“Though he decried the triviality of it, even Clothahump gave it a shot, and failed. It’s a fine twist of fate in a cruel universe.”
“One that don’t trouble me,” the otter remarked. “I’m quite indifferent to such matters, I am.” White? His muzzle couldn’t be turning white!
“It’s not like the old days,” Jon-Tom sighed. “Responsibilities, respectability …”
“Watch your language, mate.”
“Everything slows down … though there are days and nights when I feel as energetic as ever. It’s all been traded for experience.” He briefly considered time as a helix of semi-iridescent fish. “Anyway, life is peaceful and composed. No one’s come galloping in search of Clothahump’s help to assuage some great crisis or travail.”
“Oi,” agreed Mudge. “Life is rewardin’ as it is. An’ as for meself, I’m content, I am. Why, I wouldn’t go off pursuin’ some new trouble even if one ’opped up and bit me on the arse. I’ve already used up me nine lives, I ’ave.”
“Those are cats. You’re an otter.”
“Don’t interrupt, mate. Wot I’m sayin’ is I ain’t riskin’ me life no more. Certainly not to ’elp bail you out o’ difficulties an’ situations you bloody well create for yourself.”
“You bail me out? Now there’s an amusing conceit. I can’t remember how many times I’ve saved your fuzzy ass from your blind impetuousness, your rash decisions, and your reckless disregard for the safety of everyone and anyone unfortunate enough to be in your immediate vicinity. Not to mention your basic immorality and bad manners.”
“Oi—there’s a pungent observation,” the otter retorted. “I suppose we ought always to ’ave relied instead on your never-fails precision spellsingin’ to get us out o’ the situations we kept findin’ ourselves in?”
“It always did.”
“More thanks to the goddess o’ luck than the patron o’ skill. You ’ave to confess the truth o’ that, at least.”
“I confess nothing of the sort. Maybe my spellsinging wasn’t always perfect—”
“Hah!”
“—but it improved with time. I had to learn as I went along. Out on the road there was no one to instruct me, including that stay-at-home Clothahump.”
“One would think you’d ’ave got the point an’ learned some sense.” The otter’s voice rose to a mocking squeal. “Stop the Plated Folk, destroy the evil magician, find the Perambulator! The danger these little jaunts brought to those around you didn’t improve your judgment. You might as well ’ave been goin’ shopping for a bushel o’ bleedin’ fish crackers!”
“Now there you’re wrong,” Jon-Tom insisted with becoming dignity. “I would never in my life eat a fish cracker.”
“’Umans ’ave no sense o’ taste,” Mudge grumbled. “Just like they ’ave no sense o’ smell.”
“And otters have no patience, or intellectual breadth. It’s all physical with you.”
Mudge smirked. “Now there I ’ave to admit you’ve got me, mate.”
The spellsinger’s expression turned weary. Any attempt to engage in an extended conversation with an otter was doomed to chaos. “Are you going to do anything with that poor fish on your line or are you just going to let it continue to writhe in torment?”
“Are you proposin’ a choice?”
Exasperated, Jon-Tom reached over and grabbed the pole, but by then whatever had been on the hook had freed itself.
“You see? Otters never follow through to a conclusion anything they start. It’s a good thing I was always around to look after you.”
“Oi, an’ ’ow many scars and bruises fewer would I be sportin’ if you ’adn’t ‘looked after’ me quite so closely?”
Jon-Tom busied himself rebaiting the pole. “You’d probably be dead. Hung by the authorities, or run through by some outraged husband.”
“Nah. They’d never have caught me.” The otter snuggled back against the warm earth. Only after Jon-Tom had returned his pole did he comment casually, “Even if somethin’ interestin’ were to manifest itself, an’ even if I were crazy enough to inquire after the details, I wouldn’t dare bother even thinkin’ about pursuin’ the matter further.”
“Why not?” Jon-Tom wondered aloud. “What are you afraid of? Nefarious sorcerers, degenerate dragons, the maleficent spirits of the Underworld?”
“You mean you don’t know?” The otter turned to regard his friend. “You know wot kind o’ temper Weegee ’as. If I were to so much as mention the possibility o’ ’eadin’ off for somewheres, she’d see me dismembered faster than any six-armed demon.”
