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

by Alan Dean Foster

  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.”

  “Isn’t that kind of extreme? It’s only a friendly game.”

  Oddly milky pink eyes looked down at him. “This an extreme business we all in, man. You know that. Difficult enough to get by without having to cope with cheating courts and sly lawyers. We can’t stand backstabbingers among own family. Fair punishments like that,” and he jerked a thumb back toward the region of the scream, “make sure fairness good sense. You stay healthy, hear; that one was lucky. What line you in?”

  “Sorry … my dice,” Jon-Tom said quickly.

  The game continued. Sometimes he lost, more often he won. Now the continued absence of Talea and Mudge was making him nervous. He wondered if he dare take his winnings and drop out. Might not one of the game’s big losers have a friend or associate in the crowd, ready to stick a small knife in Jon-Tom’s back or accuse him of magic in order to protect his friend or boss?

  But the tall rabbit remained close by, reassuring and urging him on. That was only natural, since he was betting along with Jon-Tom’s rolls. Yet Jon-Tom’s thoughts kept returning to that horrible scream, kept imagining the knife coming down, the blood spurting… .

  Swal the bat kept his post. Occasionally he would shift his perch on the hanging lamps or tug at the green-feathered cap secured by a strap to his head. His eyes roved steadily over the players.

  There were no more cries of cheating. The pile of coins in front of Jon-Tom continued its steady growth.

  Then there was an unexpected pause in the action. A very sleek, lupine figure stumbled into the playing circle. The players scrambled to protect their coins from uncertain feet. She seemed outraged and embarrassed, a condition not helped by the catcalls and hoots from the male and female spectators. The bitch replied to the insinuations with a rustle of petticoats and some choice execrations of her own.

  Jon-Tom looked to his rabbit friend for an explanation.

  “Sorry, man. I wasn’t paying attention. But I think I see what’s going on. See that fox over there?” He pointed to a tired but well-dressed thrower seated across the circle. Only two or three small silver coins lay on the stone in front of him.

  “He out of money I see, but he want to stay in. You know the type. So he bet the girl.”

  Jon-Tom frowned. “Is she a slave?”

  That prompted a mildly angry response. “What you think we are here, barbarians? Only the Plated Folk keep slaves. No, most likely he gotten her to agree to temporary contract.” The rabbit winked. “Most likely a couple of nights or so.”

  “She doesn’t look very willing,” said Jon-Tom critically.

  “Hard to say. Maybe she is, maybe not.”

  “Then why is she doing it?”

  “Because she in love. Can’t you see that?” The rabbit sounded surprised at Jon-Tom’s evident naïveté.

  “Hey … I can’t play this round.”

  “Why not, man?” Suddenly the rabbit sounded considerably less friendly.

  “I just think I’ve had enough.” He was starting to gather up his winnings, looking for pockets in pants and shirt to shove handfuls of coins into. The other players looked upset and there were some movements in his direction.

  But there was honor among thieves here, too. For every angry grumbling from the players there were cries from the onlooker of, “He won fair… .The man can pull out any time!… Let him leave if he wants… . You can’t stop him… .” and so forth. But some of the comments were accompanied by eager looks at the pile of coins in front of him. It occurred to Jon-Tom that winning the money was no assurance he’d leave with it. Of course, no one would think of making an outright attack on an honest winner. But Thieves’ Hall was full of tunnels and dark cul-de-sacs.

  He looked helplessly up at the rabbit, whispered, “What should I do?”

  The other’s attitude softened, turned friendly once again.

  “Well first thing, pay attention to you own clothing.” He laughed and reached for Jon-Tom’s throat. Jon-Tom instinctively started to pull away, but the rabbit only paused and grinned hugely at him. “With you permission?”

  Jon-Tom hesitated, then nodded. There was no reason to assume the animal had turned suddenly hostile.

  Unclipping the cape while the rest of the players waited impatiently, the rabbit spread it out on the floor. “Ah, I thought right so. Good tailor you got,” and he pointed out the hiden stitching and buttons lining the bottom hem of the cape.

  This he carefully unsnapped. With Jon-Tom’s help, he filled the hidden compartment with handfuls of coins. When it was full to the snaps they sealed it tight again. Jon-Tom clipped it back around his neck. The weight was a tolerable drag.

  “There,” said the rabbit with satisfaction, “that be more better. No one think to pickpocket a cape. Only these few here, and I see no skilled one among them. Others who see will think only rocks in there.”

  “Why would I fill my cape with rocks?”

  “To keep it from blow over you head and blind you in a fight, or while riding in a storm. Also to use in a fight. You may look weaponless, but what you got now is five-foot flexible club to complement long staff.” He turned his gaze skyward. “That how I like to go, though. Beaten to death with somebody’s money. Or perhaps …” He looked back over at Jon-Tom. “It no matter my problems.”

  “Maybe it does.” Jon-Tom reached into the still sizable pile of coins in front of him and selected three large gold circles. “These are for your problems. And for your good advice and counsel.”

  The rabbit took them gratefully, slipped them in a vest pocket, and sealed it. “That kind of you, man. I take because I need the money. Under better circumstances I refuse. More advice: don’t go passing around gold too much like this. You attract attention of some not so noble as I.

