Spellsinger: A Spellsinger Adventure (Book One)

by Alan Dean Foster

  “I don’t believe in astrology.” Maybe it was time to change the subject. Continued talk of gneechees was frustrating as well as fruitless.

  “Now who said anything about astrology?” The otter eyed him in puzzlement. “Now meself was born beneath a cobbier’s sign in the riverbank community o’ Rush-the-Rock. ’Ow about you?”

  “I don’t know … oh heck, I guess I was born under the sign of L.A. County General.”

  “Military family, wot?”

  “Never mind.” His tone was resigned, and he was a little worn out from his experiments with his newfound abilities, not to mention the discovery that millions of not quite physical creatures found him attractive. In order to get rid of them it seemed he was going to have to cease worrying so much, relax, and stop being strange.

  He would work on the first two, but he didn’t know if he could do anything about the third.

  He spent an uneasy night. Mudge and Talea slept quietly, save for a single incident involving a muffled curse followed by the sound of a fist striking furry flesh.

  No matter how hard he tried he could not go to sleep. Trying not to think of the gneechees’ presence was akin to not thinking of a certain word. What happened was that one couldn’t think of anything except the forbidden word or, in this case, the gneechees.

  His gaze hunted the dark, always aware of minuscule not-quite-luminescent sparks that darted tantalizingly just out of view. But there are parts of the mind that make their own demands. Without being aware of it, his eyes slowly grew as tired as the rest of his body and he fell into a soft, deep sleep serenaded by the dull cooing of giant walking ferns, night-flying reptiles, and a pool full of harmonizing water bugs who managed a marvelous imitation of what sounded like the journey movement from Prokofiev’s Lieutenant Kije Suite.

  When he woke the next morning, the bright sunlight helped push thoughts of gneechees from his mind. The reciprocal nature of their existence was instantly apparent. The more you searched for them the more of them you attracted. In contrast, the less you cared and the more you accepted their existence as normal, the less they swarmed. With practice it seemed that the honey could will away the bees.

  Before afternoon the tireless riding snake was slithering uphill. They had entered a region of familiar hills and low valleys. Off to the east was something Jon-Tom had not seen on his previous march through this section of the Bellwoods. He and Mudge had not climbed quite this high.

  A distant rampart of mountains ragged and rough as the Grand Tetons lay swathed in high clouds and haze. It stretched unbroken from north to south.

  Mudge had taken a turn at guiding their mount, and Talea had moved in behind him. She turned as she replied to Jon-Tom’s question.

  “Those? Zaryt’s Teeth.” She was gesturing across the treetops as they began to descend again into concealing forest. “That great massif there just to the north is Brokenbone Peak, which holds up this part of the world and whose slopes are littered with the dead bones of would-be climbers.”

  “What’s on the other side?”

  There was a tremor in her reply and, startlingly for the redoubtable Talea, a hint of fear. “The Greendowns, where reside the Plated Folk.”

  “I’ve heard of them.” Childishly, he pounced on the rare hint of weakness. “You sound scared of them.”

  She made a face, brows narrowing, and idly shook aside red hair, ran a hand through the glowing curls. “Jon-Tom,” she said seriously, “you seem to me to be a brave if occasionally foolish man, but you know nothing of the Plated Folk. Do not dismiss so lightly that which you are unfamiliar with.

  “Your words do not insult me because I am not afraid to confess my fear. Also, I know that you speak from ignorance, or you would not say such things. So I am not upset.”

  “I might say such things even if I knew.” He was properly abashed. But now he stared at her openly.

  “Why are you doing that?” Green eyes stared curiously at him.

  “Because I want to upset you.”

  “I don’t understand, Jon-Tom.”

  “Look, you’ve been taunting me, chiding me, and generally making fun of me ever since we met. I wanted to strike back at you. Not that I’ve given you much reason to think better of me. I’ve probably given you more ammunition than you need. The trouble I caused back at Thieves’ Hall is a good example. I’m sorry about things like that, but I can only learn by experience, and if some of those experiences don’t work out very well there’s not a whole hell of a lot I can do about it.