Jon-Tom shook his head sadly. “Is this the same Mudge I’ve known all these years? The Mudge I knew who was ready on a moment’s notice to join in a fight or a quest.”
“A brawl, aye. As for all those quests, I weren’t never ready for none o’ them. You just sort o’ dragged me along before I knew wot were ’appenin’ to me.”
Jon-Tom ignored the comment as he continued wistfully. “That Mudge had a limitless capacity for living and loving, for experiencing new things and embarking on grand adventures. Whatever happened to him?”
“’Ere now,” protested the otter, sitting up again. “I ’aven’t changed that much, I ain’t. I’m just sayin’ that a mate an’ a ’ome an’ a pair o’ teenagers can wear anyone down. The more so if they’re otters. You think Buncan wearies you? You ought to try dealin’ with Nocter an’ Squill for a two-month!” He fingered his fishing pole. “Not that it matters. As you say, there’s nothin’ wot needs doin’. We exist in a state o’ contented bliss.”
“Or enervation,” Jon-Tom muttered.
“I don’t know wot that means, but I think there’s a lot o’ it goin’ around.” His expression brightened. “With Weegee an’ Talea off somewhere, we could go into Lynchbany an’ break up a bar, or sometbin’.”
“A bar fight.” Jon-Tom was saddened. “Mudge and Jon-Tom, the great adventurer and famed spellsinger, reduced to contemplating the entertainment value of an ordinary public tiff. We, who have explored much of the known world and a fair portion of the unknown, who have dealt with unimaginable dangers and overcome impossible obstacles, are we come to this? No thanks.”
“Sorry. It were the best I could come up with on short notice, mate.” Mudge was a bit taken aback by the emotional intensity of his friend’s reaction. “Actually, I only thought o’ it for you. I ain’t sure ’ow much ’elp I’d be. Me back’s been botherin’ me for a bit now, an’ when an otter’s back is out, ’e’s in serious ’urt, ’e is. See, we’re all back.”
Jon-Tom looked surprised. “You haven’t said anything about your back before.”
“Would you?”
“No. No, I suppose not. It’s just that all this quiet is getting to me, what with Talea off with Weegee and the kids away at school. Even business is slow.”
Mudge fumbled in his fishing kit for his glasses. “Did I ever read you that last letter, mate?”
Jon-Tom looked resigned. “You mean the one you carry around with you and drag out every chance you get? The one that tells how Nocter and Squill are constantly getting into fights, breaking things, fomenting trouble, and generally raising hell?”
The otter straightened his glasses. “Oi, that’s the one. Great kids, eh?”
“Yes, they are,” Jon-Tom admitted, squeezing out a smile.
“Something we agree on,” a new voice interjected.
The two fishers sat up and turned sharply to their right.
“Talea?” Jon-Tom frowned. “I thought you and Weegee were off to shop in Lynchbany.” She looked fantastic, he had to admit. Her figure had ripened eloquently from their first memorable encounter years ago, when she’d been inclined to cut his head off instead of accept compliments. Nothing like years of being on the run to get one in shape for a lifetime.
“Weegee and I are just now off to L’bor, dear, with several of the other ladies of the river. It’s a journey of several days, not just an afternoon.”
/> Jon-Tom smacked himself mentally. “That’s right. You told me all about your plans last week. I’d just forgotten. I seem to forget a lot anymore.”
She advanced to bestow an affectionate kiss on his fore-head. “Don’t be too hard on yourself, dear. You’re a long way from the onset of senility.”
“Thanks for the compliment,” he replied dryly.
She turned to leave. “Please try to look after things, and stay out of the kitchen as much as possible. I’ve heard you verbally disparaging the dishes on more than one occasion, and you know how sensitive they are. Make sure any visitors use the cleaning spell at the door, and don’t forget to put out the rat.”
“I can take care of my own home,” he assured her, a little stiffly.
“I know you can, dear, when you pay attention. But sometimes your mind wanders and you muddle your spells. Remember the last time the disposal had cavities and you backed up garbage all over the floor while trying to fill them?”
