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

by Alan Dean Foster

  “Fat lot of good those supplies do us now,” Jon-Tom muttered.

  Jalwar was rummaging through a pile of broken crates. “Here.” He dragged out their backpacks. “I was able to throw these from our rooms while they were still searching for us below. It was all I had time to save.”

  Jon-Tom wiped grime from his own pack. “Jalwar, you’re a wonder. Thanks.”

  “A small service, sir.” Jon-Tom didn’t bother to correct the ferret anymore. Let him say “sir” if it pleased him. “I only wish I could have informed you sooner, but I could not follow your path quickly enough.” He smiled apologetically. “These aged legs of mine.”

  “It wouldn’t have mattered. We were occupied with saving Folly.”

  “What now?” Roseroar wondered as she hefted her own massive pack.

  Jon-Tom considered. “We can’t hang around here. Now the cops have two reasons for picking us up. They might go easy on us over the Friends of the Street business, but not about this. For one thing, that officer in charge is a little too chummy with the citizens Mudge cheated. I’m not anxious to tour the inside of Snarken’s prison.”

  “Give me a break, mate,” whined the otter. “If you ’adn’t been so set on goin’ after ’er”—he pointed toward Folly—“we’d ’ave cleared this dump ’ours ago.” He glared disgustedly at the girl. “I blame meself for it, though. Should’ve kept me concerns to meself.” He added hopefully, “We could still sell ’er.”

  “No.” Jon-Tom put an arm around her shoulders. “Folly stays with us until we can find her a safe haven.”

  “I could suggest something,” she murmured softly. He moved his arm.

  “Right then,” he said briskly. “No point in hanging around here waiting for the cops to find us.” He started back the way they’d come. Mudge followed, kicking at the garbage.

  “Suits me, mate. Looks now like we’re goin’ to ’ave to walk all the way to this bleedin’ Crancularn. Might as well get going. Only don’t let’s go spend the ’ole trip blamin’ poor ol’ Mudge for the fact that we ain’t ridin’ in comfort.”

  “Fair enough. And you don’t blame me for this.” So saying, he booted the otter in the rump so hard it took Roseroar’s strength to extract him from the pile of barrels where he landed.

  They slunk out of Snarken on foot—tired, anxious, and broke. Mudge grumbled every step of the way but acknowledged his mistake (sort of) by assuming the lead. It was also a matter of self-defense, since it kept him well out of range of Jon-Tom’s boot.

  Mudge also partly redeemed himself by returning from one short disappearance with an armful of female clothing, a bit of doubtful scavenging which Jon-Tom forced himself to rationalize.

  “Lifted it from a drunken serval,” the otter explained as Folly delightedly traded her black nightdress for the frilly if somewhat too-small attire. “The doxy I took it off won’t miss it, and we’ve need of it.”

  They moved steadily through the city’s outskirts. By the time the sun rose over the horizon to illuminate the now distant harbor, they were crossing the highest hill westward. There they traded some goods from Jon-Tom’s pack for breakfast at a small inn, as he wanted to try and hold on to their three remaining gold pieces for an emergency. Midday saw them far from the city, hiking between rows of well-tended fruit trees.

  Mudge was rubbing his belly. “Not bad for foreign cookin’, mate.”

  “No, but we’re going to have to eat lightly to conserve what money we have left.”

  “We could sell the girl’s favors.”

  “Not a bad idea,” Jon-Tom said thoughtfully.

  Mudge looked at him in surprise. “Wot’s that? You agrees?”

  “Sure, if it’s okay with her.” He called ahead. “Hey, Roseroar! Mudge here has a suggestion about how you can help us raise some cash.”

  “No, no, no, mate!” said the suddenly panicky otter. “I meant the girl, the girl.”

  Jon-Tom shrugged. “Big girl, little girl, what’s the difference?” He started to call out to the tigress a second time. Mudge slammed a muffling paw over Jon-Tom’s mouth, having to stand on tiptoes to manage it.

  “Okay, guv’nor. I get your point. I’ll keep me ideas to meself.”

  “See that you do, or I’ll repeat your suggestion to Roseroar.”

  “I’d deny ’avin’ anything to do with it.”

