The Moment of the Magician: A Spellsinger Adventure (Book Four) Read online

  Tusks flashing in the dim torchlight, the javelina roused himself and led them forward. Jon-Tom balked at the sight of the iron grille, but there was nothing to be done about it now. They were herded toward the open cell.

  “There you go. Enjoy your conference,” the officer said smoothly as the cursing, complaining otters were shoved through the opening. The javelina locked it from the outside.

  Jon-Tom glared through the bars. “You’re a real smart-ass, aren’t you, fuzz-brain?”

  “My, my, such language from those who are friends of the Great Markus,” the jaguar said mockingly. “I will inform him of your arrival. Meanwhile, do make yourselves comfortable. I must see to the preparations for your evening meal. Swill is served in a couple of hours.” He turned and stalked off toward the stairway, laughing uproariously at his subtle wit. His soldiers clustered tightly around him, turning, the otters found themselves sharing the cell with half a dozen surprised and rudely awakened elders. Here were those members of the Quorum who’d refused to countenance Markus’s bid for power … and one other. The robed salamander stepped forward and introduced himself.

  “I greet you, fellow sufferers. I am Oplode the Sly, former chief advisor in matters arcane and mystic to the legitimate Quorum of Quasequa and now chief advisor in those same arts to the deposed Quorum of Quasequa.”

  Jon-Tom wasn’t ready for conversation with Oplode or anyone else. Failing to find an empty corner, he sat down in the center of the floor.

  “My fault, dragging all of you into this. I should’ve come by myself.”

  “Let’s not ’ave none o’ that, Jonny-Tom,” said Quorly.

  “Right.” Drortch put a consoling paw on his shoulder. “You didn’t ’ave no choice in the matter. You couldn’t ’ave made us stay behind if you’d tried.”

  “Right … that’s so … better believe it…” agreed a chorus of otterish voices.

  “’Ow come nobody ever asks me wot I wants to do?” Mudge found a section of empty floor to sulk on.

  Memaw laid a maternal paw on Jon-Tom’s head. “Norgil’s time had come, that’s all, my friend. Perhaps time for all of us. We have no regrets.”

  “But I do, damn it! You shouldn’t be here with me.”

  “Damn right, mate,” snapped Mudge. Memaw wagged a warning finger in his direction.

  “Now, Mudge…”

  “Don’t ‘Mudge’ me, water-elder,” the otter snapped back. “I’ve earned the right to ’ave me say, I ’ave. You’ve only ’ad to deal with this spellsingin’ shit’ead for a few days. Me, I’ve ’ad to put up with ’is sorceral muddlin’s for months. All I want is to live an ordinary life. An ordinary life, mind. And ’e keeps yankin’ me off to join ’im on ’is bloody bloomin’ bleedin’ inexplicable quests and wotever. Well, I’m sick of it.” He spat the words in Jon-Tom’s direction. “You ’ear me, mate? Sick of it!”

  Quorly stared at him in disbelief. “Mudge! I’m surprised at you.”

  “’Ell, luv, I’m surprised at me, too. Surprised I’m ’ere, but not surprised at ’ow this ’as turned out. ‘Twas only a matter o’ time, it were. That senile old turtle went and spun the wheel o’ fate one time too many, and now the odds ’ave finally caught up with us. Only thing that’s surprised me is that I’ve survived ’is rotten company as long as I ’ave.” He turned his back on them all.

  “Turtle?” The elderly salamander wiped at his face. “Can it be that you are the help the great Clothahump has sent to us?”

  “Not us,” Memaw corrected him. “We are sort of along for the swim.” She indicated Jon-Tom. “You need to talk to the young gentleman.”

  Oplode turned an amphibious eye on the uncomfortable Jon-Tom while one of the deposed Quorum members voiced the thought that was in all their minds.

  “Just him? Him, and the noisy otter? They’re our salvation? They are the strength Clothahump sends to us?”

  “I fear it may be so.” Oplode hesitated as he spoke to Jon-Tom. “Unless you and the otter are simply the advance scouts. That’s it, isn’t it? Clothahump and his mystic army are encamped not far away, awaiting your report, aren’t they?”

