Spellsinger

  Only a smartly dressed howler monkey nearby had noted the disappearance of Jon-Tom's advisor. "The tall fella? White with gray patches?" Jon-Tom nodded, and the simian gestured vaguely back down a main passage.

  "He went off that way a while ago. So little golden ground squirrel came up to him... delicate little bit of fluff she was... and he went off with her."

  "But I can't..."

  A hand touched his shoulder. He turned, found himself staring across into aluminum-like eyes, glistening and penetrating. "I have not done it with many humans, man. I understand some of you are fond of strange practices." The voice was low, husky, and not altogether uninterested. "Is that true also with you?"

  "Listen, I don't think you understand."

  "Try me."

  "No, no... that's not what I meant. I mean..." He was more flustered than at any tune since they'd entered the hall. "It's just that I can't, I don't want you. Go back there." He waved across the circle. "Go back to him."

  "Just what the hell are you implying, man?" Her eyes flashed and she stepped back.

  The fox was suddenly standing next to her, angry at something other than his losing. "Something wrong with Wurreel? Do you think I need your charity?"

  "No, it's not that at all." He slowly climbed to his feet, kept a firm grip on the staff. Around him the crowd was murmuring in an unfriendly manner. The looks he was receiving were no longer benign.

  "Please," he told the bitch, "just go back to your master here, or friend, or whatever."

  The fox moved nearer, jabbed a clawed finger in Jon-Tom's stomach. "Just what kind of fellow are you? Do you think I don't pay my debts? Do you think I'd renege on my obligations?"

  "Screw your obligations, Mossul," said the wolf haughtily, "What about my honor?" Her tone and gaze were now anything but interested. "See how he looks at me, with disgust. I am insulted."

  That brought a nasty series of cries from the crowd. "Shame, shame! ...down with him!"

  "It's not that. I just... don't want you."

  She made an inarticulate growl, hit him in the chest with a fist. "That does it!" She looked around at the shifting circle of spectators. "Is there a male here who will defend my reputation? I demand satisfaction... of this kind if not the other!"

  "Your reputation..." Jon-Tom was becoming badly tongue-tied. "I didn't insult... what about him?" He pointed at the fox. "He was the one selling you."

  "Loaning, not selling," countered the fox with dignity. "And it was mutually agreed upon."

  "That's right. I'd do anything for Mossul. Except be insulted, like this, in public." She put an affectionate arm around the fox's silk-clad shoulders.

  "Turn him out, turn him out!" came the rising shouts.

  "Wot's 'appening 'ere, mate. I leave you alone for a bit and you manage t' upset the 'ol 'all." Mudge was at Jon-Tom's back and Talea nearby.

  "I don't understand," Jon-Tom protested. "I've been winning all day."

  "That's good."

  "And I just won that," and he indicated the she-wolf, "for a couple of nights."

  "That's very good. So what's your problem, mate?"

  "I don't want her. Don't you understand? It's not that she's unattractive or anything." The subject of that appraisal growled menacingly. "It's just that... I can't do it, Mudge. I'm not prejudiced. But something inside me just... can't."

  "Easy now, mate. I understand." The otter sounded sympathetic. "Tis part o' your strange customs, no doubt, and you're the loser for it."

  "Well, tell them that. Tell them where I'm from. Explain to them that I'm..."

  Mudge put a hand momentarily over Jon-Tom's mouth. "Hush, lad. If they think that you're from some other land, no matter 'ow alien, you won't longer 'ave their protection. As it be, they think you're a local footpad like Talea and meself." His eyes noted the weight dragging down the hem of Jon-Tom's cape. "And judgin' from wot you've won from some 'ere, they'd be more than 'appy to see you made fair game. You wouldn't last twenty seconds." He pulled at an arm. "Come on now. Quiet and confident's the words, while they're still arguin' wot t' do."

  They were bumped and even spat upon, but Mudge and Talea managed to hustle their thoroughly confused friend out of the gambling chamber, through the tunnels, and back out the iron door that sealed off the hall from the outside world.

  It was mid-morning outside. Jon-Tom suddenly realized how exhausted he was. He must have played through the night. That explained why he hadn't seen Talea or Mudge. They'd been sleeping. But it was time-deceptive inside Thieves' Hall, where the lamps burned round the clock, much in keeping with the activities of the members.

