The Spellsinger Adventures Volume One

  Mudge let out a sharp, barking laugh. “Now, wot would you know about ’er type, mate? I didn’t know wot ’er ‘type’ was, and I’ve forgotten more about women of more species than you’ll ever think on.”

  “She’s just not the type, Mudge,” Jon-Tom insisted. “This city’s as new to her as it to us, and we’re the only friends or security she’s got.”

  “A type like that,” said Roseroar disdainfully, “can find friends wherevah she goes.”

  “She just wouldn’t run off like that, without saying anything. Maybe you’re right, Mudge. Maybe she does want to strike off on her own, but she’d have told us first.”

  “Wot for?” wondered Mudge sarcastically. “To spare you from worryin’ about ’er? Maybe she don’t like long good-byes. Not that it matters. You’ve seen ’ow big this town is. Wot can we do about it?”

  “Wait until morning,” Jon-Tom said decisively. “We can’t do much without sleep, and it’ll be good to sleep on something that doesn’t roll and pitch.”

  “Me sentiments exactly, mate.”

  “In the morning we’ll make some inquiries. You’re good at making inquiries, Mudge. Like finding that orang to tell us the way to Crancularn.”

  “Cor, some ’elp ’e was.” He pointed wildly backward. “That way! ’Ow ’elpful! That may be the most I can find out about the girl. I don’t know why you bother, mate. I thought the main thing was gettin’ that dope back to Clothy-wothy.”

  “Check on the girl first. She may be in some kind of trouble. I’ll let her go her own way, but I want to make sure that’s what she wants. I want her to say it to me.”

  Mudge looked disgusted. “It’s your funeral, mate. Just don’t make it mine, too.”

  They slept soundly. In the morning they began checking the clothing stores in the area. Yes, a girl of that description had been into several of the shops and then had moved on. The trail halted abruptly at the eighth shop. Beyond it, Folly had not been seen.

  “Face it, mate, she’s gone off on ’er lonesome.”

  “One last try.” Jon-Tom nodded toward the corner, where a pair of uniformed skunks were lounging. Civil patrol, just as in Lynchbany, where their particular anatomical capabilities made them the logical candidates for the police service. It was simple for them to control an angry mob or recalcitrant prisoner through nonviolent means. Jon-Tom would much rather be beaten up.

  The cops turned as he approached, taking particular note of the heavily armed Roseroar.

  “Trouble, strangers?” one of the police inquired.

  “No trouble.” Both striped tails relaxed, for which Jon-Tom was grateful. “We’re looking for someone. A companion, human female of about mid-to-late adolescence. Attractive, blonde fur. She was shopping in this area last night.”

  The cops looked at each other. Then the one on the left raised a hand over his head, palm facing the ground. “About so tall?”

  “Yes!” Jon-Tom said excitedly.

  “Wearing funny sort of clothes, dark blue pants?”

  “That’s her!” Suddenly he remembered who he was talking to. “What happened to her?”

  “Not much, as far as I know. We were just coming on duty.” He turned to gesture up a steep street. “Was about four blocks up that way, two to the left. She was out cold when we stumbled over her. Friend of yours, you say?”

  Jon-Tom nodded.

  “Well, we tried to bring her around and didn’t have much luck. It was pretty plain what had happened to her. The pockets of her pants and blouse had been ripped open and she had a lump here,” he touched his head near his left ear, “about the size of a lemon.”

  “Somebody rolled ’er,” said Mudge knowledgeably.

  “My fault,” said Jon-Tom. “I thought she’d be okay.” He stared at Mudge.

  “Hey, don’t be mad at me, mate. I didn’t slug ’er.”

  “She kept saying she could take care of herself.”

  “I thought ’er mouth was bigger than ’er brain,” the otter commented sourly. “Take care o’ ’erself, wot? Not by ’alf.” He turned to the cop. “Wot ’appened to ’er, then?”

  “We relayed it in.” He glanced at his partner. “Do you know what headquarters did with her afterwards?” The other skunk shrugged and the first looked thoughtful. “Let me think.”

  “Hospital,” Jon-Tom suggested. “Did they send her to a hospital?”