  Jon-Tom sighed as he turned to face the advisor. “Sorry. I’m afraid we’re it. Me, Mudge, and our recently acquired friends. We’re your help, and we haven’t done a very good job of it so far. My plan was for us to slip in here quiet-like so that I could have a face-to-face meeting with Markus before anyone got excited. We didn’t quite manage it.”

  “Now, there’s a snappy news bulletin,” Mudge muttered from his corner.

  “An interesting stratagem,” Oplode murmured, “but what good would it have done had you succeeded? You would still have ended up down here with the rest of us who oppose his bid for absolute power.”

  Jon-Tom tried to summon up some of his battered confidence. “Not necessarily. If he didn’t listen to reason, I was prepared to fight him. I’m a spellsinger, and a pretty good one.”

  Oplode slumped. “A spellsinger? Is that all?”

  “Hey, now, wait a minute. I’ve accomplished some pretty impressive things with my spellsinging.”

  “You do not understand. I do not mean to impugn your modest talents. But you must know that I am a wizard of no small stature, yet I was unable to counter the magic of this Markus. It is as unpredictable and peculiar as it is effective. No mere spellsinger, however voluble, can hope to deal with that.” The salamander strained to see behind Jon-Tom.

  “Besides which, you have no instrument to accompany you.”

  “They confiscated it along with our weapons and supplies.”

  “It does not matter,” said Newmadeen sadly. “It’s obvious this one wouldn’t stand a chance against Markus anyway.”

  “I’d hoped to find a little more support here,” Jon-Tom told them. He was starting to get a little peeved by all the criticism. “None of you have any idea of my capabilities. You don’t know what I can do.”

  “Perhaps.” The elderly squirrel who spoke was clad in rags. The bandage around his forehead indicated he hadn’t accepted his deposition and subsequent incarceration gracefully. Several pieces of his tail were missing.

  “But we do know what you can’t do, and that’s get in to see Markus. No one sees him anymore except his closest associates—Kindore and Asmouelle and the other traitors. And that dim-witted mountain of a bodyguard of his, Prugg.”

  “I have to see him. We have to meet. It’s the only way to resolve things.”

  “Things will be resolved soon enough, as soon as he has consolidated his power,” said the squirrel, whose name was Selryndi. “Markus will resolve his embarrassments by having them skewered, weighted, and dumped in a deep part of the lakes.” He looked bitter. “We are at fault. We ought never to have allowed him to compete for the post of advisor.”

  “It was the law,” said Oplode.

  “Aye, but you warned us against him afterward and we didn’t listen.”

  “Now is not the time for recriminations or for the laying of blame. We must try to get word to the population. A general uprising is our only hope. Or we might try to bribe one of those close to him to attempt an assassination.”

  “That will not be easy and could hasten our demise,” said old Trendavi, “considering how carefully he guards himself.”

  “Nevertheless, we must try. In matters both magical and political he grows stronger by the day. We dare not waste a moment in trying to unseat him. I do not intend to end up as fish food. If only Clothahump had seen fit to send us some real help.”

  “All right, mates.” Mudge climbed to his feet and sauntered over. “That’s just about enough. I admit we ’aven’t made much of an impression on this Markus or anyone else in your bloomin’ community, and we did kind o’ botch our intended nocturnal visit to this Markus’s bedchamber, but don’t blame your problems on Jon-Tom ’ere. We were doin’ a bit o’ all right until somebody put a sword accidentallike in the wrong place and tempers got out o’ ’and for a minim. Jon-Tom’s done
the best he could for you sorry lot. We didn’t get you into this mess, you know.

  “’Ere we are, come down ’ere out o’ the goodness o’ our ’earts”—Jon-Tom gaped at the blatant falsehood but said nothing—“to try and ’elp you folks out o’ a tight spot, and all you can do is moan and bawl about wot you didn’t get. Maybe we ain’t done so good so far but from wot I sees we ain’t done any worse than you ’ave. So let’s call a halt to the mutual name-callin’ and see if we can’t work together to figure out a ways to keep our skins intact, wot?”

  It was silent in the cell until Jon-Tom said softly, “Thank you, Mudge.”

  The otter spun on him. “Shut your bleedin’ cake-’ole and start thinkin’ of a ways out, you bloody interferin’ twit.” He stalked over to the bars in a huff.

  “Charmin’ friend you got there,” Quorly told Jon-Tom.

