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

by Alan Dean Foster

  Some of the swords and throwing knives had grooved or hollow handles. Jon-Tom was at a loss to imagine what sort of creature they’d been designed for until he remembered the birds. A hand would not make much use of such grips, but they were perfect for, say, a flexible wing tip.

  For a few high moments he’d managed to forget that this was a world of established violence and quick death. He leaned over the counter barring the back of the shop from the front and studied something that resembled a razor-edged frisbee. He shuddered, and looked around for Mudge.

  The otter had moved around the counter and had vanished behind a bamboolike screen. When Jon-Tom thought to call to him, he was already returning, chatting with the owner. The squat, muscular raccoon wore only an apron, sandals, and a red headband with two feathers sticking downward past his left ear. He smelled, as did the back of the shop, of coalsmoke and steel.

  “So this is the one who wants the mayhem?” The raccoon pursued his lips, looked over a black nose at Jon-Tom.

  “Mudge, I don’t know about this. I’ve always been a talker, not a fighter.”

  “I understand, mate,” said the otter amiably. “But there are weighty arguments and there are weighty arguments.” He hefted a large mace to further illustrate his point. “Leastways, you don’t have to employ none of these tickle-me-tights, but you bloody well better show something or you’ll mark yourself an easy target.

  “Now, can you use any of these toys?”

  Jon-Tom examined the bewildering array of dismembering machinery. “I don’t …” he shook his head, looking confused.

  The armorer stepped in. “’Tis plain to see he’s no experience.” His tone was reproving but patient. “Let me see, now. With his size and reach …” He moved thoughtfully to a wall where pikes and spears grew like iron wheat from the floor, each set in its individual socket in the wooden planks. His right paw rubbed at his nose.

  With both hands he removed an ax with a blade the size of his head. “Where skill and subtlety are absent, mayhap it would be best to make use of the other extremes. No combat or weapons training at all, young lad?”

  Jon-Tom shook his head, looked unencouraging.

  “What about sports?”

  “I’m not bad at basketball. Pretty good jump shot, and I can—”

  “Shit!” Mudge kicked at the floor. “What the devil’s arse is that? Does it perhaps involve some hittin’?” he asked hopefully.

  “Not much,” Jon-Tom admitted. “Mostly running and jumping, quick movements… .”

  “Well, that be something,” Mudge faced the armorer. “Something less bull-bright than that meat cleaver you’re holdin’, then. What would you recommend?”

  “A fast retreat.” The armorer turned dourly to another rack, preening his whiskers. “Though if the man can lay honest claim to some nimbleness, there ought to be something.” He put up the massive ax. “Mayhap we can give him some help.”

  He removed what looked like a simple spear, made from the polished limb of a tree. But instead of a spearpoint, the upper end widened into a thick wooden knob with bumps and dull points. It was taller than Mudge and reached Jon-Tom’s ears, the shaft some two inches in diameter.

  “Just a club?” Mudge studied the weapon uncertainly.

  “’Tis the longest thing I’ve got in the shop.” The armorer dragged a clipped nail down the shaft. “This is ramwood. It won’t snap in a fight. With your friend’s long reach, he can use it to fend an opponent off if he’s not much interested in properly disposing of him. And if things get tight and he’s still blood-shy, why, a good clop on the head with the business end of this will make someone just as dead as if you’d split his skull. Not as messy as the ax, but just as effective.” He handed it to the reluctant Jon-Tom.

  “It’ll make you a fine walking stick, too, man. And there’s something else. I mentioned giving you some help.” He pointed at the middle of the staff. Halfway up the shaft were two bands of inlaid silver three inches apart. The space between was decorated with four silver studs.

  “Press any one of those, man.”

  Jon-Tom did so. There was a click, and the staff instantly grew another foot. Twelve inches of steel spike now projected from the base of the staff. Jon-Tom was so surprised he almost dropped the weapon, but Mudge danced about like a kid in a candy shop.

  “Bugger me mother if that ain’t a proper surprise for any discourteous dumb-butt you might meet in the street. A little rub from that’ll cure ’em right quick, I venture!”