  “I mean you no harm, Talea. I’d like to be more than just allies. I want to be friends. If that’s going to come about then I need a little more understanding and a lot less sarcasm from you. How about it?”

  He relaxed in his saddle, more than a little surprised at his lengthy speech.

  Talea just stared at him while the snake slid down into a meadow alive with green and pink glass butterflies and sunflowers blinking their cyclopean amber eyes.

  “I thought we were already friends, Jon-Tom. If I seem to have been brusque with you it was from frustration and impatience, not from dislike.”

  “Then you do like me?” He couldn’t repress a hopeful grin.

  She almost smiled back. “If you prove as quick with your newfound magic as you are with your words, then we will be safe indeed.” She turned away, and as she did so he caught a glimpse of an expression midway between amusement and genuine interest. He couldn’t be certain it reflected either, for Talea’s true feelings could be as not-there as the gneechees.

  So he said nothing further, let the brief exchange pass. It was enough that he now felt better about their relationship, even if it was no more than an assurance she was not openly hostile to him. At the same time he discovered a surefire way for pushing thoughts of the gneechees completely from his mind. All he had to do was concentrate on the gentle, subtle rolling action of Talea’s derrière on the smoothly undulating snake-saddle… .

  Another day done. Another day of roots, nuts, berries, and the reptilian meat which proved considerably tenderer and sweeter than he had any right to expect. Skillful hunter and braggart that Mudge was, they now had lizard venison or snake fillet at every meal.

  Another day done and a familiar glade came into view. The massive, ancient oak in its center seemed not to have shed a single leaf since last he saw it.

  They dismounted tiredly. Talea secured the riding snake so that it could move around in a modest circle. It would not do, she explained, simply to turn it out to hunt, since without constant attention a L’borean riding snake could revert rapidly to the wild.

  “Shit, you back again?” griped the black-winged shape that opened the Tree door. “You’re either not very bright, man, or else just downright dumb.” He looked appreciatively past Mudge and Jon-Tom. “Now who’s dat? Nice lookin’ dame.”

  “My name is Talea. And that’s enough for you, slave.”

  “Slave? Who’s a slave? I’ll show ya who’s a slave!”

  “Easy now, Pog old chap.” Mudge had moved forward to block the bat’s egress by waving short arms. “She’s a friend, even if her tongue be a bit tart at times. Just tell Clothahump that we’re back.” He cast a cautioning glance at Jon-Tom. “We’ve ’ad some bad luck, we ’ave, that’s necessitated us returnin’ a mite early.”

  “Bet you did,” said the bat expectantly, “or ya wouldn’t be here now. I bet ya fouled up real good. It gonna be interesting ta see the old bugger turn ya into a human.” His gaze dropped. “You’ll make a funnier lookin’ one than normal, wid dose legs.”

  “Now is that any way t’ greet a friend, Pog? Don’t say such ’orrible things or you’ll ’ave me befoulin’ me pants and embarrassin’ meself in front o’ the lady. We did nothin’ we couldn’t avoid. Isn’t that the truth, lad?” He looked concernedly back at Jon-Tom.

  It took a moment of internal wrestling to go along with the statement. Maybe Mudge was something less than the most altruistic of teachers, but he’d tried. T
he otter was the closest thing he had in this world to a real friend, barring development of his relationship with Talea. Though he had to admit honestly to himself that if things ever got really tough he was not sure he could depend on the otter, and certainly not on Talea.

  However, there was no point in detailing any of those feelings to Pog. “Yeah. We had a rough time of it in Lynchbany. And we have other reasons for coming back to see His Wizardness.”

  “Well, all right. Come on in. Damn fools … I suppose your presence will make more work for me again.” He flapped on ahead, grumbling steadily in his usual broken-engine tone.

  Jon-Tom stayed a step back of Mudge and the bat. “Be careful about what you say, Talea. This Clothahump’s the one who brought me here, remember. He’s a very powerful wizard and although I found him to be concerned and even kindly, he’s obsessed with this crisis he dreams about, and I’ve seen him come near to frying that bat.”