  “He is unique, isn’t he?” Feeling a little better about himself, he turned back to the Quorum. “All right then. We’re still alive and we’ve still got our wits about us. Oplode, if you’re such a great wizard, how come you haven’t magicked your way out of this prison?”

  “Do you not think I have tried, man? The first thing Markus did after we were placed in this cell was to ensorcel it with some kind of containment spell. My powers are useless here. Not that I think he fears my magic, as he has already defeated me in contest, but he is very careful and takes no chances with any who oppose him.”

  Jon-Tom nodded, eyed the stone walls surrounding them on three sides. “What about digging our way out?”

  “With this?” Cascuyom held up a spoon and a dull-bladed knife. “Even if we could cut into this old rock with our eating utensils, we don’t have enough time.”

  Jon-Tom was about to make another suggestion but was interrupted. Footsteps sounded on the stairs outside their cell. Everyone turned to look.

  The jaguar who had overseen their capture strode down the steps, leading a group of heavily armed guards. He approached the bars and peered through. The prisoners glared back, their expressions running the gamut from defiance to contempt. The officer ignored them.

  “Which one of you is the leader here?” He grinned nastily. “And I don’t mean you, Trendavi. The only thing you lead anymore is the procession to the urinal.” The deposed premier said nothing. He had retained his dignity if not his position. “Come on, speak up.”

  “E is,” said Mudge suddenly, pointing toward Jon-Tom.

  “Thanks,” Jon-Tom said dryly.

  Mudge shrugged. “You always said you wanted to lead, mate. No reason to be bashful now.”

  Memaw stepped forward. “I am the leader, you young hooligan. I will go with you.” The javelina opened the grate.

  Jon-Tom pushed her gently aside. “No, Memaw. It’s all right. I’ll go.” He turned to face the jaguar. “Where are we going?”

  “The Great Markus wishes to know why you have infiltrated his home and how many other traitors lie in wait outside to cause him further mischief.”

  “Ain’t no other traitors but us,” said Knorckle.

  Memaw turned and swatted him up the side of his head, knocking his hat off. “Aren’t we clever today, Knorckle. Tell me, are you going to help them pull the lever when they hang us, too?”

  “Sorry, mum.” The abashed Knorckle bent to retrieve his hat.

  “Markus,” the officer continued, “would also know whence you came, whether any of you escaped, and what the intentions of your allies on the outside might be.” This time none of the prisoners was inspired to comment. The jaguar returned his gaze to Jon-Tom.

  “I advise you to cooperate and reply truthfully to any questions Markus may ask.” Jon-Tom’s heart gave a Jittle jump but he held his silence. “Master of the dark arts that he is, he possesses means of making you tell the truth that are both slow and painful.”

  “Then I’m to be taken to Markus?” The jaguar nodded. Jon-Tom could hardly believe his luck. That was just what they’d been trying to achieve all along. He didn’t say that, of course. Instead he tried to look defiant. “I’m looking forward to the meeting.”

  “Then you’re either braver than you look or dumber.” The jaguar gestured. The guards formed a semicircle around the cell entrance while the javelina pushed the gate inward. As soon as Jon-Tom had been pulled out, the gate was slammed shut again. The noise echoed through the dungeon.

  “There is just one thing.” Jon-Tom spoke offhandedly.

  The jaguar eyed him impatiently, paws on hips. “Don’t waste my time, man, or I’ll have you dragged into Markus’s presence. He won’t like that.”

  Jon-Tom leaned close, whispered conspiratorially. “I’m not really the leader of this bunch. I’m a wandering minstrel, see, and I was forced to join them. Now, I know you probably think I’m making this all up”—the jaguar nodded sagely—“but that’s why I’m not afraid of meeting the great Markus. He’ll know the truth. Only thing is, I’m afraid he won’t believe me unless he hears me sing, and I can’t sing without my duar. The one your troops took from me.”

  The officer considered, eyeing Jon-Tom intently. For his part, the prisoner assumed the blandest expression he could manage. Finally the jaguar glanced toward his subofficer.

  “What of what he says?”

  The fox replied in a gruff voice. “Aye, there was a duar among the supplies we inventoried.”

  “Was it thoroughly inspected?” Jon-Tom couldn’t breathe.

