“You see?” Caz sounded disapproving. “Mudge is a good fellow, but at heart he is crude. No style.”
“What about you?” Jon-Tom looked curiously up at his companion. “What’s your style? What do you expect to get out of this journey?”
“My style … is to be myself, friend.” It was spoken with dignity. “To be true to myself, my friends, and forgiving to my enemies.”
“Including those who chased you off the boat?”
“Tut! They were justified in their feelings, if not the extremity of their reaction.” He winked with his unglassed eye. “I was doubtless guilty of some indelicate prestidigitation of the dice. My mistake was that I was found out.
“If they had actually caught and killed me, of course, I would have been somewhat more upset.”
Jon-Tom couldn’t help breaking into a grin.
“As to what I expect to ‘get out of this journey,’ I have already stated that I feel assisting this worthy cause is reason and therefore satisfaction enough. You have been too long in the company of likable but amoral types such as Mudge and Talea. I believe implicitly everything our currently comatose wizard leader says.
“I have been studying him closely these past few days. Any idiot can see plainly that all the woes of the world weigh squarely upon his head. I am no hero, Jon-Tom, but neither am I such a fool that I cannot see that the destruction of the world as it currently exists would mean the end of my pleasant manner of living. I’m quite fond of it.
“So you see, it is in my own best interest to go along with and to help you, as it would be for any warmlander satisfied with his existence. I will help Clothahump in any way I can. I am not much for soldiering, but I have some skill in the use of words. Even he realizes, I think, that he has a tendency to be impatient with fools. On the other hand I am quite used to dealing with them.”
“This group could sure use a diplomat,” agreed Jon-Tom. “I’ve tried my best at mediating but … I guess I just don’t have the experience for it.”
“Do not belittle that which you have no control over, which is your youth, my friend. You strike me as wise for your years. That’s more than anyone could ask, from what I’ve learned of your unwilling presence here. It strikes me you want not for ability but for goals.
“Though I have more experience than you, I am always willing to listen to others. And I could never do what you’ve done with the dragon. There is experience and there is experience. You handle him who breathes fire and I will take care of those who breathe insults and threats. We will complement each other. Agreed?”
“Fair enough.” Man and rabbit shook hands warmly. The sensation no longer surprised Jon-Tom. It was like shaking hands with someone wearing mittens.
Camp was growing quiet and the nightly rain had hesitantly begun a late fall.
“You see?” Caz pointed to the motionless figure of Clothahump, still seated on his log. He seemed not to have moved since Jon-Tom left the camp to search for Mudge. Now he sat glaze-eyed and indifferent to the falling rain.
“Our friend broods on larger matters. Yet often is the greater lost for lack of attention to the lesser.”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning that we have posted no sentries. This is strange country to all of us.”
“In this case I don’t think we have to worry. You’re forgetting something.” He pointed.
“‘Pon my soul,” laughed the rabbit, “so I have.” He sounded embarrassed. “It is not easy to forget a dragon. How quiet he is, though.”
“Dreaming sweet dreams of a classless society, no doubt.”
Caz removed his monocle, absently polished it with the hem of his beautiful shirt. “Then it seems we can sleep soundly ourselves. The dragon’s presence is worth more than any hundred sentries. I will enjoy the security of sleeping near to so powerful an ally.”
“Just be careful he doesn’t turn in his sleep.” Caz waved smilingly back to him, and Jon-Tom watched the bobbing white tail recede toward the black bulk shielding their camp.
A gentle voice reached back to him. “Dragons don’t toss and turn in their sleep, my friend. They’re not built that way. But I surely hope he does not snore. I wouldn’t enjoy waking up with my pants on fire.”
Jon-Tom laughed with him. Pog was asleep, dangling like a dark decoration from the branch of an overhanging oak. Talea and Flor were chatting quietly beneath bedrolls on the other side of the fíre. He thought of joining them, shrugged, and spread out his own blanket. He was dead tired, and it would soon be morning.
Right then his body needed comforting more than his ego… .