  "Why didn't you go with her?" Talea sounded bitter. "Now look at us! Forced out of the one refuge where we'd be impregnable." She stalked on ahead, searching the nearby corral for their team and wagon.

  "I suppose I should have lost." He and Mudge had to hurry to keep pace with her. "That would have made you happy, wouldn't it?"

  "It would be better than this," she snapped back. "Where do we go now? When you're turned out of Thieves' Hall, there's no place else to run to, and we haven't been in hiding near long enough. We'll still be fresh in the minds of citizens and police, if anyone noticed us. Damn it all!" She jumped the fence, kicked at the flank of an innocent riding lizard. It hissed and scuttled out of her way.

  "It's too bad you weren't around, Mudge. You could have played that last round for me."

  "It don't work that way, mate. You 'ad t' play it out yourself, from what I 'eard. 'Tis a pity your peculiar customs forced you t' insult that lovely lady's honor. You refused 'er. I couldn't 'ave substituted meself for you thatawise, much willin' as I would've been."

  Jon-Tom stared morosely at the ground, "I can't believe she was trading herself willingly like that."

  "Blimey lad, 'tis bloody ignorant you be about women. She did it for love of 'er fox-chap. Couldn't you see that? And so when you refused 'er, you insulted 'im as well. You don't know much about the leanin's o' ladies, do you?"

  "That's ridiculous. Of course I..." He looked away. "No. No, not a great deal, Mudge. My energies have been pretty much focused on intellectual pursuits. That's one reason why I wanted to be a musician so badly. Musicians don't seem to have to worry about women."

  "There not be much pleasure in ignorance, mate. You're a damn-sight better off understandin' the whys and wherefores o' what's goin' on." He nodded ahead.

  "Now 'ave a look at dear Talea there. Don't tell me you don't find 'er attractive."

  "I'd by lying if I said otherwise."

  "Well then? Close enough quarters we've been living in these past few days and I 'aven't seen you so much as lean close t' 'er. Me she knows and won't let near, but you're a new factor."

  "You've got to be kidding." He watched that mane of red hair bob and weave its way among the herd. "If I so much as touched her she'd split me from brain to belly."

  "Don't be so sure, mate. You've already confessed your ignorance, you know."

  "And you're the expert, I suppose?"

  "I get by on experience, yes. Not much time for that now. But think on what I've said."

  "I will. Mudge, what she said about us having no place to go, are we that desperate?"

  " 'Ard to say, mate. Depends on whether anyone reported our late-night doin's in Lynchbany. But we'd best move on t' somewhere else for a while."

  "I know where I want to go." He looked longingly skyward, though he knew that his world was beyond even the stars that lay hidden behind the sunlight.

  Something stung the side of his face. He turned and looked in shock at Mudge.

  "A long way to reach with an open palm," the otter said tightly. "Now you listen well, mate. I've told you before and I don't aim to waste time on it again. These maudlin sorrowings for yourself 'ave to stop. You're 'ere. We can't get you back where you belong. Clothahump can't or won't get you back t' where you belong. That's bloody well it, and the sooner you get used t' it, the better it'll go for you. Or do you expect me t' wet
-nurse you through your next sixty years?"

  Jon-Tom, still stunned, didn't reply. Sixty years... odd how he hadn't thought of his stay here in terms of years, much less decades. There was always the thought that he could be going home tomorrow, or the next day.

  But if Clothahump's genius was as erratic as Mudge insisted, he might never be going home. The wizard could die tomorrow. That night in Lynchbany outside Dr. Nilanthos' he'd reached a temporary accommodation with his situation. Maybe Mudge was right, and it was time he made that accommodation permanent.

  Try to regard it like negative thinking for an exam. That way you're only satisfied if you fail, happy with a fifty, and ecstatic with a hundred. That's how you're going to have to start thinking of your life. Right now he was living a zero. The sooner he got used to it, the less disappointed he'd be if Clothahump proved unable to send him back. Back to the lazy mental meanderings of school, the casual tripe mumbled by directionless friends, the day-to-day humdrum existence he'd been leading that inaccessibility now made so tempting.

  Zero, he told himself firmly. Remember the zero.