  “Aye,” agreed the armorer with pride. “Just tap ’em on the toe and press your release and I guarantee you’ll see one fine wide-eyed expression.” Both raccoon and otter shook with amusement.

  Jon-Tom pushed down on the shaft and the spear-spike retracted like a cats-claw up inside the staff. Another experimental grip on the studs, and it shot out once more. It was clever, but certainly not amusing.

  “Listen, I’d rather not fool with this thing at all, but if you insist …”

  “I do.” Mudge stopped laughing, wiped tears from his eyes. “I do insist. Like the master armorer ’ere says, you don’t ’ave t’ use that toe-chopper if you’ve no mind t’, but there’ll likely be times when you’ll want t’ keep some sword-swingin’ sot a fair few feet from your guts. So take claim to it and be glad.”

  Jon-Tom hefted the shaft, but he wasn’t glad. Merely having possession of the deceptive weapon was depressing him.

  Outside they examined the contents of the little purse. It was nearly empty. A few small silver coins gleamed forlornly like fish in a dark tank from the bottom of the sack. Jon-Tom wondered if he hadn’t been slightly profligate with Clothahump’s generosity.

  Mudge appraised the remnants of their fortune. Mist continued to dampen them, softening the lamplight that buttered the street and shopfronts. With the easing of the rain, other pedestrians had reappeared. Animal shadow-shapes moved dimly through the fog.

  “Hungry, mate?” asked the otter finally, black eyes shining in the light.

  “Starving!” He was abruptly aware he hadn’t had a thing to eat all day. Mudge’s store of jerked meat had given out the previous evening.

  “I also.” He clapped Jon-Tom on his cape. “Now you looks almost like a real person.” He leaned conspiratorially close. “Now I know a place where the silver we ’ave left will bring us as fat a feast as a pregnant hare could wish. Maybe even enough t’ fill your attenuated belly-hollow!” He winked. “Maybe some entertainment besides. You and I ’ave done our duty for the day, we ’ave.”

  As they strolled further into town, they encountered more pedestrians. An occasional wagon jounced down the street, and individuals on saddled riding lizards hopped or ran past. Long pushbrooms came into play as shopkeepers swept water from porches and storefronts. Shutters snapped open. For the first time Jon-Tom heard the wails of children. Cubs would be the better term, he corrected himself.

  Two young squirrels scampered by. One finally tackled the other. They tumbled to the cobblestones, rolling over and over, punching and kicking while a small mob of other youngsters gathered around and urged them on. To Jon-Tom’s dismay their initial cuteness was muted by the manner in which they gouged and scratched at each other. Not that his own hometown was devoid of violence, but it seemed to be a way of life here. One cub finally got the other down and was assiduously making pulp of his face. His peers applauded enthusiastically, offering suggestions for further disfigurement.

  “A way of life, mate?” Mudge said thoughtfully when Jon-Tom broached his thoughts. “I wouldn’t know. I’m no philosopher, now. But I know this. You can be polite and dead or respected and breathin’.” He shrugged. “Now you can make your own choice. Just don’t be too ready to put aside that nice new toy you’ve bought.”

  Jon-Tom made sure he had a good grip on the staff. The increasing crowd and lifting of the fog brought fresh stares. Mudge assured him it was only on account of his unusual size. If anything, he was now clad far better than the av
erage citizen of Lynchbany Towne.

  Five minutes later he was no longer simply hungry, he was ravenous.

  “Not much longer, mate.” They turned down a winding side street. There was an almost hidden entrance on their left, into which Mudge urged him. Once again he had to bend nearly double to clear the overhang.

  Then he was able to stand. The ceiling inside was a good two feet above his head, for which he was more than slightly grateful.

  “The Pearl Possum,” said Mudge, with considerably more enthusiasm than he’d displayed toward anything else so far. “Me, I’m for somethin’ liquid now. This way, mate. ‘Ware the lamps.”

  Jon-Tom followed the otter into the bowels of the restaurant, elbowing his way through the shoving, tightly packed crowd and keeping a lookout for the occasional hanging lamps Mudge had warned him about. From outside there was no hint of the considerable, sweaty mob milling inside.