  “Now as to what you should do, you pull out now if you really want. But you in middle of round. It be better if you finish this one go-round. Then no one can say shit to you.”

  “But what about the girl?” The bitch was tapping feet clad in pastel blue ballet slippers and looking quite put out.

  “Well, I tell you man,” and he winked significantly, “you finish out this round. I have three goldpieces you know. You have place in circle to fínish. If you win, I give you back gold circle for her.” He eyed the muscular, tawny form of the she-wolf. “Maybe two.”

  “Oh, all right.” He looked a last time at the ring of spectators. Still no sign of Mudge or Talea.

  The dice were passed as the watchers nudged one another, muttered, made side bets, or simply stared curiously. A ferret on the far side rolled a seven, moaned. Next to him was a mole wearing immensely thick dark glasses and a peaked derby. He dumped an eight, then a six, then a seven, and finally a losing three.

  The dice came around to Jon-To
m. He tossed them into the circle. Two fours and a two. Then a ten. The dice went to the fisher on his right. He rolled a ten. Cries went up from the crowd, which pushed and shoved discourteously at the circle of players. Jon-Tom rolled a six. Back to the fisher, who looked confident. Over went the three dice, came up showing a one, a two, and a three. The fisher kicked dirt into the circle. The shouts were ear-shaking.

  Jon-Tom had won again.

  He spoke as he turned. “There you go, friend. It’s time to …” He stopped. There was no sign of the rabbit.

  Only a smartly dressed howler monkey nearby had noted the disappearance of Jon-Tom’s advisor. “The tall fella? White with gray patches?” Jon-Tom nodded, and the simian gestured vaguely back down a main passage.

  “He went off that way a while ago. So little golden ground squirrel came up to him … delicate little bit of fluff she was … and he went off with her.”

  “But I can’t …”

  A hand touched his shoulder. He turned, found himself staring across into aluminum-like eyes, glistening and penetrating. “I have not done it with many humans, man. I understand some of you are fond of strange practices.” The voice was low, husky, and not altogether uninterested. “Is that true also with you?”

  “Listen, I don’t think you understand.”

  “Try me.”

  “No, no … that’s not what I meant. I mean …” He was more flustered than at any time since they’d entered the hall. “It’s just that I can’t, I don’t want you. Go back there.” He waved across the circle. “Go back to him.”

  “Just what the hell are you implying, man?” Her eyes flashed and she stepped back.

  The fox was suddenly standing next to her, angry at something other than his losing. “Something wrong with Wurreel? Do you think I need your charity?”

  “No, it’s not that at all.” He slowly climbed to his feet, kept a firm grip on the staff. Around him the crowd was murmuring in an unfriendly manner. The looks he was receiving were no longer benign.

  “Please,” he told the bitch, “just go back to your master here, or friend, or whatever.”

  The fox moved nearer, jabbed a clawed finger in Jon-Tom’s stomach. “Just what kind of fellow are you? Do you think I don’t pay my debts? Do you think I’d renege on my obligations?”

  “Screw your obligations, Mossul,” said the wolf haughtily. “What about my honor?” Her tone and gaze were now anything but interested. “See how he looks at me, with disgust. I am insulted.”

  That brought a nasty series of cries from the crowd. “Shame, shame! … down with him!”

  “It’s not that. I just … don’t want you.”

  She made an inarticulate growl, hit him in the chest with a fist. “That does it!” She looked around at the shifting circle of spectators. “Is there a male here who will defend my reputation? I demand satisfaction… of this kind if not the other!”

  “Your reputation…” Jon-Tom was becoming badly tonguetied. “I didn’t insult … what about him?” He pointed at the fox. “He was the one selling you.”

  “Loaning, not selling,” countered the fox with dignity. “And it was mutually agreed upon.”

  “That’s right. I’d do anything for Mossul. Except be insulted, like this, in public.” She put an affectionate arm around the fox’s silk-clad shoulders.

  “Turn him out, turn him out!” came the rising shouts.

  “Wot’s ’appening ’ere, mate. I leave you alone for a bit and you manage t’ upset the ’ol ’all.” Mudge was at Jon-Tom’s back and Talea nearby.

  “I don’t understand,” Jon-Tom protested. “I’ve been winning all day.”

  “That’s good.”

  “And I just won that,” and he indicated the she-wolf, “for a couple of nights.”

  “That’s very good. So what’s your problem, mate?”

  “I don’t want her. Don’t you understand? It’s not that she’s unattractive or anything.” The subject of that appraisal growled menacingly. “It’s just that … I can’t do it, Mudge. I’m not prejudiced. But something inside me just … can’t.”

  “Easy now, mate. I understand.” The otter sounded sympathetic. “’Tis part o’ your strange customs, no doubt, and you’re the loser for it.”