  “Sure you will, but who do you think she’ll believe, me or you?”

  “That’d be a foul subterfuge, mate.”

  “In which inventions I have an excellent teacher.”

  Mudge wasn’t flattered by the backhanded compliment.

  They marched steadily westward. As the days passed the character of the country grew increasingly rural. Houses were fewer and far between. Semitropical flora made way for coniferous forest that reminded Mudge of his beloved Bellwoods. The palms and thin-barked trees of the coast fell behind them.

  They asked directions of the isolated travelers they encountered. All inquiries were met with expressions of disbelief or confessions of ignorance. Everyone seemed to know that Crancularn lay to the west. Exactly where to the west, none were able to say with certainty.

  Besides, there was naught to be found in Crancularn but trouble, and the country folk had no need of more of that. They were busy enough avoiding the attentions of Snarken’s predatory tax collectors.

  In short, Crancularn was well-known, by reputation if not by sight, and that reputation was not enticing to potential visitors.

  Two days after the road had become a mere trail, they settled down to enjoy the bright sunshine. A clear stream followed the track, tumbling glassily on its course down to the now distant Glittergeist. An octet of commune spiders were busy building a six-foot-square web between two trees. They would share equally in any catch.

  Jon-Tom studied the pinecone that had fallen near his feet. It was long and slim, and the scales shone like bronze. Mudge had slipped out of his boots and was wading the stream, wishing it were deep enough for him to have a swim, while Jalwar had wandered into the woods in search of berries and edible roots to supplement their meager diet. Roseroar catnapped beneath an evergreen whose trunk grew almost parallel to the ground, while Folly, as always, stayed as close to Jon-Tom as he would allow.

  “Don’t look so discouraged,” she said. “We’ll get there.”

  Jon-Tom was picking at the cone, tossing the pieces into the stream and watching the little triangular brown boats until they disappeared over slick stones.

  “How can we get there if nobody can give us directions? ‘West’ isn’t good enough. I thought it would be easy once we got out of Snarken. I thought at least a few of the country folk would know the way to Crancularn. From what Clothahump told me, this store of the Aether and Neither is supposed to be pretty famous.”

  “Famous enough to avoid,” Folly murmured.

  “Some of them must be lying. They must be. I can’t believe not a soul knows the way. Why won’t they tell us?”

  Folly looked thoughtful. “Maybe they’re concerned and want to protect us from ourselves. Or maybe none of them really do know the way.”

  “Mebbee they don’t know the way, boy, because it moves around.”

  “What?” Jon-Tom looked back to see an old chipmunk standing next to a botherbark bush. He pressed against the small of his back with his left paw and gripped the end of a curved cane with the other. Narrow glasses rested on the nose, and an ancient floppy hat nearly covered his head down to the eyes. A gray shirt hung open to the waist, and below he wore brown dungarees held up by suspenders. He also had very few teeth left.

  “What do you mean, it moves around?” Roseroar looked up interestedly and moved to join them. The chipmunk’s eyes went wide at the sight and Jon-Tom hurried to reassure him.

  “That’s Roseroar. She’s a friend.”

  “That’s good,” said the chipmunk prosaically. Mudge turned to listen but was reluctant to abandon the cool water.

  The oldster leaned again
st the tree for support and waved his cane. “I mean, it moves around, sonny. It never stays in the same place for very long.”

  “That’s crazy,” said Folly. “It’s just another town.”

  “Oh, it’s a town, all right, but not like any other, lass. Not Crancularn.” He peered out from beneath the brim of his hat at Jon-Tom. “Why thee want to go there, tall man?”

  “We need something from there. From a store.”

  The chipmunk nodded. “Aye, the Shop of the Aether and Neither.”

  “Then you’ve heard of it!” Jon-Tom said excitedly. “We need something, a certain medicine, that can only be purchased in that store.”

  The oldster grunted, though it came out as more of a rusty squeak. “Well, that’s thy business.”

  “Please, we’ve come a long way. From across the Glittergeist. We need directions. Specific directions.”

  Another grunt-squeak. “Long way to come to make fools of thyselves.”

  “It’s not for us. A friend of mine, a teacher and a great wizard, is very sick and badly needs this medicine. If you can tell us how to get to Crancularn, we’ll pay you, somehow.”

