The Spellsinger Adventures Volume One by Alan Dean Foster
“I’ve never seen anything done with quite that … well, with quite that degree of perverse dexterity.”
“Ah, I understand now. Though perverse I wouldn’t call it. Crikey, but that was a thing of great beauty.”
“If you say so, I guess it was.” Jon-Tom was grateful for the out.
“Aye.” Mudge growled softly and smiled. “And if I could once get my paws on that supple little mother-dear, I’d show ’er a thing of beauty.”
The thick, warm atmosphere of the restaurant had combined with the rich food and drink to make Jon-Tom decidedly woozy. He was determined not to pass out. Mudge already did not think much of him, and Clothahump’s warnings or no, he wasn’t ready to bet that the otter would stay with him if he made a total ass of himself.
Determinedly he shoved the mug away, rose, and glanced around.
“What be you searchin’ for now, mate?”
“Some of my own kind.” His eyes scanned the crowd for the sight of bare flesh.
“What, ’umans?” The otter shrugged. “Aw well, never ’ave I understood your peculiar affinity for each other’s company, but you’re free enough to choose your own. Espy some, do you?”
Jon-Tom’s gaze settled on a pair of familiar bald faces in a booth near the rear of the room. “There’s a couple over that way. Two men, I think.”
“As you will, then.”
He turned his attention down to the otter. “It’s not that I’m not enjoying your companionship, Mudge. It’s just that I’d like one of my own kind to talk to for a while.”
His worries were groundless. Mudge was in entirely too good a mood to be offended by anything.
“Wotever you like, mate. We’ll go and ‘ave a chat then, if that’s wot you want. But don’t forget we’ve still the little matter o’ settlin’ you on some proper course o’ employment.” He shook his head more to clear it than to indicate displeasure.
“Minstrel … I don’t know. There might still be the novelty factor.” He scratched the fur just under his chin. “Tell you what. Give us another song and then we’ll go over and see if we can’t make the acquaintance o’ those chaps.”
“I thought you’d heard enough the first time.”
“Never go on first appearances, mate. Besides, ’twas a damn blue and gloomy tune you let out with. Try somethin’ different. Many’s the minstrel who well mangles one type o’ tune yet can warble clearly another.”
Jon-Tom sat down again, linked his fingers, and considered. “I don’t know. What would you like to hear? Classical, pop, blues, jazz?” He tried to sound enthusiastic. “I know some classical, but what I really always wanted to do was sing rock. It’s a form of popular music back where I come from.”
“I don’t know either, mate. ’Ow ’bout ballads? Everyone likes ballads.”
“Sure.” He was warming again to his true love. “I know a number of ’em. What subject do you like best?”
“Let me think on it a minute.” Actually, it was only a matter of seconds before a gleam returned to the black eyes, along with a smile.
“Never mine,” Jon-Tom said hastily. “I’ll think of something.”
He thought, but it was hard to settle on any one song. Maybe it was the noise and smell swirling around them, maybe the aftereffects of the meal, but words and notes flitted in and out of his brain like gnats, never pausing long enough for him to get a grip on any single memory. Besides, he felt unnatural singing without his trusty, worn Grundig slung over his shoulder and across his stomach. If he only had something, even a harmonica. But he couldn’t play that and sing simultaneously.
“Come on now, mate,” Mudge urged him. “Surely you can think o’ something?”
“I’ll try,” and he did, launching into a cracked rendition of “Strawberry Fair,” but the delicate harmonies were drowned in the bellowing and hooting and whistling that filled the air of the restaurant.
Nonetheless, he was unprepared for the sharp blow that struck him between the shoulderblades and sent him sprawling chest-down across the table.
Angry and confused, he turned to find himself staring into a ferocious dark brown face set on a stocky, muscular body as tall as Mudge’s but more than twice as broad… .
VI
THE SNAKESKIN BERET and red bandana did nothing to lessen the wolverine’s intimidating appearance.
“Sorry,” Jon-Tom mumbled, uncertain of what else to say.
