The Spellsinger Adventures Volume One: Spellsinger, the Hour of the Gate, and the Day of the Dissonance

by Alan Dean Foster

  “Oh, he’s inside, all right,” replied the bird. “Mixing and sorcering as usual. I can tell because there’s a different stink blowing out that mail drop every time I fly in. You wouldn’t happen to have worm on ya, would ya?”

  “Sorry, mate. Crayfish and oysters run more t’ my taste.”

  “Yeah, I know. No harm in asking.” He cocked a hopeful eye at Jon-Tom. “How ’bout you, buddy?”

  “Afraid not.” Anxious to please, he fumbled in his jeans’ pockets. “How about a Juicyfruit?”

  “Thanks, but I’ve had all the berries I can stand for now. I’m up to my ass feathers in berries.” He stared at Jon a moment longer, then bid them a civil good-bye.

  “Always did envy them birds.” Mudge looked envious. “Wings are so much faster than feet.”

  “I think I’d rather have real feet and hands.”

  Mudge grunted. “That’s a point t’ reckon with, guv’nor.” They moved to the doorway. “’Ere goes now. Mind,” he whispered, “you be on your best behavior, Jon-Tom. Old Clothahump’s got the reputation o’ bein’ fair-tempered for a wizard, but they’re a cranky group. Just as soon turn you into a dung beetle as look at you. It ain’t good policy t’ provoke one, ’specially one as powerful and senile as Clothynose ere.

  The otter knocked on the door, nervously repeated it when no reply was forthcoming. Jon-Tom noted the animal’s tenseness, decided that for all his joking and name-calling he was deeply fearful of wizards or anything having to do with them. He twitched and shifted his feet constantly while they waited. It occurred to Jon-Tom that at no time had he actually seen the otter standing motionless. Trying to ignore the pain pounding in his side he struggled to stand straight and presentable.

  In a moment the door would creak inward and he would be standing face to face with what was, at least to Mudge’s mind, a genuine magic-making wizard. It was easy enough to visualize him: six and a half feet tall, he would be garbed in flowing purple robes enscribed with mystic symbols. A bestarred pointy hat would crown the majestic head. His face would be wrinkled and stern—what wasn’t hidden beneath a flowing white beard—and he would very likely be wearing thick glasses.

  The door opened inward. It creaked portentously. “Good morning,” he began, “we…”

  The rest of the carefully rehearsed greeting shattered in his throat as he stumbled backward in panic, tripped, and fell. Something tore in his side and he sensed dampness there. He wondered how much longer he could tolerate the wound without having it properly treated, and if he might die in this falsely cheerful place, as far from home as anyone could be. The monstrosity that had filled the open doorway drifted toward him as he tried to crawl, to scramble away… .

  II

  MUDGE STARED DISGUSTEDLY down at his charge, sounded both angry and embarrassed. “Now wot the bloody ’ell’s the matter with you? It’s only Pog.”

  “P-p-pog?” Jon-Tom was unable to move his eyes from the hovering horror.

  “Clothahump’s famulus, you colossal twit! He …”

  “Never mind,” rumbled the gigantic black bat. “I don’t mind.” His wing tips scraped the jambs as he fluttered back into the portal. Oversized pink ears and four sharp fangs caught the light. His voice was incredibly rough, echoing from a deep gravel mine. “I know I’m not pretty. But I never knocked anyone down because of it.” He flew out now to hover nearer Jon.

  “You’re not very handsome yourself, man.”

  “Go easy on ’im, Pog.” Mudge tried to sound conciliatory. “’E’s been magicked from ’is world into ours, and ’e’s wounded besides.” The otter diplomatically avoided mentioning that he’d been the cause of the injury.

  Jon-Tom struggled unsteadily to his feet. Claret ran from the left leg of his pants, thick and warm.

  “Clothahump been workin’ up any otherworldly invokings?”

  “He is soberer dan usual, if dat’s what you mean.” The bat let loose a derisive snort.

  A rich, throaty voice called from the depths of the tree, an impressive if slightly wavering voice that Jon-Tom instinctively knew belonged to the master sorcerer. “Who’s there, Pog?”

  “Mudge, da otter hunter, Master. And some damaged, dopey-looking human.”