  “Don’t worry,” she replied with a tight smile. “I know who he is, and what he is. He’s a borderline senile who ought to have enough sense to retract into his shell and stay there. Do you think I’m an ignorant country sodder? I follow current rumors and talemongerings. I know who’s in power and who’s doing what, and to whom. That’s how I know he’s responsible for the mess he’s made of your life, Jon-Tom.” She frowned at him.

  “You’re the weirdest sorcerer I’ve ever encountered or heard tell of, except maybe for this Clothahump. In that respect it’s a good match, and I can see how in his searching he seized on you.” The comparison startled Jon-Tom. He hadn’t considered that he and the turtle might have personal affinities, or that they might be responsible for his presence here.

  “That’s okay,” he replied readily, “You’re the most interesting mugger I’ve ever run into.”

  “Better not do it on a dark street or you’re liable to find out just how interesting I am,” she said warningly.

  “Really? I’ve never done it on a dark street, and I would like to find out how interesting you are.”

  She started to snap out a reply, looked uncertain, and then accelerated. “Oh, come on.” There was exasperation in her voice and just possibly something else. “You’re a funny one, Jon-Tom, I’m never quite sure about you.”

  And you, he thought as he watched her hurry on ahead of him, are maybe not as hopeless as I once thought.

  It was quite astonishing, he thought as he followed her, how the sight of a beautiful figure teasingly wrapped in snug clothes could shove aside all worries about such picayune matters as survival. Base animal nature, he mused.

  But if he was going to survive in this world, he would have to revert to basics. Wasn’t that just what Clothahump and, in different ways, Mudge had both told him? Maybe by keeping his thoughts focused on those basics he could keep a firmer grip on his sanity.

  All assuming that Talea didn’t change her mind as fast as she seemed able to and didn’t decide to shove a sword through his belly. That thought cooled his ardor, if not his long-term interest.

  Slowing, he found himself standing close to her in the central chamber of the tree. Her perfume was in his nose, her presence a constant comfort in alien surroundings. Yes, they would have to remain friends, if naught else. She was too familiar, too human for him to abandon that.

  Pog directed them out of the central room and into a work area he and Mudge hadn’t visited before. The bat hovered nearby while all four watched in silence as the wizard Clothahump fumbled awkwardly among bottles and vials.

  Thoroughly engrossed in his work, the wizard failed to notice his visitors. After a proper pause, Pog fluttered forward and said deferentially, “Pardon da intrusion, Master, but dey have returned.”

  “Um … what? Who’s returned?” He looked around and his gaze fell on Jon-Tom. “Oh yes, you. I remember you, boy.”

  “Not too well, it seems.” It was something less than the exuberant welcome he’d hoped for.

  “I have a lot on my mind, boy.” He slid off the low bench and sought out the gray figure of Mudge, who was partly hidden behind Jon-Tom. “Back early, I see. Well, you lazy, foul-mouthed, slanderous mammal, what have you to say for yourself? Or is this merely a courteous visit and I should assume you’ve encountered no troubles?” The last sentence was spoken with false sweetness.

  “’Tis not like you’re thinkin’ at all, Your Worshipfulness,” the otter insisted. “I was showin’ the lad the ways o’ Lynchbany and we ran into some unforeseen problems, we did. They weren’t no more my fault than they was ’is,” and he jerked a short thumb in Jon-Tom’s direction.

  Clothahump looked up at the tall young man. “Is what he says true, boy? That he’s done his best and taken good care of you? Or is he the outright liar he looks?”

  “Wot a thing to say,” muttered Mudge, but not too loudly.

  “It’s hard to lay responsibility for what we’ve been through lately at anyone’s feet, sir.” He was aware of black otter eyes hard on his back. “On the one hand, it certainly seems as though I … as though we’ve been the victims of a really unlikely sequence of unfortunate happenings. On the other… .”

  “No, mate,” interrupted Mudge hurriedly, “there be no need t’ go into such silliness now.” He looked back to the wizard. “I did me best for the lad, Your Highestness. Why, I venture t’ say nary a stranger’s ’ad quite such fullness o’ experience o’ local customs as ’e ’as in these past several days.”

