Spellsinger by Alan Dean Foster

  "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.

  Some of them were already fingering swords and clubs in anticipation of a little corrective head-bashing. They looked healthy and well fed, if not especially hygienic.

  " 'Ere now, your wizardship, why don't we just pay up? These blokes look as though they'd rather 'ave themselves a good massacre than anythin' else. If we wait much longer we won't 'ave ourselves much o' a choice."

  "I will not pay." Clothahump obstinately adjusted his spectacles. "Besides, I can't remember that asinine silver spell."

  "You won't pay, eh?" The beaver waddled over until he was glaring eye to eye with the turtle. "Tho you're a great withard, eh? Leth thee how much of a withard you really are," and he flipped the mace around, snapped his wrist, and struck Clothahump square on the beak.

  The sorcerer let out a startled cry and sat down hard. "Why you impudent young whelp!" He fumbled for his glasses, which had been knocked loose but not broken. "I shall show you who is a wizard. I will disembowel you, I'll... !"

  "Port armth!" the beaver barked. Instantly a cluster of spears and clubs was pointed at the travelers. The officer said sourly, "I've had jutht about enough of thith foolithneth. I don't know who you are, where you come from, or what kind of game you're trying to play with me, but we don't take kindly to vagranth here. Ith dragged off to the thellth you're to be, and methily, too, unleth you come up with thorn cash."

  There was stone wall to his right and sharp steel ahead and behind, but nothing blocked Jon-Tom's path as he'd worked his way to the water's edge. He cupped his hands and yelled desperately, "Falameezarrrr!"

  "What, thereth more of you then?" The beaver's whiskers twitched as he turned to face the stagnant water. "Where ith thith one? Hiding on a boat? Ith going to cotht you another hundredth silver piethes. I'm growing tired of thith. You'll pay me right now or elth..." and he twirled the mace menacingly.

  A great tired creaking drowned out the last words of the threat as two ships were bodily shouldered aside. Dock planking gave under irresistible pressure from below. A huge black head emerged from beneath, trailing water and shattered boards. Great claws dug into broken stone, and coal-eyes glared down at the group.

  The beaver stared open-mouthed up at the wet, shiny teeth clashing just above him. "D-d-d-d-!" He never did get the whole word out, but managed to outwaddle half his subordinates in the race for the main gate.

  Sailors hastily abandoned their ships in the mad rush for the gate. Vendors and merchants abandoned their stocks and wharfside businesses in favor of drier territory. There was panic on the city wall as rudely awakened troops ran into one another in their rush to take up defensive positions.

  The now solitary band of travelers put up their own weapons.

  "A timely appearance, comrade," said Jon-Tom. "I'd hoped you might still be nearby, but I had no idea it would be quite this near."

  Falameezar gazed at the terrified faces peeking over the top of the wall. "What is wrong with them?" He was more curious than angry. "I heard your call and came as promised, but I thought they surely would treat you as fellow comrades-in-arms in the great struggle to come."

  "Yes, but you recall what I told you about the presence of counterrevolutionaries?" Jon-Tom said darkly.

  "Oho, so that's it!" Falameezar let out a furious hiss and a trio of small shops burst into flame.

  "Careful. We just want to get inside, not burn the city down."

  A massive tail lashed at the water and instantly put out the small fires, though he did the innocent shops no more good than had the flames.

  "Keep your anger in check, Falameezar," Jon-Tom advised. "I'm sure we'll have this all straightened out as soon as we can get to talk with the city's commissars."

  "I should certainly think so!" said the dragon huffily. "The idea of letting counterrevolutionaries interdict innocent travelers."

  "It's hard to tell the true revolutionaries from their secretive enemies."

  "I suppose that's so," the dragon admitted.

  "There might be even worse yet to come," Jon-Tom informed him as they all sashayed across the stones toward the now tightly barred wooden gate.

  "Like what, comrade?"

  Jon-Tom whispered, "Revisionists."

  Falameezar shook his head and muttered tiredly, "Is there no decency left in the world?"