  “Human, you say?” There was an excited edge to the question. “In then, bring them in.”

  “Come on,” ordered Pog curtly. “His nibs’ll see you.” The bat vanished into the tree, wings larger than the robin’s barely clearing the entrance.

  “You all right, mate?” Mudge watched the swaying form of his unwanted companion. “Why’d you ’ave a fit like that? Pog be no uglier than any other bat.”

  “It wasn’t … wasn’t his countenance that upset me. It was his size. Most of the bats where I’m from don’t grow that big.”

  “Pog be about average, I’d say.” Mudge let the thought slide. “Come on, now, and try not to bleed too much on the floor.”

  Refusing the otter’s support, Jon-Tom staggered after him. The hallway was a shock. It was far too long to fit inside the oak, despite its considerable diameter. Then they entered a single chamber at least twenty-five feet high. Bookshelves lined the walls, filled with tomes of evident age and all sizes and bindings. Incense rose from half a dozen burners, though they could not entirely obliterate the nose-nipping miasma which filled the room.

  Scattered among books lay oddly stained pans and bowls, glass vials, jars filled with noisome objects, and other unwholesome paraphernalia. Skulls variously treated and decorated were secured on the walls. To Jon-Tom’s horror, they included a brace that were obviously human.

  Windows offered ingress to topaz light. This colored the high chamber amber and gold and made live things of the dust motes pirouetting in the noxious air. The floor was of wood chips. A few pieces of well-used furniture made of heavy wood and reptile skin dominated the center of the room.

  Two doors ajar led to dimly glimpsed other rooms.

  “This is impossible,” he said to Mudge in a dull whisper. “The whole tree isn’t wide enough to permit this one room, let alone others and the hallway we just came through.”

  “Aye, guv’nor, ’tis a neat trick it is.” The otter sounded impressed but not awed. “Sure solves the space problem, don’t it? I’ve seen it in towns in a few wealthy places. Believe me, the initial spell costs plenty, not t’mention the frequent renewals. Permanently locked hyperdimensional vortical expansions don’t come cheap, wot?”

  “Why don’t they?” Jon-Tom asked blankly, unable to think of a more sensible comment in the face of spatial absurdity.

  Mudge looked up at him conspiratorially. “Inflation.”

  They looked around to see Pog returning from another room. “He says he’ll be along in a minute or two.”

  “What kind of mood is he in?” Jon-Tom looked hopefully at the bat.

  “Comprehensible.” Keeping his balance in midair, the bat reached with a tiny clawed hand set halfway along his left wing into a pouch strapped to his chest. It was much smaller than the robin’s. He withdrew a small cigar. “Gotta light?”

  “I’m out o’ flints, mate.”

  “Just a second.” Jon-Tom fumbled excitedly in his jeans. “I do.” He showed them his cheap disposable lighter.

  Mudge studied it. “Interestin’.”

  “Yeah.” Pog fluttered close. Jon-Tom forced himself to ignore the proximity of those gleaming, razor-sharp fangs. “Never saw a firemaker like it.” He swung the tiny cigar around in his mouth.

  Jon-Tom flipped the wheel. Pog lit the cigar, puffed contentedly.

  “Let’s ’ave a look, lad.” Jon-Tom handed the lighter over. The otter turned it around in his paws. “’Ow’s it work?”

  “Like this.” Jon-Tom took it back, spun the wheel. Sparks, but no flame. He studied the transparent base. “Out of fluid.”

  “Got stuck wid a bum spell?” Pog sounded sympathetic. “Never mind. And thanks for da light.” He opened his mouth, blew smoke squares.

  “It h
as nothing to do with spells,” Jon-Tom protested. “It words on lighter fluid.”

  “Get my money back if I were you,” advised the otter.

  “I’d rather get me back.” Jon-Tom studied his wrist. “My watch has stopped, too. Battery needs replacing.” He held up a hand. “And I don’t want to hear anything more about spells.” Mudge shrugged, favoring Jon-Tom with the look one would bestow on an idiot relation. “Now where’s this lazy old so-called wizard of yours?” Jon-Tom asked Pog.

  “OVER HERE!” a powerful voice thundered.

  Shaking lest his discourteous remark had been overheard, Jon turned slowly to confront the renowned Clothahump.