  “Not that bad a bump, stranger. She was half-conscious by the time we got her into the station. Kept moaning about her mother or something. She didn’t have a scrap of identification on her, I remember that. Also kept mumbling for someone named—” he fought to recall, “Pompom?”

  “Jon-Tom. That’s me.”

  “She couldn’t tell us where you were … that sock on the head rattled her pretty good, I’d think … and the name meant nothing to us. Weird as it was, we thought she was still off her nut. Mid-adolescent, you said?” He nodded. “I thought she looked underage for a human. Now I remember what happened to her. Social Services took her in. Several groups put in a claim and the Friends of the Street won.”

  “Yeah, that’s right,” said his partner. “I saw that on the report sheet.”

  “Who are the Friends of the Street?” Jon-Tom asked.

  “Kind of like an orphanage, stranger,” the cop explained.

  He turned and pointed. “They’re up on Pulletgut Hill there. Never been there myself. No reason. But that’s where she was taken. I expect she’ll be okay. From what I hear it’s a well-run, sober, clean place.”

  Mudge put a consoling paw on Jon-Tom’s arm. “See, mate? ’Tis all worked out for the best.”

  “Yes,” growled Roseroar. “Let’s get on with this quest of yours, Jon-Tom. The girl’s in the kind of place best suited to helpin’ her.”

  Jon-Tom listened to all of them, surprised Jalwar by asking for his opinion.

  “Since you request the thoughts of a humble servant, I have to say that I agree with your friends. Undoubtedly the young woman is now among those her own age, being cared for by those whose business it is to succor such unfortunates. We should be about our business.”

  Jon-Tom nodded. “You’re probably right, Jalwar.” He looked at Mudge and Roseroar. “You’re probably all right.” He eyed the senior of the two cops. “You’re sure this is a decent place?”

  “The streets of Snarken are full of homeless youth. We bag ’em all the time. So there are many orphanages. Some are supported by taxes, others are private. If I remember aright, the Friends of the Street are among the private organizations.”

  “Okay, okay,” Jon-Tom grumbled, out-reasoned as well as outvoted.

  “So when do we leave, mate?”

  “Tomorrow morning, I suppose, if you think you can lay in enough supplies by tonight.”

  “Cor, can a fish fry? Leave ’er to me, mate. You and the cat-mountain and the old bugger get yourselves back to the inn. Relax and suck in the last o’ the sea air. Leave every thin’ to ol’ Mudge.”

  Jon-Tom did so, and was rewarded that evening by the sight of not one but two large, comfortable wagons tied up outside the inn. They were piled high with supplies and yoked to two matched horned lizards apiece, the kind of dray animals who could handle smooth roads or rough trails with ease.

  “You’ve done well,” Jon-Tom complimented the otter.

  Mudge appeared to be undergoing the most indescribable torture as he reached into a pocket and handed over three gold coins. “And ’ere’s the change, mate.”

  Jon-Tom hardly knew what to say. “I didn’t think there’d be this much. You’re changing, Mudge.”

  “Please don’t say anythin’, mate,” said the tormented otter. “I’m in pain enough as it is.”

  “Did you ever think of setting yourself up as a legitimate merchant, Mudge.”

  “Wot, me?” The otter staggered. “Why, I’d lose me self-respect, not to mention me card in the Lynchbany Thieves’ Guild! It’d break me poor mother’s ’eart, it would.”
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  “Sorry,” Jon-Tom murmured. “I won’t mention it again.

  Roseroar was giving the loads a professional inspection. “Ah take back everything ah said about yo, ottah. Yo’ve done a fine job o’ requisitionin’.” She turned to Jon-Tom. “Theah’s mo than enough heah to last us fo a journey of many months. He spent the gold well.”

  Mudge executed a low bow. “Thanks, tall, luscious, and unattainable. Now ’ow about a last decent meal before we’re back to eatin’ outdoor cooking?” He headed for the inn entrance.

  Jon-Tom held back, spoke sheepishly. “Look, I understand how you all feel and I respect your opinions, and you’re probably all right as rain and I’m probably wrong. I’ll understand if you all want to go in and eat and go to bed, but I’m not tired. I know it doesn’t make any sense, but I’m going up to this Friends of the Street place to make a last check on Folly.”