  Jon-Tom kept his expression carefully neutral. “I certainly can’t argue with that, sir.”

  Clothahump considered while he inspected Jon-Tom. “At least the laggard has clothed you properly.” He took note of the war staff and the duar. Then his attention shifted to the third member of the little group.

  “And who might you be, young lady?”

  She stepped proudly forward. “I am Talea of Wuver County, of the Brightberries that mature at Night, third on my mother’s side, first of red hair and green eyes, and I am afraid of neither man, woman, beast … nor wizard.”

  “Hmph.” Clothahump turned away from her, then suddenly seemed to slump in on himself. Sitting back down on the workbench he leaned his shell against the table. Fingers rubbed tiredly at his forehead as he smiled almost apologetically at his visitors.

  “Pardon my tone, my friends. You especially, Jon-Tom. I forget common courtesy myself these days, as I forget many other things too easily. Responsible as I am for your inconveniencing, I owe you more than a curt interrogation concerning your recent activities. If I seemed brusque it was only out of worry for your welfare. But you see, things are growing worse and not better.”

  “The coming crisis you told us about?” Jon-Tom wondered sympathetically.

  The turtle nodded. “It turns my sleep into a cauldron of black distress. I dream of nothing save darkness and death. Of an ocean of putrification about to drown the worlds.”

  “Ahhh, I don’t see why ya worry yourself so much,” said Pog from a nearby rafter. “You knockin’ yourself out fer noddin’, boss. Everybody else scoffs at ya, taunts ya behind your shell. Ya know some of da names dey call ya? ‘Senile’ is da best o’ them.”

  “I am aware of the local opinion.” Clothahump grinned slightly. “In order for one to be affected by insults, one must have some respect for their source. I’ve told you that before, Pog. The comments of the rabble are of no import, even if they are the rabble one is trying to save. You’ll never make a decent peregrine unless you change your attitude in such matters. Hawks and falcons are a haughty folk. You need to cultivate more mental and social independence.”

  “Yeah, tell me about it,” the bat muttered.

  Jon-Tom was fascinated by the still unspecified threat, despite his own personal problems. “So you haven’t learned anything new about this evil since we left? Or about its source, or when it will come?”

  The wizard shook his head dolefully. “It remains as nebulous in nature, as tenuous of touch as before, boy. Nor am I any nearer concocting a met
hodology to combat it with.”

  Jon-Tom tried to cheer the despondent turtle. “I’ve a surprise for you, Clothahump. It was a surprise to me, also.”

  “What are you riddling me with, boy?”

  “I think I may be able to help after all.” Clothahump looked up at him curiously.

  “Aye, ’tis true, Your Geniusness,” said Mudge excitedly. “Why, ’twas meself who first suggested that …” He broke off, thinking better of the incipient lie. “No. No, dammit, I cannot take any o’ the credit. The lad did it all on ’is own.”

  “Did what on his own?” asked the exasperated wizard.

  “We’d been tryin’ ’ard t’ discover some useful skill for ’im, Your Mastership. ’Is range o’ experience matches ’is youthfulness, so wasn’t much in the way o’ things ’e was practiced at. ’E ’as ’is natural size and reach, and some agility. At first I thought ’e might make a good mercenary. But ’e kept insistin’ ’e wanted t’ be either a lawyer or a musician.” Jon-Tom nodded in confirmation.

  “Well, Your Lordship can imagine wot I thought o’ the first suggestion. Concernin’ ’tother, while the lad’s voice is o’ considerable volume, it leaves somethin’ t’ be desired as far as carryin’ the tune, if you follow me meaning. But ’is musicianship was another matter, sor. ’E ’as real enthusiasm for music … and as it turned out, somethin’ more.

  “We stumbled, literally stumbled we did, across that fine duar you see ’angin’ about ’is neck. And when he got to strummin’ on it, well, the most unbelievable things started a-happenin’! You would not believe it ’ad not you been there yourself. All purple and ’azy it started to shine, and its shape a shakin’, and the sounds, sor.” The otter put his hands melodramatically to his ears.