  There were no flowing robes or white beard, no peaked hat or cryptically marked robe. But the horn-rimmed glasses were present. Somehow they remained fixed above a broad, rounded beak, just above tiny nostrils. The glasses did not have arms extended back and behind ears, since a turtle’s ears are almost invisible.

  A thick book clutched in one stubby-fingered hand, Clothahump waddled over to join them. He stood a good foot shorter than Mudge.

  “I mean no disrespect, sir,” Jon had the presence of mind to say. “I didn’t know you were in the room and I’m a stranger here and I …”

  “Tosh, boy.” Clothahump smiled and waved away the coming apology. His voice had dropped to normal, the wizardly thunder vanished. “I’m not easily offended. If I were I wouldn’t be able to put up with him.” He jerked a thumb in Pog’s direction. “Just a moment, please.”

  He looked down at himself. Jon followed the gaze, noticing a number of small knobs protruding from the wizard’s plastron. Clothahump tugged several, revealing tiny drawers built into his front. He hunted around for something, mumbling apologies.

  “Only way I can keep from losing the really important powders and liquids,” he explained.

  “But how can you … I mean, doesn’t that hurt?”

  “Oh heavens no, boy.” He let loose an infectious chuckle. “I employ the same technique that enables me to enlarge the inside of my tree without enlarging the outside.”

  “Bragging,” grumped Pog, “when da poor lad’s obviously in pain.”

  “Hold your tongue!” The bat whirled around in tight circles, but went silent. “I have to watch his impertinence.” Clothahump winked. “Last time I fixed him so he could only sleep right side up. You should have seen him, trying to hang from his ears.” He chuckled again.

  “But I don’t like to lose my temper in front of guests. I cultivate a reputation for mildness. Now then,” he said with a professional air, “let’s have a look at your side.”

  Jon-Tom watched as the turtle gently eased aside the crude bandage concocted by Mudge. Stubby fingers probed the glistening, stained flesh, and the youth winced.

  “Sorry. You’d best sit down.”

  “Thank you, sir.” They moved to a nearby couch, whose legs were formerly attached to some live creature of unimaginable shape. He lowered himself carefully, since the cushions were barely half a foot off the floor, at a level designed to accommodate the turtle’s low backside.

  “Stab wound.” Clothahump regarded the ugly puncture thoughtfully. “Shallow, though. We’ll soon have you fixed.”

  “’Ere now, your wizardship,” Mudge broke in. “Beggin’ your pardon, but I’ve always ’eard tell ’twas sorceral procedure to seek payment for magicking services in advance.”

  “That’s not a problem here … what did you say your name was?”

  “I didn’t, but it’s Mudge.”

  “Um. As I said, payment will be no problem for this lad. We’ll simply consider this little repair as an advance against his services.”

  “Services?” Jon-Tom looked wary. “What services?”

  “He ain’t much good for anything, from what I’ve seen,” Mudge piped up.

  “I would not expect a mere scavenger such as yourself, Mr. Mudge, to understand.” The wizard adjusted his glasses haughtily. “There have been forces at work in the world only I could fully comprehend, and only I am properly equipped to deal with them. The presence of this lad is but a small piece of a dangerously complex puzzle.”

  There, Mudge thought triumphantly. Knew he’d been muckin’ about.

  “It is obvious he is the one I was casting for last night. You see, he is a wizard himself.”

  “Who … ’im?” Mudge laughed in the manner of others, high and squeaky, like the laughter of wise children. “You’re jokin’, mate.”

  “I do not joke in matters of such grave import.” Clothahump spoke somberly.

  “Yeah, but ’im… a wizard? He couldn’t even put a new spell on ’is firemaker.”

  The turtle sighed, spoke slowly. “Coming as he does from a world, from a universe, other than our own, it is to be expected that some of his magic would differ from ours. I doubt I would be able to make use of my own formidable talents in his world. But there is an awesome interdimensional magic abroad in the world, Mudge. To cope successfully with it we require the aid and knowledge of one accustomed to its workings.” He looked troubled, as though burdened by some hidden weight he chose to keep hidden from his listeners.

  “He is the magician I sought. I used many new and unproven words, many intergrams and formulae rare and difficult to blend. I cast for hours, under great strain. I had given up hope of locating anyone, and then chanced upon this drifting spirit, so accessible and free.”