  "Just keep your temper under control," Jon-Tom told him. "We don't want to accidentally incinerate any honest proletarians."

  "I will be careful," the dragon assured him, "but inside I am trembling with outrage. Yet even a filthy revisionist can be reedueated."

  "Yes, it's clear that the formation of instructional cadres should be a priority here," Jon-Tom agreed.

  The city of Polastrindu had suddenly taken on the aspect of a ghost town. At the dragon's continued approach all interested faces had vanished from the wall. Only an occasional spear showed itself, and that was the only sign of movement.

  Jon-Tom could feel the eyes of hidden sailors and stevedores on his back, but there was nothing to worry about from that quarter. In fact, so long as Falameezar remained with them there was little to fear from anywhere.

  He glanced at Caz. The rabbit smiled and nodded back at him. Being the one in control of the dragon, it behooved Jon-Tom to do the talking. So he marched up to the gate and rapped arrogantly on the wood.

  "Captain of the Gate, show yourself!" When there was neither a reply nor hint of movement from within, he added, "Show yourself or we'll burn down your gate and make you Captain of Ashes!"

  There were sounds of argument from within. Then a slight groaning of wood as the massive portal opened just wide enough to permit the egress of a familiar figure. The gate shut quickly closed behind him.

  "That's better." Jon-Tom eyed the beaver, who looked considerably less belligerent now. "We were discussing something about 'identity chits'?"

  "They're being prepared right now," the officer told him, his gaze continually darting up at the glowering crimson-eyed face of the dragon.

  "That's nice. There was also the matter of a large number of silver pieces?"

  "No, no, no. Don't be ridiculouth. And abthurd mithunderthanding!"

  A moment later a grateful expression came over his face as the gate opened again. He disappeared inside and came back with a handful of tiny metal rectangles. Each was stamped with tiny symbols and a few words.

  "Here we are." He passed them out quickly. "You are to have your own nameth engraved here." He indicated a wide blank place on each chit. "At your leithure, of courth," he added obsequiously.

  "But there are only seven chits here." The beaver looked confused. "Remember, by your own recognition there are now eight in our party."

  "I don't underthand," said the nervous officer. He nodded slightly in Falameezar's direction. "Thurely that ith not coming into the thity?"

  "A bourgeois statement if ever I heard one!" The dragon leaned close enough for the smell of brimstone and sulfur to overpower the odor of spilling sewage. That he could swallow the officer in one snap was a fact not lost on that worthy.

  "No, no... a mithunderthanding, thath all. I... I'm truly thorry, thir dragon. I didn't realize you were a part of thith party... not jutht... if you'll excuth me, pleath!" He back-pedaled through the opening faster than Jon-Tom would have believed those bandy legs could carry him.

  Several minutes went by this time before he reappeared. "The latht chit," he said, panting as he preferred the freshly stamped metal plate.

  "I'll take charge of it." Jon-Tom slipped it into a shirt pocket. "And
now if you'd be so kind as to open the gate?"

  "Open up in there!" yelled the officer. The newcomers strolled through. Falameezar had to duck his head and barely succeeded in squeezing through the opening.

  They found themselves in a deserted courtyard. Hundreds of anxious eyes observed them from behind dozens of barely opened windows.

  Huge stone structures marched off in all directions. As in Lynchbany, they gave the impression of dozens of smaller buildings that had grown together, only here the scale was larger. The city had the appearance of a gray sand castle. Some of the structures were six and seven stories tall. Ragged apartment buildings displayed odd windows and individual balconies.

  The streets they could see were much wider than in provincial Lynchbany, though overhanging porches and window boxes made them appear narrower. The street that opened into their courtyard led to the harbor gate. It was only natural that it be wider than most. Undoubtedly the city possessed its share of alleys and closes.

  Evidence of considerable traffic abounded, from the worn domes of the cobblestones that projected like the bald skulls of buried midgets to the huge piles of discarded trash. Several dozen stalls ringed the courtyard square.