XVIII
TWO DAYS OF CLIMBING the rapids followed, during which the only danger they had to cope with was the burning in Jon-Tom’s ears as he was compelled to endure Mudge’s reciting and embroidering of the story of his escape from the monstrous chameleon. When the horned color-changer grew to twice the size of Falameezar, even Flor threatened to beat the glib otter.
On the fourth day they encountered signs of habitation. Plowed fields, homes with neatly thatched or slate-tiled roofs, smoking chimneys, and small docks with boats tied to them began to slip past.
Falameezar would glide deeper in the water, keeping only his eyes, ears, and passengers above the surface as he breathed through his gills. Anyone on shore watching would think the several travelers were floating atop a peculiarly low boat.
On the tenth day Clothahump noted a group of low hills off to their left. Rapids lay directly ahead, though they were not nearly as swift as those that cut through the Duggakurra hills close by buried Pfeiffunmunter.
“You may put us ashore here, friend dragon. We are quite close to the city.”
“But why?” Falameezar sounded disappointed. “The river is still deep and the current not too strong.” He puffed smoke ahead. “I can pass on easily.”
“Yes, but your presence with us might panic the inhabitants.”
“I know.” The downcast dragon let out a sigh. “I shall put you in to land, then. What shall I do next?”
Jon-Tom threw Clothahump a look, and the wizard subsided in the youth’s favor. “I’ll talk to the commissars of the Polastrindu commune. Perhaps they might accept you as a member.”
“Do you think so? I had no idea so enlightened a community existed.” Fiery eyes stared back down at Jon-Tom hopefully. “That would be wonderful. I’m certainly willing to do my share of the work.”
“You’ve already done more than that this trip, comrade Falameezar. Clothahump is right, though, in suggesting you wait here in the river. Even the most educated comrades can sometimes react thoughtlessly when confronted by the unfamiliar.” He leaned forward, and the dragon bent his neck back and down as Jon-Tom whispered to him, “There are counterrevolutionaries everywhere!”
“I know. Be on your guard, comrade Jon-Tom.”
“I will.”
The dragon eased into shore. They marched down his back and tail, passing supply packs from hand to hand. A well-used track halfway between a wide trail and a small road led over the hills. Jon-Tom looked back for a moment. The others had already started up the road. Flor was alive with excitement at the prospect of entering the strange city. Her enthusiasm made her glow like the lining of clouds after a storm.
He waved to the dragon. “Be well, comrade. Up the revolution.”
“Up the revolution!” the dragon rumbled back, saluting him with a blast of fire and smoke. Then the ferocious head dipped beneath the surface. A flurry of bubbles and some fading, concentric ripples marked with a watery flower the place where the dragon sank. Then they too were gone.
Jon-Tom waded, his long legs and walking staff soon bringing him up alongside his companions, despite the burden of guilt he carried. Falameezar was far too nice a dragon to have been so roundly deceived. Perhaps they’d left him happier than he’d been before, though.
“What do you think he’ll do?” Caz moved next to Jon-Tom. “Will he stay and wait for you to return?”
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“How should I know? I’m no expert on the motivations of dragons. His political beliefs seem unshakable, but he tends more to philosophizing than action, I think. He might simply grow bored and swim back downstream to his familiar feeding grounds.” He looked sharply at the rabbit. “Why? Do you expect trouble in Polastrindu?”
“One never knows. The larger the city, the more arrogant the citizens, and we’re not exactly the bearers of good news. We shall see.”
An hour’s hike had brought them to the crest of the last hill. Finally the destination of so many days’ traveling lay exposed to their sight.
It was wonderful, yes, but it was a flawed wonderment. They started down the hill. Why should a city here be so very different from any other? he thought sardonically.
There was a massive stone wall surrounding the city. It was intricately decorated with huge bas-reliefs and buttressed at ground level. Several gates showed in the wall, but the traffic employing them was sparse.
It was not a market day, Caz explained. Farmers were not bringing produce into the city, nor distant craftsmen and traders their wagon-borne wares.