The face glared down at him, powerful jaws parting to reveal sharp teeth as the lips curled back. “You ban not sorry enough, I think!” the creature rumbled hollowly. “I ban pretty sorry for your mother, she having much to listen to a voice like that. You upset my friends and my meal.”
“I was just practicing.” He was beginning to feel a mite indignant at the insults. The warmth of the roast was still with him. He failed to notice the queasy expression that had come over Mudge’s face. “It’s difficult to sing without any music to accompany me.”
“Yah, well, you ban practice no more, you hear? It ban hurt my ears.”
Mudge was trying and failing to gain Jon-Tom’s attention. Jon-Tom rose from his seat to tower over the shorter but more massive animal. It made him feel better, giving proof once again to the old adage about the higher, the mightier. Or as the old philosopher said, witness the pigeon’s tactical advantage over man.
However the wolverine was not impressed. He gazed appraisingly up and down Jon-Tom’s length. “All that voice tube and no voice. Maybe you ban better at singing in harmony, yah? So maybe I put one half neck here and the other half across the table,” and powerful clawed hands reached for Jon-Tom’s face.
Dodging nimbly, Jon-Tom slipped around the table, brought up his staff, and swung the straight end down in a whistling arc. Having had plenty to consume himself, the wolverine reacted more slowly than usual. He did not quite get both hands up in time to defend himself, and the staff smacked sharply over one set of knuckles. The creature roared in pain.
“Look, I don’t want any trouble.”
“You stick up for your rights, mate!” Mudge urged him, beginning a precipitous retreat from the vicinity of the table. “I’ll watch and make sure it be a fair fight.”
“Like hell you will!” He held the staff tightly, trying to divide his attention between the wolverine and the otter. “You remember what Clothahump said.”
“Screw that!” But Mudge hesitated, his hand fumbling in the vicinity of his chest sword. Clearly he was sizing up the tense triangle that had formed around the table and debating whether or not he stood a better chance of surviving Clothahump’s vengeful spell-making than the wolverine and his friends. The latter consisted of a tall marten and a chunky armadillo who displayed a sword hanging from each hip belt. Of course, carrying weapons and knowing how to use them were two different matters.
They were rising and moving to flank the wolverine and gazing at Jon-Tom in a decidedly unfriendly manner. The wolverine himself had regained his composure and was sliding an ugly-looking mace from the loop on his own belt.
“Steady on, mate,” the otter urged his companion, sword out and committed now.
The wolverine was bouncing the spiked iron head of the mace up and down in one palm, gripping the handle with the other. “Maybe I ban wrong about that harmony.” He eyed the man’s throat. “Maybe I ban eliminate that voice altogether, yah?” He started forward, encountered a waiter who started to curse him, then saw the mace and fled into the crowd.
“Is too crowded in here though. I tink I meet you outside, hokay?”
“Hokay,” said Jon-Tom readily. He moved as if to leave, got his right hand under the edge of the table, and heaved. Table, drinks, remnants of their greasy meal and platterware showered down on the wolverine, his companions, and several unsuspecting occupants of other tables. The innocent bystanders took exception to the barrage. One of the wolverine’s associates side-stepped the flying table and jabbed his sword at the otter’s face. Mudge ducked under the marten’s thrust and kept his
Among those who had received the dubious decorations proffered by Jon-Tom’s action were a pair of female coatis whose delicacy of shape and flash of eye were matched by the outrage in their voices. They had drawn slim rapiers and were struggling to join the fray.
Jon-Tom had moved backward and to his left, this being the only space still not filled with potential combatants, and was quickly joined by Mudge. They continued backing until they upset another table and its patrons. This instituted a chain reaction which led with astonishing rapidity to a general mayhem that threatened to involve every one in the establishment.
Only the chefs and bartenders kept their calm. They remained invulnerable behind their protective circular counter, defending liquor and food as assiduously as they had the honor and person of their gleaming white star performer. Only when some stumbling battler intruded on their territorial circle did their heavy clubs come into play. Waiters and waitresses huddled behind this front line of defense, casually making book on the outcome of the fight or downing drinks intended for otherwise occupied patrons.