  "Goddam rotten son-of-a-bitch! Shit-holes, all of 'em!"

  The cry came from the other side of the corral. He and Mudge hurried through the packed animals. But Talea was not in danger. Instead she sat tiredly on a smooth rock while riding lizards of varying size and shape milled nervously around her.

  "Stinking sneaky bastards," she rumbled. Jon-Tom started to say something but turned at a touch on his arm. Mudge put a finger to his whiskers, shook his head slowly.

  They waited while the bile burned itself up. She finally looked up and seemed to take notice of them. Then she rose and swept an arm around the corral.

  "Our wagon's gone. I've been through the whole glade and it's not here. Neither's our team. Do you know what I went through to steal that team?"

  "Mossul's friends might have slipped out and run it off to help him cover 'is losses. Or it might 'ave been done as punishment for the insult we did the she-wolf," Mudge said thoughtfully, caressing his whiskers.

  "I'll fry the gizzards of whoever's responsible!" She started back toward the hall. Mudge intercepted her quickly. She pushed at him, tried to dodge around, but he was as heavy as she and far faster. Eventually she just stood there, glaring at him.

  "Be reasonable, luv. We barely slipped out of there without 'avin' to cut anyone. We can't go back in. Anger's no substitute for another sword. Even if we did get back in clear and free we're just guessin' as to who's responsible. We can't be sure it's Mossul or 'is friends."

  The glare softened to a look of resignation. "You're right, otter. As usual." She slumped down on the mossy earth and leaned back against a fence rail. "So much, then, for 'honor among thieves.' "

  "I'm sorry." Jon-Tom sat down next to her. "It was my fault. If it means anything, I'll be happy to pay you back for the cart." He jiggled the clinking hem of his cape meaningfully.

  "Don't be ridiculous. I stole it. You needn't worry about paying back what you don't owe."

  They considered their situation. "We could buy someone else's cart," he suggested.

  Mudge looked doubtful. "Good transportation's dearer to a thief than any amount o' money. We could buy such in town, but not 'ere."

  "Well then, why don't we steal some of these?"

  "Now that's not a bad idea, mate. You're startin' to adapt. Save for one little complication." He looked to his right. At first Jon-Tom saw nothing. Then he noticed the little knot of figures that had appeared outside the Hall entrance. Puffs of smoke rose from the small crowd, and he could see an occasional glance in their direction.

  "But they don't know which cart or steeds are ours," Jon-Tom protested. "If we acted like we knew what we were doing, they couldn't tell we were up to anything."

  Mudge smiled slightly. "On the other 'and, we don't know that we might not pick on one o' their mounts. A single shout could bring the whole o' Thieves' 'All out on us."

  "A pox on this!" said Talea abruptly, springing to her feet. "So we walk, but we're going back to see this wizard of yours. He's bound to put us up for a few days. Might even be safer than the Hall. And we can even pay him." She indicated Jon-Tom's winnings.

  "Now 'old on a minim, luv." Mudge looked worried. "If we return there so soon, I'll 'ave t' admit I've run into some difficulties in educatin' this lad."

  "Difficulties!" Jon-Tom laughed aloud. "You've already managed to involve me in a local tavern brawl, a police matter, and you," he looked at Talea, "in a mugging and robbery. Two robberies. I suppose I have to count in the cart and team, now."

  "Count it any way you like, Jon-Tom." She gestured to the west. "But we can't go to town just yet, and we can't use the hall. I'm not about to strike off into the forest toward somewhere distant like Fife-over or Timswitty. Besides, they cooperate with the Lynchbany cops."

  "Be that as it may," said Mudge, folding his arms, "I'm not goin' back t' Clothahump's. The old bugger's too unpredictable for my comfort."

  "Suit yourself." She looked up at Jon-Tom. "I think you know the way. You afraid of Clothahump, too?"

  "You bet your ass I am," he replied promptly, "but I don't think he's the vengeful type, and I can't think of anything else to do."

  She gestured expansively. "After you, Jon-Tom."

  He turned and started out of the corral, heading south and hoping his sense of direction wasn't too badly distorted by the time they'd spent riding the night. Mudge hesitated until they were nearly out of sight. Then he dropped a few choice words to the indifferent lizards and sprinted anxiously after the retreating humans....