There was somewhat more activity to the south of the city. The great wall ran almost to the river there. At least a dozen vessels were tied to the rotting docks. Some were similar to the sail-and-oar-powered keel-type boat that Caz had fled from that day on the river. Jon-Tom wondered if that very same ship might be among those bobbing gently at anchor below them. Barges and fishing vessels comprised the rest of the motley but serviceable flotilla.
“The main gate is on the opposite side of the city, to the northwest and facing the Swordsward.”
“What’s that?” Flor wondered aloud. “Have you been there? It seems like you’ve been everywhere.”
Caz cleared his throat. “No, I have not. I’ve been no farther than anyone else, I should say. It is a vast, some say endless, ocean of vegetation inhabited by vile aborigines and dangerous creatures.
“We have no need to march around the whole city. The harbor gate should be a quite satisfactory ingress.”
They continued down the winding path, which had now expanded to road size. Curious fellow travelers let their gaze linger long on the unusual group.
Lizard-drawn wagons and carts trundled past them. Sometimes riders on individual mounts would run or hop past. There was even a wealthy family on a small riding snake.
Clothahump was enjoying himself. He moved with much less effort downhill than up. His glance turned upward. “Pog! Anything to report, you useless miscreant?”
The bat yelled down to them as he dipped lower in the sky. “Da usual aerial patrol. A couple o’ armed jays overflew us a few minutes ago. I don’t tink dey saw us wid da dragon, though. Dey’ve long since turned ’round and flown back to report. Dey didn’t act excited.”
Clothahump appeared satisfied. “Good. I have no time for intermediaries. Polastrindu is too big for them to bother with every odd group of visitors, even if we are a bit odder than most.”
“We may not seem so from the air, sir,” Jon-Tom pointed out.
“Quite so, my boy.”
They strolled into the docks without anyone challenging them. They watched as busy stevedores, mostly broad-shouldered wolves, margays, and lynxes, laboriously loaded and unloaded stacks of crates and bales. Exotic goods and crafts were stacked neatly on shore or loaded carefully onto dray wagons for transport into the city.
Along the docks the aroma was pungent but something less than exotic. Even the river was darker here than out in midstream. The gray coloration derived not from some locally dark soil, as Jon-Tom first thought, but from the effluent pouring out of pipes and gutters. The raw sewage abraded much of the initial glamor he’d come to associate with Polastrindu.
Flor’s expression twisted in disgust. “Surely it’s not this bad in the city.”
“I sure hope not.” Talea sniffed once, tried to close down her sense of smell.
“It is said that the larger the town, the dirtier the habits of its citizens.” Caz trod lightly on the filthy paving lest it sully the supple leather of his enormous shoes. “This derives from the concentration of the inhabitants on the making of money. Fastidiousness follows financial independence, not hard work.”
One narrow stone arch bridged an open trench. As they crossed, the stench nearly knocked Flor unconscious. Jon-Tom and Caz had to help her across. Once past she was able to stand by herself and inhale deep drafts of only partly tainted air.
“Mierda, what a smell!”
“It should be less overwhelming once we are inside the city gate.” Clothahump did not sound particularly apologetic. “There we will be away from the main sewer outfalls.”
A rattling warning fell on them as Pog dipped close. “Master, soldiers come from da gate. Maybe dat overfly patrol wasn’t so indifferent as it seemed. Maybe we in for some trouble.”
Clothahump waved him away as one might a large housefly. “Very good, Pog, but you worry overmuch. I will deal with them.”
It was a well armed if motley-looking knot of soldiers that soon came into view, marching toward them. Between twenty and thirty, Jon-Tom guessed. He slipped his club-staff from its lacings and leaned on it expectantly. Other hands drifted in the vicinity of sheathed swords. Mudge made a show of inspecting his bow.
The troop was led by a heavily armored beaver, a thickset individual with a no-nonsense gleam in his eyes. Catching sight of the column, sailors and stevedores scattered for cover. While at first they had ignored the newcomers, they now shied from them as if they carried plague.
Boots, sandals, and naked feet generated a small rumble of retreat as other onlookers scurried for safety. Ten soldiers detached themselves with forced casualness from the main body. They quick-marched to the left to get behind the newcomers and cut off any possible retreat.