  Jon-Tom suspected that until a little while ago these had been crowded with busy vendors hawking wares to sailors and shoppers alike. A few salespeople still cowered within, too weak or too greedy to flee. Some of the frightened faces were furry, a few humanly smooth.

  "Look at 'em, ashrinkin' behind their bellies." Mudge made insulting faces at the half-hidden onlookers, feeling quite invulnerable with the bulk of Falameezar immediately behind him. "Welcome to wonderful Polastrindu. Pagh! The streets stink, the people stink. Sooner we've done with this business and can get back to the clean forest, the better this 'ere otter'll like it." He cupped his hands and shouted disdainfully.

  "You 'ear me, you quiverin' cowardly buggers! Yer 'ole city sucks! Want to argue about it?"

  No one did. Mudge looked satisfied, turned to face Jon-Tom. "What now, mate?"

  "We must meet with the local sorcerers and the city council," said Clothahump firmly, "during which meeting you will do me the pleasure of restraining your adolescent outpourings."

  "Ah, they deserve it, guv."

  "Council?" That ominous rumble came from a quizzical Falameezar.

  "Council of commissars," explained Jon-Tom hastily. "It's all a matter of semantics."

  "Yes, of course." The dragon sounded abashed.

  Looking around, Jon-Tom spotted the beaver hovering uncertainly in a nearby doorway. "You there, come here." The officer hesitated as long as possible.

  "Yes, you!"

  Reluctantly he emerged. Halfway across the square, perhaps conscious of all the eyes watching him from numerous windows, he seemed to regain some of his former pride and dignity. If he was going to his death, seemed to be his thinking, then he might as well make a good showing of it. Jon-Tom had to admire his courage, belated though it might be.

  "Very well," the beaver told him calmly. "You've bullied your way into my city."

  "Which was necessary only because you tried to bully us outside," Jon-Tom reminded him. "Let's say we're even now. No hard feelings."

  The beaver shot a whiskery glance at the quiescent form of Falameezar before staring searchingly back at Jon-Tom.

  "You mean that, thir? You are not going to take your revenge on me?"

  "No. After all," Jon-Tom added, hoping to gain a local ally, "you were only doing your duty as you, uh, saw it."

  "Yeth. Yeth, thath right." The officer was still reluctant to believe he wasn't being set up and that Jon-Tom's offer of friendship was genuine.

  "We have no grudge against you, nor against any citizen of Polastrindu. We're here to help you."

  "And every sentient inhabitant of our warmland world," Clotha-hump added self-importantly.

  The officer grunted. Clearly the beaver preferred talking with Jon-Tom, though staring up at the towering human hurt his short neck.

  "What then can I do to be of thervith to you, my friend?"

  "You could arrange for us to meet with the city council and military administrators and the representatives of the wizards of this region," Jon-Tom informed him.

  The beaver's eyes widened. Massive incisors clicked against lower teeth. "Thath quite a requetht, friend! Do you have any idea what you're athking?"

  "I'm sorry if it's going to be difficult for you, but we can't settle for anything less. We would not have traveled all this way unless it was on a matter of critical importance."

  "I can believe that. But you got to underthand I'm jutht a thubof-fither. I'm not in a pothition to--"

  Shouts came from behind him. Several of his soldiers were emerging from the door behind which they'd taken refuge and pointing up the main street.

  An elaborate sedan chair was approaching. It was borne aloft by six puffing mice. They hesitated at their first view of Falameezar, but shouts from inside the chair and the crack of the shrewish driver's whip forced them onward. The shrew was elegantly dressed in lace and silk, complete to lace cap.

  The chair halted a modest distance away. The three-foot-tall driver descended rapidly and opened the door, bowing low. The abused bearers slumped in their harnesses and fought to catch their breath. They'd apparently run most of the way.

  The individual who emerged from the vehicle was clad in armor more decorative than functional. It was heavily gilded, befitting its owner's high station and haughty demeanor. He appraised the situation in the square and ambled over.

  Open paw slapping across his chest, the beaver saluted sharply as the newcomer neared. A faint wave from the other was all the acknowledgment he gave the officer.