  The oldster shook his head sadly. “I’d tell thee if I could, boy, but I can’t help you. I don’t know where Crancularn is.” Jon-Tom slumped. “But there’s them that do. Only, I wouldn’t be the one to go asking them.”

  “Let us worry about that,” said Jon-Tom eagerly. “Who are they?”

  “Why, the enchanted ones, of course. Who else?”

  “Enchanted ones?”

  “Aye, the little people of the magic. The fairy folk. You know.”

  Folly’s eyes were wide with childlike wonder. “When I was a little girl, I used to hear stories of the fairy folk. My mother used to tell me.” She went very quiet and Jon-Tom tried to rush the conversation to take her thoughts off more recent memories.

  “Where would we find these fairy folk?” The thought of meeting real honest-to-Tinker Bell fairies was enough to motivate him. Getting directions to Crancularn would be a bonus.

  “I wouldn’t advise anyone to risk such an encounter, sonny, but I can see that thee art determined.” He indicated the steep slope behind them. “They hide in the wet ravines and steep canyons of these hills, keeping to themselves. Don’t much care for normal folk such as us. But thee art human, and it is said that they take human form. Perhaps thee will have better luck than most. Seek the places where the water runs deep and clear and the rocks are colored so dark they are almost black, where the moss grows thick above the creeks and …”

  “’Ere now, grandpa.” Mudge spoke from his rocky seat out in the stream. “This ’ere moss, it don’t ’ave no mental problems now, do it?”

  The chipmunk frowned at him. “How could mere moss have mental problems?”

  Mudge relaxed. Their near-disastrous experience in the Muddletup Moors was still fresh in his mind. “Never mind.”

  The chipmunk gave him an odd look, turned back to Jon-Tom. “Those are the places where thee might encounter the fairy folk. If thee must seek them out.”

  “It seems we’ve no choice.” Rising, Jon-Tom turned to inspect the tree-fringed hillside.

  The elderly chipmunk resumed his walk. “I wish thee luck, then. I wish thee luck. Thee will need it to locate the enchanted ones, and thee will need it even more if thee do.”

  The ridge above gave way to a heavily wooded slope on the far side that grew progressively steeper. Soon they were fighting to maintain their balance as they slipped and slid down the dangerous grade.

  At least, Jon-Tom and Roseroar were. With their inherent agility and lower centers of gravity, Jalwar and Mudge had no difficulty at all with the awkward descent, and Folly proved lithe as a gibbon.

  A stream ran along the bottom of the narrow gorge. It was broader than the one they’d left behind, but not deep enough to qualify as a river. Moss and many kinds of ferns clung to logs and boulders. Insects hummed in the cool, damp air while dark granite and schist soaked up the rays of the sun.

  They spent most of the day searching along the creek before deciding to move on. An insurmountable waterfall forced them to climb up the far side of the gorge. They topped the next ridge, climbed down still another slope where they camped for the night.

  By the afternoon of the following day they were exploring their fourth such canyon. Jon-Ton was beginning to think that the fairy folk were a myth invented by an especially garulous old rodent to amuse himself at the expense of some gullible travelers.

  They were finishing up a late meal when Mudge suddenly erupted from his seat on a thick patch of buttery yellow flowers. His bark of surprised pain echoed down the creek.

  Everyone jumped. Roseroar automatically reached for her swords. Folly crouched ready to run while Jalwar’s fur bristled on his neck. Jon-Tom, who was more familiar with the otter’s overreactions, left his staff alone.

  “What the hell bit you?”

  Mudge was trying to inspect his backside. “Somethin’ sure as ’ell did. ’Ere, Folly, be a good girl and see if I’m bleedin’?” He turned to her and bent slightly.

  She examined the area dominated by the short, stubby tail and protected by leather shorts. “I don’t see anything.”

  “’Ave a close look.”

  “You fuzzy pervert.” She gave him a look of disgust as she moved away.

  “No, really. Not that I deny the accusation, luv, but somethin’ took a chunk out o’ me backside for sure.”

  “Liar! What would I do with a chunk of you?”

  The voice was high but firm and came from the vicinity of the flowerbed. Jon-Tom crawled over for a close look, searching for the source of the denial.