“That doesn’t look promising.” Jon-Tom’s grip tightened on the staff as he watched the maneuver.
“Easy, my friend.” The imperturbable Caz stepped forward. “I will handle this.”
“They would not dare to attack us,” said an outraged Clothahump. “I am an emissary to the Council of Wizards and as such my person is inviolable and sacred.”
“Don’t tell me, good sir,” said Caz, gesturing at the nearing troops. “Tell them.”
Now the walls had become menacing instead of beautiful. Their stone towers cast threatening shadows over the travelers. From ships and other places of concealment the mutterings of watchful sailors and merchants could be heard.
Finally the main body of soldiers drew up in a crescent facing them. Their leader stepped forward, pushed his helmet back on his furry forehead with a muscular paw, and studied them curiously. In addition to his chain mail, helmet, and thicker steel plates protecting particularly vulnerable places there was an unusual moon-shaped iron plate strapped to the thick, broad tail. It was studded with sharp spikes and would make a devastating weapon if it came to close-quarter fighting.
“Well,” he said, speaking with a distinct lisp, “what have we here? Two gianth, a tough-looking little female”—Talea spat at the ground—“a dithreputable otter type, a fop, and an elderly gentleman of the amphibian perthuathion.”
“Good sir.” Caz bowed slightly. “We are travelers from downriver on a mission that is of great importance to Polastrindu and the world.”
“Thath motht interethting. Whom do you reprethent?”
“By and large we represent ourselves for now, primarily in the person of the great wizard Clothahump,” and he gestured toward the impatient turtle. “He carries information vital to our survival that he must present to the city council.”
The beaver was casually twirling an ugly skull-splitter of a mace, indifferent to where the spike-studded ball might land.
“Thath all very nice, but it remainth that you’re not citithenth of thith city or county. At leatht, I athum you are not. Unleth of courth you can produth your identity chith.”
“Identity chits?�
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“Everyone who liveth in the county or thity of Polathrindu hath an identity chith.”
“Well, since we don’t come from the county or city of Polastrindu, as you’ve just been informed, obviously we don’t have any such thing,” Jon-Tom said in exasperation.
“That doth not nethetherily follow,” said the beaver. “We get many vithitoth. They all have properly thtamped identity chith. To be freely admitted to the thity all you have to do ith apply for and rethieve your proper chith.” He smiled around enormous teeth. “I will be happy to provide you with thorn.”
Jon-Tom relaxed a little. “Good. We’ll need theven.”
“You very funny, big man. Thinth you have thuch a good thenth of humor, for your party it will cotht only”—the beaver performed some silent cogitation—”theven hundred silver pietheth.”
“Seven hundred… !” Clothahump sputtered all over the pavement. “That’s extortion! Outright robbery! I am insulted. I, the great and wise and knowing Clothahump, have not been so outraged in a hundred years!”
“I believe that our leader,” said Caz quietly, “is somewhat disinclined to pay. Now if you will just convey word of our arrival to your superiors, I am sure that when they know why we have come—”
“They won’t hear why you have come,” broke in the beaver, “until you pay up. And if you don’t pay up, they won’t hear why you were overcome.” He grinned again. His huge teeth were badly stained by some dark brown liquid. “Actually, ith eighty silver pietheth per party for identity cardth, but my men and I have to make a living of thorn kind, don’t we? A tholdierth pay ith pretty poor.”
There were angry murmurs of agreement from the troops standing behind him.
“We will depart peacefully then,” said Caz.
“I don’t think tho,” said the beaver. The ten soldiers who had detached themselves earlier now moved in tightly behind the travelers, blocking their path. “I don’t want you going around to the other gateth.”
Flor whispered to Mudge, “Are all your cities so hospitable?”
Mudge shrugged. “Where there’s wealth, luv, there’s corruption. There’s a lot of wealth in Polastrindu, wot?” He eyed the soldiers nervously.
The Spellsinger Adventures Volume One: Spellsinger, the Hour of the Gate, and the Day of the Dissonance Page 28