  IX

  Thieves' Hall was southeast of Lynchbany Towne. They had to cross the local roads carefully, for according to Talea you never knew when you might encounter a police patrol out for bandits. They also had to take time to hunt and gather food.

  It was three days of hard walking before some of the forest started to look familiar to Mudge. They were standing by the side of a muddy, narrow road when Jon-Tom noticed the large sack that had been caught in the crook of a pair of boulders. There was the sparkle of sunlight on metal.

  "Your eyes are good, Jon-Tom," said Talea admiringly, as they fell on the sack like three jackals on the half-gnawed carcass of a zebra.

  The sack was full of trade goods. Glass beads, some semiprecious gems that might have been garnets or tourmalines, and some scrolls. Talea threw the latter angrily aside as they searched the sack for other valuables. There were more scrolls, some clothing, and several musical instruments. Jon-Tom picked up a set of pipes attached to a curved gourd, puffed experimentally at the mouth openings.

  "Hell." Talea sat back against the rocks. She picked up the empty sack and threw it over her shoulder. "Double hell. Even when we find some lucky, it turns out to be deceptive."

  Mudge was inspecting the jewelry. "These might fetch two or three golds from a fair fence."

  "How delightful," Talea said sarcastically. "You just whistle up a fair fence and we'll have a go at it." The otter let out a long, sharp whistle no human could duplicate, then shrugged.

  "Never know till you try." He tucked the jewelry into the pouch at his waist, caught Talea eyeing him. "You don't trust me t' share out." He pouted.

  "No, but it's not worth fighting over." She was rubbing her left calf. "My feet hurt."

  Jon-Tom had set down the gourd flute and picked up the largest of the three instruments. This one had six strings running in a curve across a heart-shaped resonator. Three triangular openings were cut into the box. At the top of the curved wires were tuning knobs. Near the base of the heartbox resonator was a set of six smaller metal strings, a miniature of the larger, upper set. Twelve strings altogether.

  He considered the arrangement thoughtfully. Let's see, the smaller set wouldn't be much good exeept for plucking the more delicate, higher notes. So the larger sextet is probably strummed. Except for the extra set of tiny strings it looked something like a plastic guitar left too long in an ov
en.

  Talea had picked up one of the flute-things. She tried to blow a tune, produced only a few sour notes that faded quickly, and tossed it away. The second was apparently more to her liking. She finished testing it, slipped it into her belt, and started off back into the forest. Mudge followed, but Jon-Tom, absorbed in the peculiar guitar, hung behind.

  Eventually she paused, turned to face him, and waited until he caught up with them. "What's holding you back, larklegs?" He smiled as though he hadn't heard her, turned his attention back to the instrument. A few notes from the small strings filled the air.

  "That's a duar. Don't tell me you can play that?"

  "Actually, the lad 'as made claims to bein' somethin' of a musician." Mudge studied Jon-Tom's obvious interest hopefully. "You always 'ave said that you sounded better with instrumental accompaniment, mate."

  "I know. I remember." Jon-Tom ran his fingers over the upper-level strings. The sound was much softer than he was used to. Almost lyrelike, but not very alien. He plucked once again at the lower strings. They echoed the upper, deeper tones.

  The curved arm running out from the heart-shaped box was difficult to cradle. The instrument had been designed to fit around a much broader chest than his own. The short strap that ran from the top of the arm to the base of the resonator helped a little, however. Letting the instrument hang naturally, he found that by leaning forward he could get at both sets of strings. It hurt his back a little, but he thought he could get used to it. He used both hands, trying to strum the upper strings while plucking in counterpoint at the lower.

  Talea sighed, turned away, and started off again, Mudge in tandem and Jon-Tom bringing up the rear. His heart still hurt more than his feet, but the music helped. Gradually he discovered how to swing his arm in an arc instead of straight down in order to follow the curve of bar and strings. Soon he was reproducing familiar chords, then snatches of song. As always the tranquilizing sounds made him feel better, lifting his spirits as well as his adrenaline level.

  Some of the songs sounded almost right. But though he tuned and retuned until he was afraid of breaking the strings or the tuning knobs, he couldn't create the right melodies. It wasn't the delicate instrument, either, but something else. He still hadn't discovered how to tune it properly.