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

by Alan Dean Foster

  They reached the third level and began to follow the numbers engraved above each sealed portal. Only four chambers from the stairway they’d ascended was a surprise: the corridor was blocked. Also guarded.

  Instead of the lumbering beetle they’d encountered at the entrance to the palace they found a slim, almost effeminate-looking insect seated behind a desk. Other armed Plated Folk stood before the temporary barrier sealing off the hall beyond.

  Unlike their drilling brothers marching single-mindedly outside, these guards seemed alert and active. They regarded the new arrivals with unconcealed interest. There was no suspicion in their unyielding faces, however. Only curiosity.

  It was Clothahump who spoke to the individual behind the desk, and not Caz.

  “We have come to make adjustments to the mind,” he told the individual behind the desk, hoping he had gauged the source correctly and hadn’t said anything fatally contradictory.

  The fixed-faced officer preened one red eye. He could not frown but succeeded in conveying an impression of puzzlement nonetheless.

  “An adjustment to the mind?”

  “To Eejakrat’s Materialization.”

  “Ah, of course, citizen. But what kind of adjustment?” He peered hard at the encased wizard. “Who are you, to be entrusted with access to so secret a thing?”

  Clothahump was growing worried. The more questions asked, the more the chance of saying something dangerously out of sync with the facts.

  “We are Eejakrat’s own special assistants. How else could we know of the mind?”

  “That is sensible,” agreed the officer. “Yet no mention was made to me of any forthcoming adjustments.”

  “I have just mentioned it to you.”

  The officer turned that one over in his mind, got thoroughly confused, and finally said, “I am sorry for the delay, citizen. I mean no insult by my questions, but we are under extraordinary orders. Your master’s fears are well known.”

  Clothahump leaned close, spoke confidentially. “An attribute of all who must daily deal with dark forces.”

  The officer nodded somberly. “I am glad it is you who must deal with the wizard and not myself.” He waved aside the guards blocking the doorway in the portable barrier. “Stand aside and let them pass.”

  Caz and Talea were the first through the portal when the officer suddenly put out an arm and touched Clothahump. “Surely you can satisfy the curiosity of a fellow citizen. What kind of ‘adjustment’ must you make to the mind? We all understand so little about it and you can sympathize with my desire to know.”

  “Of course, of course.” Clothahump’s mind was working frantically. How much did the officer actually know? He’d just confessed his ignorance, but mightn’t it be a ploy? Better to say anything fast than nothing at all. His only real worry was that the officer might have some sorceral training.

  “Please do not repeat this,” he finally said, with as much assurance as he could muster. “It is necessary to apfrangle the overscan.”

  “Naturally,” said the officer after a pause.

  “And we may,” the wizard added for good measure, “additionally have to lower the level of cratastone, just in case.”

  “I can understand the necessity for that.” The officer grandly waved them through, enjoying the looks of respect on the faces of his subordinates while praying this visitor wouldn’t ask him any questions in return.

  They proceeded through the portal one by one. Jon-Tom was last through and hesitated. The officer seemed willing enough.

  “It’s still in the same chamber, of course.”

  “Number Twelve, yes,” said the officer blandly.

  Clothahump fell back to match stride with Jon-Tom. “That was clever of you, my boy! I was so preoccupied with trying to get us in that I’d forgotten how difficult it would be to sense past Eejakrat’s spell guards. Now that is no longer a constraint. You cannot teach deviousness,” he finished pridefully. “That is instinctive.”

  “Thank you, sir. I think. What kind of corpse do you think it is?”

  “I cannot imagine. I cannot imagine a dead brain functioning, either. We shall know soon enough.” He was deciphering the symbols engraved above each circular doorway. The guarded barrier had long since disappeared around the continuous curve of the hallway.

  “There is number ten… and there eleven,” he said excitedly, pointing to the door on their right.

  “Then this must be twelve.” Talea stopped before the closed door.

  It was no larger than any of the others they’d passed. The corridor nearby was deserted. Clothahump stepped forward and studied the wooden door. There were four tiny circular insets midway up the left side. He inserted his four insect arms into them and pushed.