  Mudge threw up his hands. “’Umans! Now, wot do you want to go and waste your time with that for, mate? The girl’s a closed chapter, she is.”

  “A closed chapter,” Jalwar agreed, “with a happy ending. Leave it be. Why aggravate yourself?”

  “I won’t aggravate myself. It’ll just take a minute.” He plucked one string of his duar. “I owe her a farewell song and I want to let her know that we’ll probably be coming back this way, in case she wants to see us or anything.”

  “Pitiful,” Mudge mumbled. “Plumb pitiful. Right then, mate, come on. Let’s get it over with.”

  “You don’t have to come,” Jon-Tom reminded him. “What about your big supper?”

  “It’ll keep.” He took the man’s arm and urged him up the street. They climbed the first hill.

  “Look at it, mate. The night’s as black as the inside of a process-server’s ’eart.” He stared up the narrow, winding avenue. “You sure we can find this place?”

  Jon-Tom nodded. “It’s atop a hill. We can always ask directions. We’re not helpless.”

  “No,” said a new voice, startling them, “not now you’re not.”

  “Roseroar … you’re not hungry either?”

  “Ah’ve got a bellyfull of thunder,” she shot back, “but ah figured ah’d better come along to make sure you two don’t end up in an alley somewheres. Those muggahs may still be working this area.”

  “We can take care of ourselves, luv,” said Mudge.

  “Ah’m sure you can, but you can take better care o’ yourselves with me around.”

  Jon-Tom looked past her. She noticed the direction of his gaze. “Jalwah wanted to come, too, bless his heart, but there’s climbing to do and he’s more than a little worn out. He’ll wait fo us and keep a watch on our supplies.”

  “Fine,” said Jon-Tom, turning and starting to climb again. “We’ll be back soon enough.”

  “Aye, right quick,” Mudge agreed.

  But they were both wrong.

  X

  THE FRIENDS OF the Street occupied a complex of stone-and-mortar buildings atop a seaward-facing hillside. It was located in an area of comfortable individual homes and garden plots instead of the slum Jon-Tom expected.

  “Whoever endowed this place,” he told his companions as they approached the main entrance, “had money.”

  “And plenty o’ it,” Mudge added.

  Several long, narrow, two-story structures were linked together by protective walls. Blue tile roofs gleamed in the moonlight. Dim illumination flickered behind a couple of windows, but for the most part the complex was dark. That wasn’t surprising. It was late and the occupants should be in bed. Flowery wrought-iron trellises blocked the front doorway, but there was a cord to be pulled. Jon-Tom tugged on it, heard the faint echo of ringing from somewhere inside. Leaves shuffled in tall trees nearby. The thousand bright stars of Snarken electrified the shoreline far below.

  The door opened and a curious lady squirrel peeked out at them. She was elderly and clad entirely in black. Black lace decorated the cuffs of her sleeves. Hanging from her gray neck was a single golden medallion on a gold chain. Several letters had been engraved on it, but they were too small for Jon-Tom to make out.

  “Yes, what is it?”

  “Are you the master of this orphanage?” Jon-Tom asked.

  “Me?” She did not smile. “No. What do you wish with the Headmaster?” She was watching Roseroar carefully.

  “Just a couple of quick questions.” He put on his most ingratiating grin.

  “Office hours are from mid-morning to nightfall.” She moved to shut the door.

  Jon-Tom took a step forward, still wearing his grin. “We have reason to believe that an acquaintance of ours was recently—” he searched for the right word, “enrolled at the orphanage.”

  “You mean you don’t know for certain?”

  “No. It would have been within the last day.”

  “I see. Visiting hours are at nightfall only.” Again the attempt to close the door, again Jon-Tom rushed to forestall her.

  “Please, ma’am. We have to depart on a long difficult journey tomorrow. I just want a moment to assure myself that your institution is as admirable on the inside as it is from without.”

  “Well,” she murmured uncertainly, “wait here. The Headmaster is at his late-eve devotions. I will ask if he can see you.”

  “Thanks.”

  The wait that ensued was long, and after a while he was afraid they’d been given a polite brushoff. He was about to use the bell-pull a second time when she reappeared trailing an elderly man.