  "I am Major Ortrum, Commandant of the City Guard," the raccoon said unctuously. He managed the considerable feat of ignoring Falameezar as he talked to the rest of the arrivals.

  The dragon caught Jon-Tom's attention. The youth edged back alongside the black bulk while the raccoon recited some sort of official greeting in a bored voice.

  "Those poor fellows there," said the dragon angrily, nodding toward the exhausted bearers of the sedan chair, "appear to me the epitome of the exploited worker. And I don't care for the looks of this one now talking."

  Jon-Tom thought very fast. "I expect they take turns. That's only fair."

  "I suppose," said the dragon doubtfully. "But those workers," and he indicated the panting mice, "are all of the same kind, while the speaker is manifestly different."

  "Yeah... but what about the driver? He's different, too."

  "Yes, but... oh, never mind. It is my suspicious nature."

  Too suspicious by half, Jon-Tom thought, breathing a mental sigh of relief at having once again buffaloed the dragon. He hoped to God the Major didn't take his leave by kicking one or two of the bearers erect.

  "I gather," the raccoon was saying, inhaling a choice bit of snuff, "that you are here on some silly sort of important mission?"

  "That's true." Clothahump eyed the Major distastefully.

  "Ah, you must be the wizard who was mentioned to me." Ortrum performed a smooth, aristocratic bow. "I defer to one who has mastered the arcane arts, and to whom all must look up to." There was a short, sharp guffaw from the bat fluttering overhead, but Clothahump's opinion of the Major underwent a radical change.

  "At last, someone who recognizes the worth of knowledge! Maybe now we will get somewhere."

  "That will depend," said the Major. "I am told you seek an audience of the council, the military, and the sorceral representatives as well?"

  "That's right," said Mudge, "an' if they know wot's good for them they'll give us a hard listen, they will."

  "Or... ?"

  "Or..." Mudge looked helplessly at Clothahump.

  "A crisis that threatens the entire civilized world looms closer every day," said the wizard. "To counter it will require all the resources of the warmlands."

  "Understand that I do not dispute your word, knowledge
able sir," the Major said, closing his silver snuffbox, "but I am ill prepared to consider such matters. Therefore I suppose you must have your audience. You must realize how difficult it will be to gather all the notables you require in a brief period of time."

  "Nevertheless, it must be done."

  "And at the audience you will of course substantiate all your claims."

  "Of course," said the turtle irritably.

  Jon-Tom took note of the implied threat. There was more to Major Ortrum than met the eye, or the nose. It took considerable bravery to stand there showing apparent disregard for the massive presence of Falameezar. Even Jon-Tom himself, at first sight, made many of the locals pause.

  Then it occurred to him that bravery might have nothing to do with it. He wondered at the contents of the snuffbox. Major Ortrum might be stoned out of his socks.

  "It will take a little time."

  "As soon as possible, then," said Clothahump with a harrumph of impatience.

  "Naturally, you will give me the particulars of this supposed threat, so that the sorcerers at least will know, excuse my boldness sir, that they are not being dragged from their burrows and dens to confront only the ravings of a senile fraud." He put up a mollifying hand. "Tut, tut, sir. Think a moment. Surely you yourself would want some assurance if the positions were reversed?"

  "That seems reasonable enough. The wizards of the greater territories are a supercilious bunch. They must be made to understand the danger. I will give you such information as will be sufficient to induce them to attend the audience." He hunted through his plastron.

  "Here, then." He removed a handful of tiny scrolls. "These are curse-sealed."

  "Yes, I see the mark," said the raccoon as he carefully accepted them.

  "Not that it would matter if you saw their contents," Clothahump told him. "All the world will know soon enough. But there are certain snobbish types who would resent the intrusion of mere laymen into sorceral affairs."

  "Rest assured they will not be tampered with," said the Major with a fatuous smile. He placed the scrolls in his side purse.

  "Now to less awesome matters. It is growing late. Surely you must be tired from the day's work"--he eyed the unfortunate beaver sharply--"and from your extensive journeying. Also, it would help settle the populace if you would retire."