  The spring mechanism that controlled the door clicked home. The wood split apart and inward like two halves of an apple.

  There was no light in the chamber beyond. Even Caz could see nothing. But Pog saw without eyes.

  “Master, it’s not very large, but I think dat dere’s something…” He fluttered near a wall, struck his sparker.

  A lamp suddenly burst into light. It revealed a bent and very aged beetle surrounded by writhing white larval forms. Startled, it glared back at them and muttered an oath.

  “What is it now? I’ve told Skrritch I’m not to be disturbed unless… unless…” His words trailed away as he stared fixedly at Clothahump.

  “By the Primordial Arm! A warmlander wizard!” He turned to a siphon speaker set in the wall nearby. “Guards, guards!” The maggots formed a protective, loathesome semicircle in front of him.

  “Quick now,” Caz yelled, “where is it?” They fanned out into the chamber, hunting for anything that might fit Clothahump’s description.

  One insectoid, one mammalian, the two wizards faced each other in silent summing up. Neither moved, but they were battling as ferociously as any two warriors armed with sword and spear.

  “We’ve got to find it fast,” Flor was muttering, searching a corner. “Before…”

  But hard feet were already clattering noisily in the corridor outside. Distant cries of alarm sounded in the chamber. Then the soldiers were pouring through the doorway, and there was no more time.

  Jon-Tom saw something lying near the back wall that might have been a long, low corpse. An insect shape stepped up behind him and raised a cast-iron bottle high. Just before the bottle came down on his head it occurred to him that the shape wielding it was familiar. It wasn’t one of the insect guards who’d just arrived. Before he blacked out under the impact he was positive the insectoid visage was that concealing Talea’s. The realization stunned him almost as badly as the bottle, which cracked his own false forehead and bounced off the skull beneath. Darkness returned to the chamber.

  When he regained consciousness, he found he was lying in a dimly lit, spherical cell. There was a drain in the center, at the bottom of the sphere. The light came from a single lamp hanging directly over the drain. It was windowless and humid. Moss and fungi grew from the damp stones, and it was difficult to keep from sliding down the sloping floor. Compared to this, the cell they’d been temporarily incarcerated in back in Gossameringue had been positively palatial.

  No friendly Ananthos would be appearing here to rectify a mistaken imprisonment, however.

  “Welcome back to the world of the living,” said Bribbens. Good times or bad, the boatman’s expression never seemed to change. The moisture in the cell did not bother him, of course.

  “I should’ve stayed on my boat,” he added with a sigh.

  “Maybe we all ought to ‘ave stayed on your boat, mate,” said a disconsolate Mudge.

  It occurred to Jon-Tom that Bribbens looked like himself. So did Mudge, and the other occupants of the cell.

  “What happened to our disguises?”

  “Stripped away as neatly as you’d peel an onion,” Pog told him. He lay morosely on the damp stones, unwilling to hang from the fragile lamp.

  Clothahump w
as not in the cell. “Where’s your master?”

  “I don’t know, I don’t know,” the bat moaned helplessly. “Taken away from us during da fight. We ain’t seen him since, da old fart.” There was no malice in the bat’s words.

  “It was Eejakrat,” Caz said from across the cell. His clothing was torn and clumps of fur were missing from his right cheek, but he still somehow had retained his monocle. “He knew us for what we were. I presume he has taken special care with Clothahump. One sorcerer would not place another in an ordinary cell where he might dissolve the bars or mesmerize the jailers.”

  “But what he doesn’t know is that we still have the services of a wizard.” Flor was looking hopefully at Jon-Tom.

  “I can’t do anything, Flor.” He dug his boot heels into a crack in the floor. It kept him from sliding down toward the central drain. “I need my duar, and it was strapped to the inside back of my insect suit.”

  “Try,” she urged him. “We’ve nothing to lose, verdad? You don’t need instrumental accompaniment to sing.”

  “No, but I can’t make magic without it.”

  “Give ’er a shot anyway, guv’nor,” said Mudge. “It can’t make us any worse than we are, wot?”