The fight whirlpooled around this central bastion of calm as the room was filled with yelps and meows, squeaks and squeals and chirps of pain and outrage.
It was an arboreal that almost got Jon-Tom. He was effectively if unartistically using his long staff to fend off the short sword thrusts of an outraged pika when Mudge yelled, “Jon-Tom … duck!”
As it was, the bola-wielding mallard missed his neck but got his weapon entangled in the club end of Jon-Tom’s staff. He shoved down hard on it. In order to remain airborne the fowl had to surrender his weapon, but not without dropping instead a stream of insults on the tall human. Jon-Tom had time to note the duck’s kilt of orange and green. He wondered if the different kilt colors signified species or some sort of genus-spanning clan equivalent.
There was little time for sociological contemplation. The marten had recovered from Mudge’s low blow and was moving to put the sharp edge of his blade through Jon-Tom’s midsection. Instinctively he tilted the staff crosswise. The club end came over and around. It missed the agile marten, but the entangled bird’s bola caught around the weasel’s neck.
Dropping his sword, he pulled the device free of the staff and stumbled away, fighting to free his neck from the strangling cord. Jon-Tom, momentarily clear of attackers, hunted through the crowd for his companion.
Mudge was close by, kicking furniture in the way of potential assailants, throwing mugs and other eating utensils at them whenever possible, avoiding hand-to-hand combat wherever he could.
Jon-Tom took no pride, felt no pleasure in his newfound capacity for violent self-defense. If he could only get out of this dangerous madhouse and back home to the peace and quiet of his little apartment! But that distant, familiar haven had receded ever farther into memory, had reached the point where it existed only as misty history compared to the all too real blood and fury surrounding him.
Thank God, he thought frantically, fending off another attacker, for Clothahump’s ministrations. Even a well-bandaged wound would have broken open again by now, but he felt nothing in his formerly injured side. He was well and truly healed. That would not save him if one of many sword or pike thrusts punctured him anew. The indiscriminate nature of the fighting was more frightening than anything else now. It was impossible to tell potential friend from foe.
In vain he looked across the milling crest of the fight for the entrance. It was seemingly at least a mile away across an ocean of battling fur and steel. A desperate examination of the room seemed to show no other exit save via the central bastion of the bar and food counter, whose defenders were not admitting refugees. That left only the windows, an idea the panting Mudge quickly quashed.
“Blimey, mate, you must be daft! That glass be ’alf an inch thick in places and thicker where ’tis beveled. I’d sooner take a sword thrust than slice meself t’ bloody ribbons on that.
“There be an alley out back. Let’s make our way in that direction.”
“I don’t see any doors there,” said Jon-Tom, straining to see past the rear booths.
“Surely there’s a service entryway. I’ll settle now meself for a garbage chute.”
Sure enough, they eventually discovered a single low doorway hidden by stacks of crates and piles of garbage. The close-packed mob made progress difficult, but they forced their way slowly toward the promise of freedom and safety. Only Jon-Tom’s overbearing height enabled them to keep their goal in view. To the other brawlers he must have looked like an ambling lighthouse.
Already his shining snakeskin cape was torn and bloodstained. Better it than me, he thought gratefully. It was not a pretty riot. The only rules were those of survival.
He passed one squirrel prone on the floor, tail sodden and matted with blood. His left leg was missing below the knee. So much blood and spilled drink and food had accumulated on the floor, in fact, that one of the greatest dangers was losing one’s footing on the increasingly treacherous planking.
Jon-Tom watched as a cape-clad coyote picked over the unconscious form of a badly bleeding fox. While his attention was thus temporarily diverted, someone grabbed his left arm. He turned to swing the staff one-handed or jab as was required. So far he hadn’t been forced to utilize the concealed spearpoint and hoped he’d never have to.
