chilled. Never is the winter so cloying as at night.

  Among the occupants of the wagon only Jon-Tom had a lingering concern for the greater night that threatened to do more to the world than chill it. Talea and Mudge are creatures of the moment, he thought. They cannot grasp the significance of Clothahump’s visions. He huddled deeper under the gray blanket, ignoring the persistent aroma of the squirrelquette’s perfume. It clashed with the smell of dried blood.

  Thunder crossed the sky overhead, oral signatory to the last distant vestiges of the night storm. It helped them bid farewell to Lynchbany. He was not sorry to leave.

  Soon they were in the woods. Oaks and elms showed familiar silhouettes against the more melodious boles of belltree and coronet vine. The latter generated an oboesque sob as if pleading for the advent of day and the refreshing heat of the sun.

  For hours they plodded steadily on. The road wound like a stream around the hills, taking advantage of the lowest route, never cresting more than an occasional rise. Small lakes and ponds sometimes flanked the trail. They were inhabited by a vast assortment of aquatic lizards who meeped and gibbered in place of frogs. Each glowed a different color, some green, others red or pink, still others a rich azure. Each bubble of sound was accompanied by an increase in light. The ponds were full of chirping searchlights that drifted from branch to bank.

  Jon-Tom watched the water and its luminescent reptilians fade behind them. The ponds became a brook which ran fast and friendly alongside the rutted wagon track. Unlike the other travelers it was indifferent to who might overhear its conversation, and it gurgled merrily while teasing their wheels.

  Resignation gave way once more to his natural curiosity.

  “Well, we’re long out of town.” He spoke to Talea. “Where are we going?” Rising to his knees he reached out a hand to steady himself in the jouncing wagon. It gave an unexpected lurch to the right, and he caught her side instead of the back of the seat. Hastily he moved his fingers, but she had neither moved away nor protested.

  “Somewhere where we can’t be trapped,” she replied. “For God knows even a blithering Lynchbany cop could piss and track the ruts of this wagon at the same time. Like any other creature we retreat to a lair and we don’t fight unless we’re cornered. And where we’re going not even the police will dare come.”

  “I ain’t sure I’d agree to that.” Mudge sounded more hopeful than assured. “’Tis more of an uneasy truce.”

  “Nonetheless,” she countered, “we’re far more likely to be safe there than anyplace else.” Jon-Tom still gazed questioningly at her.

  “We’re going to the local branch of the intracounty association of disadvantaged self-employed artisans and underachievers,” she explained.

  “Thieves’ Hall,” Mudge grunted… .

  VIII

  THEY SPENT THE REST of the night curled beneath the thick blanket in the back of the wagon. Mudge and Talea were soon as motionless as her former victims, but Jon-Tom was too keyed up to sleep. Talea was silent as a stone, but a steady snoring in the form of a high-pi
tched whistle came from the gray-clad lump that was Mudge.

  Jon-Tom lay on his back and studied the night sky, framed by the overhanging branches of the trees. Some of the constellations overhead were familiar, though out of place. Location as well as season was different here. It was a great comfort, however, to see the easily recognizable shape of Orion standing stalwart as ever against the interstellar vastness.

  Once something with ghostly gray fluorescent wings passed between him and the moon, a delicate crinoid shape that might have been a reptile, or bird, or something unimaginable. It trailed thin yellow streamers behind it, and for an instant it glittered in the sky.

  Then it was gone behind the trees. A low hiccoughing came from some concealed arboreal thing.

  Tiny feet sounded like twigs on the road. Their owner paused to sniff at the wagon wheels before skittering onward. Sycamores and gingkos conversed in low philosophical wood-tones. They lulled him finally into a deep, dreamless sleep… .

  He awoke to a welcome sun filtering down through the leaves and a weight on his left shoulder. Turning his head, he saw Talea snuggled up against him. She was sleeping on her side, resting on his shoulder, one arm thrown limply across his chest. He had mixed feelings about disturbing the sculpture.

  However … they had a destination. He moved a little. Her eyes fluttered, body stirred. She blinked, simultaneously taking note of both him and proximity. As she pulled away, she rubbed sleep from her eyes.

  “Easy night,” she murmured thickly, “though I’ve had softer beds.”

  “Me too.” To his surprise he saw that Mudge was already wide awake. He had no idea how long the otter had lain there watching them.

  “Best we be on about our business,” the otter said brightly. “The Lynchbany lockups ain’t particularly persistent, but if it was a slow night a few ambitious types might’ve elected to come follow.” He stood up, gestured back down the road.

  “Personally I think we’re well clear of ’em, but you never can be sure.”

  “Right.” She was climbing into the driver’s seat. “Best never to take chances with a skunk.”

  Shortly they were trundling once more down a road that had become hardly more than a trail. They’d turned off, he noted, on a branch that was almost devoid of wagon ruts. Their absence was compensated for by large rocks that did nothing to help his kidneys.

  They paused later for a Spartan breakfast of bread, jerky, and a kind of dried fruit that resembled lime but tasted much better. Then off again.

  It was noon when Talea indicated they’d arrived. Jon-Tom peered ahead between her and the otter. “I don’t see anything.”

  “What did you think?” she asked archly. “That a place like the local branch of the intracounty … a place like Thieves’ Hall would announce itself with flying banners and a brass band?”

  They turned down a still narrower path and penetrated as deeply into the dense woods as trees would allow. After a half-mile walk they came to a crude corral filled with an astonishing assortment of reptilian mounts. Several hundred yards off to the right of this open-air stable Talea located a metal doorway. It lay half hidden beneath the roots of several massive oaks and was set directly into the rock face of a low-browed cliff.

  She rapped hard on the metal three times with her open palm, waited, then repeated the knock.