  As always, Jon-Tom was surprised to see another human in a position of authority, since they didn’t seem to be among the more prolific groups here. In Clothahump’s world mankind was just one of dozens of intelligent species.

  The man was only a few inches shorter than Jon-Tom, which made him unusually tall for a local. With the exception of a radically different cut, his attire was identical with that of the much smaller squirrel: all black with lace cuffs and the same golden medallion. He held his hands clasped in front of his chest. His gray hair was combed neatly back at sides and forehead. A gray goatee protruded from his chin, and he wore thin wire glasses with narrow lenses. To Jon-Tom he resembled a cross between Colonel Sanders and a contrabassoon.

  His smile and words both spoke of kindly concern, however. “Greetings. Welcome, strangers, to Friends of the Street.” He gestured toward the squirrel. “Ishula tells me you have a friend among our flock?”

  “We think so. Her name’s Folly.”

  The Headmaster frowned. “Folly. I don’t know that we have anyone staying with us by that … oh, yes! The young woman who was brought in the previous evening. She told us her terrible tale of being captured by pirates on the high seas. You are the ones she described as her rescuers, are you not?”

  “That’s right.”

  “To think that such awfulness is abroad in the world.” The Headmaster shook his head regretfully. “The poor girl has endured more than any intelligent creature should suffer.”

  Jon-Tom had to admit that so far all of his concerns and fears looked unjustified. Still, he couldn’t leave satisfied without at least a fast look at the facilities.

  “I know it’s late, and it’s cold out here. We have to leave on a long trip tomorrow, as I told your assistant. Could we come in for a moment and have a look around? We just want to make sure that Folly’s going to be well looked after. We place no claim on her and I’m sure she’ll be much better off here than with us.”

  “Why, certainly, do come in,” said the Headmaster. “My name is Chokas, by the way. Ishula, the gate.”

  The squirrel unlocked the iron grille as Jon-Tom made his own introductions.

  “Delighted, ah am sure,” said Roseroar as she ducked through the opening.

  They found themselves in a long white hallway. Chokas led them down the tiled corridor, chatting effusively and not at all upset by their presence or the lateness of the hour. The squirrel trailed behind, occasionally pausing to dust a bench or vase with her tail.


  Jon-Tom made polite responses to the Headmaster’s conversation, but he was only paying partial attention. The rest of him searched for indications of subterfuge or concealed maleficence. He was not rewarded.

  The corridor and the rooms branching off it were spotless. Decorative plants occupied eaves and niches or hung in planters from the beamed ceiling. There were skylights to admit the warmth of day. Without being asked, Chokas volunteered a further tour of the Friends of the Street. Beginning to relax, Jon-Tom accepted.

  Padded benches paralleled clean tables in the dining room, and the kitchen was as shiny as the hallway.

  “We pride ourselves on our hygiene here,” the Headmaster informed him.

  The larder was filled to overflowing with foodstuffs of every kind, suitable for sustaining the energetic offspring of many races. Beyond, the reason for the interlocking architecture became apparent. It circled to enclose a broad courtyard. Play areas were marked out beneath several bubbling fountains, and tall trees shaded the grounds.

  Roseroar bent to whisper to him. “Come, haven’t y’all seen enough? The girl will be well cared fo heah.”

  “I have to admit it’s not the kind of place I expected,” he confessed. “Hell, I’d be half-tempted to move in myself.” He raised his voice as he spoke to the Headmaster. “Terrific-looking place you run here, Chokas.”

  The man nodded his thanks. “We are privileged to serve as guardians and protectors of the homeless and those who have lost their way at a tender age. We take our responsibilities seriously.”

  “What sort o’ schooling do they get?” Roseroar asked.

  “Histories, geographies, mathematics, training in the social verities, domestic subjects such as cooking and sewing. Physical education. Instruction in discipline and courtesy. A well-rounded curriculum, we believe.”

  “I’ve seen enough.” Jon-Tom glanced toward the second-floor dormitories. “So long, Folly. It was interesting knowing you. Have a full and happy life and maybe we’ll meet again someday.” He turned back toward the entry hall. “Thanks again for the tour, Chokas.”

  “My pleasure. Please come visit us anytime, sir. The Friends of the Street encourages visitation.”