  “All right.” He thought a moment, then sang. It had to be something to fit his mood. Something somber and yet hopeful.

  He was fonder of rock than country-western, but there was a certain song about another prison, a place called Folsom, where blues of a different kind had also been vanquished through music. It was full of hope, anticipation, whistles, and thoughts of freedom.

  Mudge obligingly let out a piercing whistle. It faded to freedom through the bars of their cell, but whistler and singer did not. No train appeared to carry them away. Not even a solitary, curious gneechee.

  “You see?” He smiled helplessly, and spread his hands. “I need the duar. I sing and it spells. Can’t have one without the other.” The question he’d managed to suppress until now could no longer rest unsatisfied.

  “We know what probably happened to Clothahump.” He looked at the floor, remembering the descending iron bottle. “Where’s Talea?”

  “That puta!” Flor spit on the moss. “If we get a chance before we die I’ll disembowel her with my own hands.” She held up sharp nailed fingers.

  “I couldn’t believe it meself, mate.” Mudge sounded more tired than Jon-Tom had ever heard him. Something had finally smashed his unquenchable spirit. “It don’t make no bloomin’ sense, dam it! I’ve known that bird off an’ on for years. For ’er t’ do somethin’ like this t’ save ’er own skin, t’ go over t’ the likes o’ these. . . I can’t believe it, mate. I can’t!”

  Jon-Tom tried to erase the memory. That would be easier than forgetting the pain. It wasn’t his head that was hurting.

  “I can’t believe it either, Mudge.”

  “Why not, friend?” Bribbens crossed one slick green leg over the other. “Allegiance is a temporary thing, and expediency the hallmark of survival.”

  “Probably what happened,” said Caz more gently, “was that she saw what was going to happen, that we were going to be overwhelmed, and decided to cast her lot with the Plated Folk. We know from firsthand experience, do we not, that there are human allies among them. I can’t condemn her for choosing life over death. You shouldn’t either.”

  Jon-Tom sat quietly, still not believing it despite the sense in Caz’s words. Talea had been combative, even contemptuous at times, but for her to turn on companions she’d been through so much with… Yet she’d apparently done just that. Better face up to facts, Jon boy. “Poor boy, you’re goin’ t’ die,” as the song lamented.

  “What do you suppose they’ll do with us?” he asked Mudge. “Or maybe I’d be better just asking ‘how’?”

  “I over’eard the soldiers talkin’. I was ’alf conscious when they carried us down ’ere.” Mudge smiled slightly. “Seems we’re t’ be the bloody centerpiece at the Empress’ evenin’ supper, the old dear. ’Eard the ranks wagerin’ on ’ow we was goin’ t’ be cooked.”

  “I sincerely hope they do cook us,” Caz said. “I’ve heard tales that the Plated Folk prefer their food alive.” Flor shuddered, and Jon-Tom felt sick.

  It had all been such a grand adventure, marching off to save civilization, overcoming horrendous obstacles and terrible difficulties. All to end up not as part of an enduring legend but a brief meal. He missed the steady confidence of Clothahump. Even if unable to save them through wizardly means, he wished the turtle were present to raise their spirits with his calm, knowledgeable words.

  “Any idea what time it’s to be?” The windowless walls shut out time as well as space.

  “No idea.” Caz grinned ruefully at him. “You’re the spellsinger. You tell me.”

  “I’ve already explained that I can’t do anything without the duar.”

  “Then you ought to have it, Jon-Tom.” The voice came from the corridor outside the cell. Everyone faced the bars.

  Talea stood there, panting heavily. Flor made an inarticulate sound and rushed the barrier. Talea stepped back out of reach.

  “Calm yourself, woman. You’re acting like a hysterical cub.”

  Flor smiled, showing white teeth. “Come a little closer, sweet friend, and I’ll show you how hysterical I can be.”

  Talea shook her head, looked disgusted. “Save your strength, and what brains you’ve got left. We haven’t got much time.” She held up a twisted length of wrought iron: the key.

  Caz had left his sitting position to move up behind Flor. He put furry arms around her and wrestled her away from the bars.

  “Use your head, giantess! Can’t you see she’s come to let us out?”