“So I forgot to include the incantation for calcium.” He glared over at Mudge, who by dint of great effort was battling to suppress a smile.
Dutifully he wished his wife a good journey and they embraced. Only after she was well on her way did he carefully remove his line from the water, secure the hook, and proceed to chase the otter around the nearest tree. As always, he was unable to catch him. The passage of time had slowed the otter some, but it had been no kinder to his human companion.
Chapter 2
THERE WERE ONLY three sprites in the living room, but they were making the most of it. One transcribed ellipses atop the couch, another busied itself beneath the coffee table, while the third chose to dangle from the ceiling on suction-cup-shod feet.
Things were worse in the master bedroom, which found itself beset by a horde of tiny imps ranging in hue from a flat vinyl white to a chocolately beige. They were a blur of activity, at times appearing organized, at others chaotic. This resulted in a tendency to run into each other at high speed, with fractious and occasionally messy results. Many were the minuscle arguments over who had the right of way through the appropriate hermetic paths.
Angry and frustrated, Jon-Tom strode through the house trying to clean and keep order as best he could. He was in unusually bad temper and even the wondrous duar sounded off-key. His lyrics lacked inspiration and the result was a household more afflicted by the nether regions than usual. The bathroom was proving particularly difficult to exorcise, and when he broke an entire bottle of throat gargoyle he was forced to retire to his study and try to find some adequate disinfecting terminology. His failures pained his pride, and he was grateful there was no one around to witness his distress.
Gradually he managed to wrestle the tree house back into shape. Demons and imps hissed and expectorated and sputtered and (when no one was looking) spat fire at one another. Only after Jon-Tom’s music banished the last of them could he begin the tedious task of restoring the singed wallpaper.
Housework, he decided, was unexpectedly magic-intensive.
Loud clunks sounded from the vicinity of the laundry room. Sighing deeply, he headed in that direction while strumming a few uninspired bars on the duar. Almost immediately, a pale lavender sprite drifted out on membranous wins. Its features were petite and flat.
“Oh, Master,” it piped, “the imps charged with the care of the dry cleaning have formed a ruckus.”
“Why? All I asked was that they clean and de-spot half a dozen coats. A simple enough task.”
“I know that, Master. Of course, if we sprites were in charge, things would be different.”
“Sprites don’t manipulate heat as well as imps. Get out of my way.” He brushed the aggrieved sprite aside.
There were four of them—bloated of form, huge of mouth, warty of face. None stood taller than his waist. They were arguing vociferously. A pair of coats hung from a rack, neatly pressed and encased in a gellike substance that was neither plastic nor cellophane.
“What’s the problem?”
Startled, the nearest imp belched, and Talea’s good ruby dress vest popped out of its nose. The garment was only half clean, and a prominent spot was visible near the waistline. Sheepishly, the imp passed the vest to its companion, who expeditiously regurgitated a hangar while fumbling with the article of clothing.
“It’s their fault,” the hangar-puker insisted, gesturing at the pair seated across from him. “They’re deliberately slowing things down.”
“We’re just being prudent,” insisted one of the accused. “Too much heat will ruin the fabric. Anybody should know that.”
“You can overpress.” His sneering neighbor displayed chunky, flat molars in a wide, slightly sulfurous mouth.
Definitely need to put a deodorizing spell to work in here, Jon-Tom decided as he sniffed the air. “The parameters of the incantation demand that you work together. I want no more delays, and no more arguing.” With that he turned and stalked out of the laundry room, ignoring the griping that filled the air behind him. Heat imps were notoriously contumacious… but they did excellent laundry.
Is it for this, he told himself, that I have mastered the great powers and studied the old books? I am Jonathan Thomas Meriweather, the most proficient spellsinger this world or any other has ever seen! Twenty years I’ve toiled perfecting my skills and practicing my craft… the better to clean house and do laundry?
He shook the duar and bellowed a challenge. All about the tree, throughout its dimensionally expanded rooms and nooks, demons and sprites and imps and spirits looked up out of things that were not eyes and listened through orifices that were not ears.