  Eight feet inside the entrance, the ceiling curved upward like a circus tent. It peaked a good two and a half stories above the floor. Beneath this central height was a circular counter dispensing food and brew. It was manned by a small battalion of cooks and mixologists. A couple were weasels.

  There was also a single, nattily dressed rabbit and one scroungy-looking bat, smaller and even uglier than Pog. Not surprisingly, the bat spent most of his time delivering food and drink to various tables. Jon-Tom knew of other restaurants which would have been glad of an arboreal waiter.

  What tables there were spotted the floor like fat toadstools in no particular order. On the far side of the Pearl Possum were partially enclosed booths designed for discussion or dalliance, depending on the inclination of the inhabitants.

  They continued to make their way through the noisy, malodorous crowd. Isolated ponds of liquor littered the floor, along with several splinters from smashed wooden mugs. The owners had sensibly disdained the use of glass. Numerous drains pockmarked the wooden planking underfoot. Occasionally someone would appear with a bucket of water to wash down a section of floor too slippery with booze, sometimes of the partially digested variety.

  He was easily the tallest man—the tallest animal—in the room, though there were a couple of large wolves and cats who were built more massively. It made him feel only a little more confident.

  “’Ere lad, over ’ere!” Following the triumphant shout Jon-Tom felt himself yanked down to a small but abandoned table. His knees pressed up toward his chest—the chairs were much too low for comfortable seating.

  Furry bodies pressed close on all sides, filling his nostrils with the stink of liquor and musk. Supporting the table was the sculpted plaster figure of a coquettishly posed female opposum. It had been scratched and engraved with so many lewd comments that the sheen was almost gone.

  Somehow a waiter noticed that their hands and table were empty, shoved his way through to them. Like the armorer he was wearing an apron, only this one was filthy beyond recognition, the pattern beneath obliterated by grease and other stains. Like the armorer he was a black-masked raccoon. One ear was badly mangled, and a white scar ran boldly from the ear down the side of his head, just past the eye, and on through the muzzle, but particularly noticeable where it crossed the black mask.

  Jon-Tom was too busy observing the life and action swirling around them to notice that Mudge had already ordered.

  “Not t’ worry, mate. I ordered for you.”

  “I hope you ordered food, as well as liquor. I’m hungrier than ever.”

  “That I ’ave, mate. Any fool knows ’tis not good t’ drink on an empty belly. ’Ere you, watch yourself.” He jabbed an elbow into the ribs of the drunken ocelot who’d stumbled into him.

  The animal spun, waving his mug and sending liquor spilling toward the otter. Mudge dodged the drink with exceptional speed. The feline made a few yowling comments about the rib jab, but was too sloshed to pick a serious fight. It lurched helplessly off into the crowd. Jon-Tom followed the pointy, weaving ears until their owner was out of sight.

  Two large wooden mugs of something highly carbonated and smelling of alcohol arrived. The hardwood mug looked oversized in Mudge’s tiny hand, but it was just the right size for Jon-Tom. He tried a sip of the black liquid within, found it to be a powerful fermented brew something like a highly alcoholic malt liquor. He determined to treat it respectfully.

  The waiter’s other hand deposited a large platter covered by a badly dented and scratched metal dome. When the dome was removed, Jon-Tom’s nose was assailed by a wonderfully rich aroma. On the platter were all kinds of vegetables. Among strange shapes were comfortingly familiar carrots, radishes, celery, and tiny onions. A raft of potatoes supported a huge cylindrical roast. A single center bone showed at either end. It was burnt black outside and shaded to pink near the bone.

  He hunted in vain for silverware. Mudge pointed out that the restaurant would hardly provide instruments for its patrons to use on one another. The otter had a hunting knife out. It was short and triangular like the tooth of a white shark and went easily through the meat.

  “Rare, medium, or well burnt?” was the question.

  “Anything.” Jon-Tom fought to keep the saliva inside his mouth. Mudge sliced off two respectable discs of meat, passed one to his companion.