  Presently a small window opened in the top of the door. No face showed itself. It was easy enough for whoever was within to see outside without placing an eye invitingly near a possible knife thrust.

  “Succor and surcease, comfort and respite to those who know how to live,” said a voice from within.

  “T’ practice usury without interference,” Mudge responded promptly. “T’ get one’s fair share. T’ never givin’ a sucker an even break.”

  There was a pause and then the door swung outward on rusty hinges. Talea entered first, followed by Mudge. Jon-Tom had to bend almost double to clear the ceiling.

  Inside they confronted a muscular otter a couple of inches taller than Mudge. He inspected them cautiously, reserving particular attention for Jon-Tom.

  “That one I don’t know.”

  “’E’s a friend.” Mudge smiled as he spoke. “An acquaintance from a far province, wot?” He did not elaborate on that, nor did he mention Clothahump.

  The other otter blew his nose on the floor and turned perfunctorily away. They followed. Before long they passed a series of interlocking tunnels. These all seemed to devolve into a much larger central cavern. It was filled with a noisy, raunchy, squalling crowd that made the patrons of the Pearl Possum look like nursery schoolers their first day away from home.

  There was enough sharpened steel in that one room to fight a small war. A fair amount of dried blood on the stone floor showed that those instruments were frequently in use. In the enclosed area the noise was close to deafening. Not to mention the odor. He’d almost come to ignore the animal smells, but in that tight, poorly ventilated chamber, populated as it was by a less than usually hygienic assembly, it was overpowering.

  “What do we do now?”

  “First we find the president of the local chapter,” Talea explained, “and pay our protection money. That allows us to stay here. Then we find a piece of unoccupied tunnel. There are hundreds of them honeycombing this hillside. We set up temporary housekeeping and lie low until the councilman has a chance to forget what happened to him.

  “Of course, he may buy Nilanthos’ explanation, but I wouldn’t put it past his type to check out any citizen’s reports for that night. That’s where we could have trouble, remember. We’ll wait here a couple of weeks until it all turns to memory-mush. Then we can safely leave.”

  As his look of distress, Mudge said, “Don’t look so ill, mate. Crikey, ’tis only for a couple o’ weeks.” He grinned. “Lynchbany cops ’ave mem’ries as brief as their courage. But it do behoove us t’ stay out o’ sight o’ casual travelers for a while. None save the completely daft are likely t’ come within leagues o’ this spot.”

  Jon-Tom focused on well-used swords and knives. “I can’t imagine why not,” he said drily, trying to hold his breath.

  As it turned out they did not utilize Thieves’ Hall for two weeks. It was less than a day before Jon-Tom made his mistake. It didn’t seem like a mistake at the time, and afterward he was too confused to be sorry.

  There was a game. It was common in Lynchbany and well known among those who preyed upon the townsfolk. It involved the use of triangular dice and a circle. There were no hidden complexities.

  A good student like Jon-Tom had no trouble picking it up, after a few hours of careful study. He was still a mite hesitant about actually participating, but Talea was off somewhere chatting with friends and Mudge had simply disappeared. Left on his own and mentally exhausted, he was both bored and irritable. A little game playing would be good for him.

  Clothahump’s purse still contained a few tiny copperpieces, the remnants of the Mudge-directed spending spree that had enriched several of Lynchbany’s merchants. Cutting an impressive figure in his flashing green cape, Jon-Tom leaned on his club-staff and studied one of the several continuous games before finally deciding to join.

  The particular game he’d selected seemed to be the largest. With the greater number of participants he would have more opportunities between throws to study the play. No one objected to or commented on his joining. It was simply a matter of taking the place of a distraught lynx when the latter ran out of money and dropped out.

  Through no particular skill (the fickleness of dice being everywhere constant) he did quite well. Dutifully, he concentrated on doing still better. So intent on the game did he become mat he failed to notice that he was drawing something of a crowd of onlookers.

  Players angrily left and were replaced by eager newcomers, full of fresh spirit and fresh cash. There were always nine or ten throwers seated or squatting around the circle.

  The rock was cold against his backside, even through the leat
her pants. Not quite as chilled were the well-traveled coins beginning to stack up in front of him. For the first time in a long while he was not only relaxed but enjoying himself.

  Much to the delight of the crowd, which always pulls for a big winner, he hit two nines in a row. Mutterings of magic came from a few of the other players. They remained mere mutterings. An aged bat named Swal hung himself from the overhead lamps. From there he could watch all the players. His opinion was well respected, Jon-Tom could tell, and his knowledge of magic extensive though he was no wizard himself. Very poor basketball players can make very fine coaches. Swal had a detailed knowledge of magic though he couldn’t work any himself.

  Nevertheless, one of the other players tried to turn the tide in his own favor, attempting to magic the dice before his turn to throw came up. Neither Jon-Tom nor any of the other players or onlookers caught the unnatural vibration, but the outraged Swal noticed it immediately.

  “He muttered it softly, but I tasted the end of it,” Swal explained to the crowd.

  At that point Jon-Tom had a sampling of thieves’ justice in a world where normal justice was not known for its temperance. A group of angry spectators hauled the screaming, protesting gopher out of sight. This was followed by a brief pause, then a single nerve-twisting screech. Wiping their paws and looking grimly satisfied, the vigilantes soon returned.

  Another member of the game was throwing, and Jon-Tom had time to turn and ask an onlooker what had happened.

  The tall rabbit leaned low on his shoulder. “Swal say that one mutter it softly. You no cheat in Thieves’ Hall. Like cheat you brother, you know? I expect they make punishment fit the crime.” Jon-Tom continued to stare questioningly up at the other.

  The rabbit shrugged. “Since he whisper the formula, others probably cut out his tongue. If he done divinations with his hands, they would have cut them off. Same for eye, and so on.”