“Begone!” he cried. “I dismiss you all! I free you from your obligations. Leave this place, leave this home, and leave me!”
Something that was all long rubbery arms put aside a broom and hissed sibilantly. “About time! This is no work for an honest, self-respecting nightmare.” Whereupon it promptly imploded and disappeared.
With moans and groans and hisses and howls and cries and sobs and wails of relief, they vanished: down drains, up chimneys, out windows, and through pores in the wood. One even used, somewhat disdainfully, the front door, but Jon-Tom chose not to chastise it for this breach of thaumaturgic protocol. He was too tired and too frustrated. Alone once more, he slumped into a partly dusted kitchen chair.
Well, perhaps not quite alone.
“Excuse me.”
Jon-Tom wiped perspiration from his forehead. “What?”
“Excuse me, Master.”
Turning, Jon-Tom found himself confronted by a four-foot-tall bright blue demon. It wore sandals of carved azurite and a dark turquoise vest. A most competent demon, he thought, for it was no easy task to weave turquoise. He slumped back in the chair.
“I thought I dismissed all of you. Well, what is it?”
A distinctly mournful cast colored the apparition’s reply. “Master, don’t you recognize me?”
Jon-Tom frowned uncertainly. “Recognize you? I see so many spirits and shades in my work.”
“I’m Fugwheez, Master.” Pointed, fringe-lined ears flicked rhythmically as the ugly yet homely face gazed anxiously at the man in the chair.
“Fugwheez? Sorry, doesn’t ring any bells.”
“You conjured me some four years ago, Master. To shellac the dining room table?” His manner was demonically earnest.
“Dining room table.” A flicker of recognition creased Jon-Tom’s face. “Oh, yeah, I remember. The job description was pretty specific. According to the info Clothahump gave me, you were the only one who could vomit varnish. Talea wasn’t crazy about the idea at the time, but she was delighted with the results.”
“Wives generally are not pleased with most anything demons can do,” Fugwheez avowed. “How’s the table holding up, by the way? I didn’t come in through the dining room.” He gestured apologetically at the kitchen door. “The linoleum has occupied all my time since coalescence.”
“The table’s fine. Shines like marble.” r />
Fugwheez smiled, revealing contented fangs. “There, you see?”
Jon-Tom’s brows contracted. “This is all very pleasant and domestic, but it doesn’t explain why you’re still here.”
“Ordinarily we inhabitants of the Nether Regions resent being dragged out of a cold bath or away from our regular work to attend to the requests of mortal meddling mystics, but you struck me years ago as a pretty decent sort, for a mortal being. You’re understanding instead of demanding, and willing to allow for cross-Aether mistakes. None of this ‘Do that, I order you!’ and ‘Do this, I demand it!’ rubbish.
“I found myself caught up in the general housecleaning crew you conjured, but it didn’t bother me because I recalled your tolerance. We’re not supposed to show sympathy for mortals—actually we’re suppose to rend and cleave them if the opportunity presents itself—but you’re different, and I hate to see you moping about like this. Extended moping’s part of a Grump’s job description, not yours, Master Meriweather.”
“See me like what?” Jon-Tom didn’t meet the demon’s dark cobalt eyes.
“I think you know. Look at yourself, Master. Look at what you’re doing with your life and your unique skills. Frittering away your talents on mundanities like housecleaning.”
“Don’t you think I’m aware of the irony?” Jon-Tom grumbled. “But what can I do about it?”
“You could start by first losing that apron,” Fugwheez suggested. “It’s unsuitable to your position.”
Jon-Tom hesitated, knowing that he who takes advice from demons risks eternal damnation and destruction.
On the other hand, it was only an apron.
Rising, he untied it and laid it carefully aside.
“That’s much better.” Fugwheez looked satisfied. “Second, I think that your immortal soul may be in danger.”
“I beg your pardon? Are you saying that I am being stalked by hostile forces? By some lingering ancient evil I may have accidentally offended in my travels? By some wicked and as yet unsuspected nefarious force?”
“No, no.” The demon gestured soothingly, his long blue fingernails glistening wetly in the kitchen light. “Nothing like that.”