  Tiny hands parted the stalks, which were as yellow as the thick-petaled flowers, and he found himself staring at something small, winged, feminine, and drastically overweight.

  “I’ll be damned,” he murmured. “A fat fairy.”

  “Watch your mouth, buster,” she said as she sort of lumbered out lightly until she was standing on a broken log. The log was brown with red longitudinal stripes running through the bark. “I know I’ve got a small personal problem, and I don’t need some big-mouthed human reminding me of the fact.”

  “Sorry.” Jon-Tom tried to sound contrite. “You are a fairy, aren’t you? One of the enchanted folk?”

  “Nah,” she snapped back, “I’m a stevedore from Snarken.”

  Jon-Tom studied her closely. Her clothing resembled wisps of spun gossamer lavender candy. A miniature tiara gleamed on her head. Long hair trailed below her waist. The tiara had been knocked askew and covered one eye. She grunted as she struggled to straighten it. In her right hand she clutched a tiny gold wand. Her wings were shards of cellophane mottled with thin red stripes.

  “We were told,” Folly said breathlessly, “that you could help us.”

  “Now, why would I want to do that? We’ve got enough problems of our own.” She stared at Jon-Tom. “That’s a nice duar. You a musician, bright boy?”

  “’E’s a spellsinger, and a right powerful one, too,” Mudge informed her. “Come all the way from across the Glittergeist to fetch back medicine for a sick sorcerer.”

  “He’s a right powerful fool,” she snapped. She sat down heavily on the log, her legs spread wide in a most casual and unladylike manner. Jon-Tom estimated her to be about four inches high and almost as wide.

  “I’m called Jon-Tom.” He introduced his companions. An uneasy silence ensued and he finally asked, “What’s your name?”

  “None of your business.”

  “Come on,” he said coaxingly. “Whether you help us or not is up to you, but can’t we at least be polite to one another?”

  “What’s this? A polite human? That doesn’t make any sense, bald-body.” She shrugged. “What the hell. My name’s Grelgen. Want to make something of it?”

  “Uh, no.” Jon-Tom decided he was going to have to tread very carefully with this pint-size package of enchanted belligerence.
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  “Smart answer. You got anything to eat?”

  Jalwar started to rummage through his pack. “I think we have some snake jerky, and there are a few hard rolls.”

  “Ptui!” She spat to her right. “I mean real food. Fruit tarts, cream cups, nectar custard, whipped honey rolls.”

  Jon-Tom said carefully, “I think I am beginning to see what your problem is.”

  “Oh, you are, are you, fungus-foot? You think everything’s cut and dried, don’t you? It’s all so obvious to you.” She was pacing now, back and forth atop the log, waving her tiny hands to punctuate her words.

  “Say, you can’t fly, can you?”

  She turned to face him. “Of course I can fly, dumbutt.” She wiggled her diaphanous wings. “What do you think these are for? Air-conditioning?”

  “All right, then let’s see you fly. Come on, fly.”

  “Feh! You’d think I didn’t have anything better to do than put on a show for a bunch of pituitary freaks.”

  “You can’t fly!” Jon-Tom said triumphantly. “That’s your big problem. You’ve gotten so …”

  “Watch it, jack,” she said warningly.

  “… so healthy that you can’t lift off anymore. I wouldn’t think it would make a difference. A bumblebee’s too heavy for flight, but it manages, and without enchantment.”

  “I’m a fairy, one of the enchanted folk,” Grelgen informed him, speaking as one would to an idiot child. “Not a bumblebee. There are structural, aerodynamic, and metabolic differences you wouldn’t understand. As for problems, you’re the ones who are stuck with the biggie.”

  She stabbed the wand at Mudge. “That turkey tried to assassinate me!”

  Mudge gaped in surprise. “Wot, me? I did nothin’ o’ the kind, your shortness.”

  “You sat on me, rat-breath.”

  “Like ’ell I did! You crawled underneath me. Anyways, ’ow was I supposed to see you or anything else under all them flowers?”

  Grelgen crossed her arm. “I was sitting there minding my own business, having a little afternoon snack of nectar and pollen, and you deliberately dropped your rat-butt right on top of me.”