  “Well, tell them that. Tell them where I’m from. Explain to them that I’m …”

  Mudge put a hand momentarily over Jon-Tom’s mouth. “Hush, lad. If they think that you’re from some other land, no matter ’ow alien, you won’t longer ’ave their protection. As it be, they think you’re a local footpad like Talea and meself.” His eyes noted the weight dragging down the hem of Jon-Tom’s cape. “And judgin’ from wot you’ve won from some ’ere, they’d be more than ’appy to see you made fair game. You wouldn’t last twenty seconds.” He pulled at an arm. “Come on now. Quiet and confident’s the words, while they’re still arguin’ wot t’ do.”

  They were bumped and even spat upon, but Mudge and Talea managed to hustle their thoroughly confused friend out of the gambling chamber, through the tunnels, and back out the iron door that sealed off the hall from the outside world.

  It was mid-morning outside. Jon-Tom suddenly realized how exhausted he was. He must have played through the night. That explained why he hadn’t seen Talea or Mudge. They’d been sleeping. But it was time-deceptive inside Thieves’ Hall, where the lamps burned round the clock, much in keeping with the activities of the members.

  “Why didn’t you go with her?” Talea sounded bitter. “Now look at us! Forced out of the one refuge where we’d be impregnable.” She stalked on ahead, searching the nearby corral for their team and wagon.

  “I suppose I should have lost.” He and Mudge had to hurry to keep pace with her. “That would have made you happy, wouldn’t it?”

  “It would be better than this,” she snapped back. “Where do we go now? When you’re turned out of Thieves’ Hall, there’s no place else to run to, and we haven’t been in hiding near long enough. We’ll still be fresh in the minds of citizens and police, if anyone noticed us. Damn it all!” She jumped the fence, kicked at the flank of an innocent riding lizard. It hissed and scuttled out of her way.

  “It’s too bad you weren’t around, Mudge. You could have played that last round for me.”

  “It don’t work that way, mate. You ’ad t’ play it out yourself, from what I ’eard. ’Tis a pity your peculiar customs forced you t’ insult that lovely lady’s honor. You refused ’er. I couldn’t ’ave substituted meself for you thatawise, much willin’ as I would’ve been.”

  Jon-Tom stared morosely at the ground. “I can’t believe she was trading herself willingly like that.”

  “Blimey lad, ’tis bloody ignorant you be about women. She did it for love of ’er fox-chap. Couldn’t you see that? And so when you refused ’er, you insulted ’im as well. You don’t know much about the leanin’s o’ ladies, do you?”

  “That’s ridiculous. Of course I …” He looked away. “No. No, not a great deal, Mudge. My energies have been pretty much focused on intellectual pursuits. That’s one reason why I wanted to be a musician so badly. Musicians don’t seem to have to worry about women.”

  “There not be much pleasure in ignorance, mate. You’re a damnsight better off understandin’ the whys and wherefores o’ what’s goin’ on.” He nodded ahead.

  “Now ’ave a look at dear Talea there. Don’t tell me you don’t find ’er attractive.”

  “I’d be lying if I said otherwise.”

  “Well then? Close enough quarters we’ve been living in these past few days and I ’aven’t seen you so much as lean close t’ ’er. Me she knows and won’t let near, but you’re a new factor.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding.” He watched that mane of red hair bob and weave its way among the herd. “If I so much as touched her she’d split me from brain to belly.”

  “Don’t be so sure, mate. You’ve already confessed your ignorance, you know.”

  “And you’re the expert, I su
ppose?”

  “I get by on experience, yes. Not much time for that now. But think on what I’ve said.”

  “I will. Mudge, what she said about us having no place to go, are we that desperate?”

  “’Ard to say, mate. Depends on whether anyone reported our late-night doin’s in Lynchbany. But we’d best move on t’ somewhere else for a while.”

  “I know where I want to go.” He looked longingly skyward, though he knew that his world was beyond even the stars that lay hidden behind the sunlight.

  Something stung the side of his face. He turned and looked in shock at Mudge.

  “A long way to reach with an open palm,” the otter said tightly. “Now you listen well, mate. I’ve told you before and I don’t aim to waste time on it again. These maudlin sorrowings for yourself ’ave to stop. You’re ’ere. We can’t get you back where you belong. Clothahump can’t or won’t get you back t’ where you belong. That’s bloody well it, and the sooner you get used t’ it, the better it’ll go for you. Or do you expect me t’ wet-nurse you through your next sixty years?”

  Jon-Tom, still stunned, didn’t reply. Sixty years … odd how he hadn’t thought of his stay here in terms of years, much less decades. There was always the thought that he could be going home tomorrow, or the next day.

  But if Clothahump’s genius was as erratic as Mudge insisted, he might never be going home. The wizard could die tomorrow. That night in Lynchbany outside Dr. Nilanthos’ he’d reached a temporary accommodation with his situation. Maybe Mudge was right, and it was time he made that accommodation permanent.

  Try to regard it like negative thinking for an exam. That way you’re only satisfied if you fail, happy with a fifty, and ecstatic with a hundred. That’s how you’re going to have to start thinking of your life. Right now he was living a zero. The sooner he got used to it, the less disappointed he’d be if Clothahump proved unable to send him back. Back to the lazy mental meanderings of school, the casual tripe mumbled by directionless friends, the day-to-day humdrum existence he’d been leading that inaccessibility now made so tempting.

  Zero, he told himself firmly. Remember the zero.