The figure that had grabbed him was completely swathed in maroon and blue material. He could discern little of the figure save that the mostly hidden face seemed to be human. The short figure tugged hard and urged him back behind a temporary wall formed by a trio of fat porcupines, who, for self-evident reasons, were having little trouble fending off any combatant foolish enough to come close.
He decided there was time later for questions, since the figure was pulling him toward the haven promised by the back door, and that was his intended destination anyway.
“Hurry it up!” Though muffled by fabric the voice was definitely human. “The cops have been called and should be here any second.” There was a decided undertone of real fear in that warning, the reason for which Jon-Tom was to discover soon enough.
Visions of hundreds of furry police swarming through the crowd filled his thoughts. From the size and breadth of the conflict he guessed it would take at least that number several more hours to quell the fighting. He was reckoning without the ingenuity of Lynchbany law enforcement.
Mudge, upon hearing of the incipient arrival of the gendarmes, acted genuinely terrified.
“That’s fair warnin’, mate,” he yelled above the din, “and we’d best get out or die trying.” He redoubled his efforts to clear a path to the door.
“Why? What will they do?” He swung his staff in a short arc, brought it up beneath the chin of a small but gamely threatening muskrat who was swinging at Jon-Tom’s ankles with a weapon like a scythe. Fortunately, he’d only nicked one trouser leg before Jon-Tom knocked him out. “Do they kill people here for fighting in public?”
“Worse than that.” Mudge was nearly at the back door, fighting to keep potential antagonists out of sword range and the invulnerable porcupines between himself and the rest of the mob. Then he shouted frantically.
“Quickly—quick now, for your lives!” Jon-Tom thought it peculiar the otter had not sought the identity of their concealed compatriot. “They’re here!”
From his position head-and-shoulders high above the crowd Jon-Tom could see across to the now distant main entrance. He also noted with concern that the chefs and bartenders and waiters had vanished, abandoning their stock to the crowd.
Four or five figures of indeterminate furry cast stood inside the entryway now. They wore leathern bonnets decorated with flashing ovals of metal. Emblems on shoulder vests glinted in the light from the remaining intact lamps and the windows. There was a crash, and he saw that unmindful of the danger Mudge had outlined,
Then he was following the strange figure and Mudge out through the door. As they turned to slam and bar it with barrels behind them he had a last glimpse across the room as the police took action against the combatants within. This was accompanied by a whiff of something awful beyond imagining and concentrated beyond the power of man or beast to endure.
It weakened him so badly that he barely had strength enough to heave his not-yet-digested dinner all over the far wall. It helped his pride if not his stomach to see that the momentary smell had produced the same effect on Mudge and the maroon-clad stranger. As he knelt in the alley and emptied his nausea-squeezed guts, the pattern he’d glimpsed on the arriving police came back to him.
Then they were all up and stumbling, running down the cobblestoned alley, the mist still dense around them and the smell of garbage like perfume compared to that which was fading with merciful speed behind them.
“Very … efficient, though I’m not so sure I’d call it humane, even if no one is killed.” He clung tightly to his staff, using it for support as they slowed a little.
“Aye, mate.” Mudge jogged steadily alongside him, behind the long-legged stranger. Occasionally he gave a worried, disgusted glance back over a shoulder to check for possible pursuit. None materialized.
“Indecent it is. You only wish you were dead. It be that way in every town, though. ’Tis clean and there’s no after caterwaulerin’ about accidental death or police brutalness and such. There’s worse things than takin’ an occasional sword in the side, though. Like puking to death.
“Makes it a good thing for the skunks, though. I’ve never seen a one of those black and white offal that lacked a good job in any township. ’Tis a brother and sisterhood sort of comradeship they ’ave, which is well for ’em, since none o’ the common folk care for their companionship. They keep the peace, I suppose, and keep t’ themselves.” He shuddered. “And keep in mind, mate, that we were clean across the room from ’em. Those by the front will likely not touch food for days.” Several small lizards left their claimed bit of rotting meat, skittered into a hole in the wall while the refugees hurried past, then returned to their scavenging.