  They ate as quietly as smacking fingers and gravy-slick lips would permit. Jon-Tom struggled to keep the juice off his freshly cut clothes. Mudge was not nearly so fastidious. Gravy ran down his furry chin onto his vest, was sopped up by vest and chest fur.

  They were halfway full when a partially sated Jon-Tom relaxed long enough to notice that in addition to the center bone running through the roast, there were thin, curving ribs running from the bone to meet like the points of calipers near the bottom.

  “Mudge, what kind of meat is this?”

  “Not tasty enough, mate?” wondered the otter around a mouthful of vegetables.

  “It’s delicious, but I don’t recognize the cut or the flavor. It’s not any kind of steak, is it? I mean, beef?”

  “Beef? You mean, cattle?” Mudge shook his head. “They may not be smart, but we’re not cannibals ’ere, we’re not.” He chewed appraisingly. “O’ course, it ain’t king snake. Python. Reticulated, I’d say.”

  “Wonderful.” Why be squeamish in the face of good taste, Jon-Tom mused. There was no reason to be. He never had understood the phobia some folk had about eating reptile, though he’d never had the opportunity to try it before. After all, meat was meat. It was all muscle fiber to the tooth.

  He did not think he’d care to meet a snake of that size away from the dinner plate, however.

  They were dismembering the last of the roast when the waiter, unbidden, appeared with a small tray of some fat puff pastries seared black across their crowns. Though he was no longer hungry, Jon-Tom sampled one, soon found himself shoveling them in as fast as possible. Despite their heavy appearance they were light and airy inside, full of honey and chopped nuts and encrusted with burnt cinnamon.

  Later he leaned back in the short chair and picked at his teeth with a splinter of the table, as he’d seen some of the other patrons doing.

  “Well, that may take the last of our money, but that’s the best meal I’ve had in years.”

  “Aye, not bad.” Mudge had his short legs up on the table, the boot heels resting indifferently in the pastry tray.

  A band had begun playing somewhere. The music was at once light and brassy. Jon-Tom took a brief professional interest in it. Since he couldn’t see the players, he had to be satisfied with deciding that they employed one or two string instruments, drums, chimes, and a couple of oddly deep flutes.

  Mudge was leaning across the table, feeling warm and serious. He put a cautionary paw on Jon-Tom’s wrist. “Sorry t’ shatter your contentment, mate, but we’ve somethin’ else t’ talk on. Clothahump charged me with seein’ t’ your well-bein’ and I’ve a mind t’ see the job through t’ the end.

  “If you want t’ continue eatin’ like that, we’r
e goin’ to ’ave t’ find you some way t’ make a living, wot… ?”

  V

  REALITY CHURNED IN Jon-Tom’s stomach, mixed unpleasantly with the pastry. “Uh, can’t we just go back to Clothahump?” He’d decided he was beginning to like this world.

  Mudge shook his head slowly. “Not if ’e don’t get that gold spell aright. Keep in mind that as nice and kindly as the old bugger seemed a few days ago, wizards can be god-rotted temperamental. If we go back already and pester ’im for money, ’e’s not going t’ feel much proud o’ you. Not to mention wot ’is opinion o’ me would be. You want to keep the old twit feelin’ responsible for wot ’e’s done t’ you, mate.

  “Oh, ’e might ’ave a fair supply of silver tucked away neat and pretty somewhere. But ’is supply of silver’s bound to be limited. So long as ’e’s got ’is feeble old mind set on this dotty crisis of ’is, ’e’s not goin’ to be doin’ much business. No business, no silver. No silver, no ’andouts, right? I’m afraid you’re goin’ t’ ’ave t’ go t’ work.”

  “I see.” Jon-Tom stared morosely into his empty mug. “What about working with you, Mudge?”

  “Now don’t get me wrong, mate. I’m just gettin’ t’ where I can tol’rate your company.”

  “Thanks,” said Jon-Tom tartly.

  “That’s all right, it is. But huntin’s a solitary profession. I don’t think I could do much for you there. You don’t strike me as the type o’ chap who knows ’is way ’round a woods. You’d as soon trip over a trap as set one, I think.”