  Jon-Tom thought back to what he’d been smoking; he’d been drifting, no doubt of that. But what was all this about him being a wizard-magician?

  Sharp eyes were staring into his own from behind thick lenses. “Tell me, boy. Are not the wizards and magicians of your world known by the word En’geeniar?”

  “En’gee … engineer?”

  “Yes, that is the proper sounding of it, I think.”

  “I guess that’s as good an analogy as any.”

  “You see?” He turned knowingly back to Mudge. “And it is through his service he will pay us back.”

  “Uh, sir… ?” But Clothahump had disappeared behind a towering stack of books. Clinking noises sounded.

  Mudge was now convinced he’d have been much better off had he never tracked that granbit or set eyes on this particular gangling young human. He studied the slumping form of the injured youth. Jon-Tom was spritely enough of word … but a wizard? Still, one could never be certain of anything, least of all appearances, when dealing with wizardly doings. Common folk did well to avoid such.

  How could anyone explain a wizard who could not spell a simple firemaker, much less fix an injury to himself? The lad’s disorientation and fear were real enough, and neither spoke of the nature of wizards. Best to wait, perhaps, and see what concealed abilities this Jon-Tom might yet reveal. Should such abilities suddenly surface, it might also be best to insure that he forgot who put the hole in his ribs.

  “Now lad, don’t pay no mind t’ what Clothahump says about payments and such. No matter what the final cost, we’ll see it’s taken care of. I feel sort o’ responsible t’ make certain o’ that.”

  “That’s good of you, Mudge.”

  “Aye, I know. Best not even t’ mention money to ’is nibs.”

  Laden with bottles and odd containers fashioned of ceramic, the turtle waddled back toward them. He arranged the collection neatly on the wood chips in front of the couch. Chosing from several, he mixed their contents in a small brass bowl set between Jon-Tom’s legs. A yellow powder was added to a murky pool in the bowl and was followed by a barely audible mumbling. Mudge and Jon-Tom clutched suddenly at their nostrils. The paste was now emitting an odor awful in the extreme.

  Clothahump added a last pinch of blue powder, stirred the mixture, and then began plastering it directly on the open wound. Thoughts of infection faded when it became clear to Jon that the paste was having a soothing effect on the pain.

  “Pog!” Clothahump snapped short fingers. “Bring a small crucible. The one with the sun symbols engraved on the sides.�
�

  Jon-Tom thought he might have heard the bat mumble, “Why don’t ya get it yourself, ya lazy fat cousin to a clam.” But he couldn’t be sure.

  In any case, Pog did not speak when he returned with the requested crucible. He deposited it between Jon-Tom and the wizard, then flapped back out of the way.

  Clothahump measured the paste into the crucible, added a vile-smelling liquid from a tall, waspish black bottle, then a pinch of something puce from a drawer near his right arm. Jon-Tom wondered if the wizard’s built-in compartments ever itched.

  “What the devil did I do with that wand … ah!” Using a small ebony staff inlaid with silver and amethyst, he stirred the mixture, muttering continuously.

  Within the crucible the paste had gained the consistency of a thick soup. It began to glow a rich emerald green. Tiny explosions broke its surface, were reflected in Jon-Tom’s wide eyes. The mixture now smelled of cinnamon instead of swamp gas.

  Using the wand, the wizard dipped out some of the liquid and tasted it. Finding it satisfactory, he gripped the wand at either end with two fingers of each hand and began passing it in low swoops over the boiling crucible. The sparks on the liquid’s surface increased in intensity and frequency.

  “Terra bacteria,

  Red for muscle, blue for blood,

  Ruination, agglutination, confrontation,

  Knit Superior.

  Pyroxine for nerves, Penicillin for curds.

  Surgical wisps, solvent site, I bid you complete your unquent fight!”

  Jon-Tom listened in utter bewilderment. There was no deep-throated invocation of tail of newt, eye of bat. No spider’s blood or ox eyes, though he remained ignorant of the powders and fluids the wizard had employed. Clothahump’s mystic singsong chatter of pyroxine and agglutinating and such sounded suspiciously like the sort of thing a practicing physician might write to amuse himself in a moment of irrepressible nonsense.