  “But I thought…” Flor finally took notice of the key and relaxed.

  “You knocked me out.” Jon-Tom gripped the bars with both hands as Talea fumbled with the key and the awkward lock. “You hit me with a metal bottle.”

  “I sure did,” she snapped. “Somebody had to keep her wits about her.”

  “Then you haven’t gone over to the Plated Folk?”

  “Of course I did. You’re not thinking it through. I forgive you, though.”

  She was whispering angrily at them, glancing from time to time back up the corridor. “We know that some humans have joined them, right? But how could the locals know which humans in the warmlands are their allies and which are not? They can’t possibly, not without checking with their spies in Polastrindu and elsewhere.

  “When the fighting began I saw we didn’t have a chance. So I grabbed a hunk of iron and started attacking you alongside the guards. When it was finished they accepted my story about being sent along to spy on you and keep track of the expedition. That Eejakrat was suspicious, but he was willing to accept me for now, until he can check with those warmland sources. He figured I couldn’t do any harm here.” She grinned wickedly.

  “His own thoughts are elsewhere. He’s too concerned with how much Clothahump knows to worry about me.” She nodded up the corridor. “This guard’s dead, but I don’t know how often they change ’em.”

  There was a groan and a metallic snap. She pushed and the door swung inward. “Come on, then.”

  They rushed out into the corridor. It was narrow and only slightly better lit than the cell. Several strides further brought them up before a familiar silhouette.

  “Clothahump!” shouted Jon-Tom.

  “Master, Master!” Pog fluttered excitedly around the wizard’s head. Clothahump waved irritably at the famulus. His own attention was fixed on the hall behind him.

  “Not now, Pog. We’ve no time for it.”

  “Where’ve they been holding you, sir?” Jon-Tom asked.

  Clothahump pointed. “Two cells up from you.”

  Jon-Tom gaped at him. “You mean you were that close and we could’ve…”

  “Could have what, my boy? Dug through the rocks with your bare hands and untied and ungagged me? I think not. It was frustrating, however, to hear
you all so close and not be able to reassure you.” His expression darkened. “I am going to turn that Eejakrat into mousefood!”

  “Not today,” Talea reminded him.

  “Yes, you’re quite right, young lady.”

  Talea led them to a nearby room. In addition to the expected oil lamps the walls held spears and shields. The furnishings were Spartan and minimal. A broken insect body lay sprawled beneath the table. Neatly piled against the far wall were their possessions: weapons, supplies, and disguises, including Jon-Tom’s duar.

  They hurriedly helped one another into the insect suits.

  “I’m surprised these weren’t shattered beyond repair in the fight,” Jon-Tom muttered, watching while Clothahump fixed his cracked headpiece.

  The wizard finished the polymer spell-repair. “Eejakrat was fascinated by them. I’m sure he wanted me to go into the details of the spell. He has similar interests, you know. Remember the disguised ambassador who talked with you in Polastrindu.”

  They stepped quietly back out into the corridor. “Where are we?” Mudge asked Talea.

  “Beneath the palace. Where else?” It was strange to hear that sharp voice coming from behind the gargoylish face once again.

  “How can we get out?” Pog murmured worriedly.

  “We walked in,” said Caz thoughtfully. “Why should we not also walk out?”

  “Indeed,” said Clothahump. “If we can get out into the square we should be safe.”

  XIV

  THEY WERE SEVERAL levels below the surface, but under Talea’s guidance they made rapid progress upward.

  Once they had to pause to let an enormous beetle pass. He waddled down the stairs without seeing them. A huge ax was slung across his back and heavy keys dangled from his belts.

  “I don’t know if he’s the relief for our level or not,” Talea said huskily, “but we’d better hurry.”

  They increased their pace. Then Talea warned them to silence. They were nearing the last gate.

  Three guards squatted around a desk on the other side of the barred door. A steady babble of conversation filtered into the corridor from the open door on the far side of the guard room as busy workers came and went. Jon-Tom wondered at the absence of a heavier guard until it came to him that escape would be against orders, an action foreign to all but deranged Plated Folk.