  “It was, sir. Appears to be a perfectly ordinary instrument.” Jon-Tom breathed again.

  The officer nodded absently toward Jon-Tom. “A peculiar encumbrance to carry into battle. Yet you say you came to talk and not to fight.” He grinned. “Well, you can’t have it back.”

  “But it’s only an instrument,” Jon-Tom pleaded, seeing a last chance slipping away.

  “Tough. Personal property of all you traitors is confiscated. There is one way you could regain possession, however.”

  “What do I have to do?”

  “Convince Markus you’re innocent.” The jaguar’s laughter boomed through the dungeon. “Let’s go, and let there be no more talk of what you want!”

  The otters crowded against the bars, shouting encouragement, while the deposed members of the Quorum hung back near the rear of the cell and looked on sadly.

  “Chin up, Jonny-Tom! … stiff upper lip, old boy … don’t let ’em get to you … show ’em wot you’re made of, Jon-Tom!… give ’em ’ell, mate!”

  Jon-Tom turned and rewarded his friends with a hopeful smile as he started up the steps. A trio of alert guards preceded him while three more followed. The officer stayed close to his side at all times. No chance to break free.

  They climbed half a dozen flights of stairs until they finally emerged onto a stone parapet. After the heavy damp of the dungeon, the cool night air was a shock to his system. Several stories below, the water of the great lake glistened in the moonlight.

  As they marched him toward a tower, he thought of making a break for it, of diving over the side to freedom. Two things restrained him. For one, if he happened to misjudge his leap, he would splatter himself all over the stones below. For another, he was a much better runner than he was a swimmer. No doubt Markus had his own allies among the aquatic species. Armed beavers or muskrats could recapture him in seconds. Besides, it might cost him his chance to finally meet this mysterious Markus the Ineluctable. He’d rather have gone to the meeting with his duar nestled reassuringly under his arm, but at least he was going to see what their nemesis was made of. He wondered if the officer paralleling him sensed his nervousness.

  What would Markus the Ineluctable be like? Human, yes. He already knew that. But what kind of human, and from what world? His own, this one, somewhere else? Was Markus nothing more than an ambitious local wizard who’d concocted his story of coming over from another universe solely to frighten and intimidate his, opponents? Or did he come from some mysterious unknown dimension where evil held sway?

  What was “hum
an” and what was not? Couldn’t something with horns on its head and a barbed tail be described as human? And if the latter description proved to be nearer the truth, what concern would such a creature have with the petty problems of one Jonathan Thomas Meriweather?

  The tower they were marching toward could only be approached by a single narrow walkway. Elsewhere, the stone walls fell sharply toward the water far below. The guards flanking the entrance were the largest Jon-Tom had seen. Both lions stood half a head taller than six feet and were armed with massive metal axes.

  The jaguar exchanged greetings with his oversized cousins, and the party was admitted to a hallway beyond. Once inside, Jon-Tom couldn’t help noticing that his escort abruptly lost a lot of its boldness. They exchanged anxious, uneasy whispers and searched the torchlit corridor with darting, nervous eyes. Their words and reactions showed they didn’t want to proceed any farther down that singular passageway, but the jaguar bravely led them on. Until they halted ten feet from a last door. The officer took Jon-Tom’s arm and pulled him forward. Stopping before the door, he rapped three times on the wood with one paw. The door opened slightly. Putting the other paw in the middle of Jon-Tom’s back, the officer gave him a shove and sent him stumbling inward. The door was pulled shut quickly behind him.

  The room was not large, with a high ceiling and open wooden beams from which dangled wired-together skeletons. Whether they had belonged to the subjects of arcane experiments or to unlucky supplicants, Jon-Tom had no way of knowing. The room was softly lit, and the source of the illumination was a shock.

  In place of the familiar torches or oil lamps or, for those wealthy enough to afford them, globes containing light spells, were several battered but serviceable-looking fluorescent light fixtures. Though he searched hard, he couldn’t see any cords or sockets. Nevertheless, the lights shone efficiently.

  The furnishings were of local manufacture. Many were decorated with gold and pewter. There was a large table with chairs, many sculptures and wall hangings, and several tall crystal vases full of jewels. Of more interest than that, than even the fluorescent lights, were the three two-foot-long model airplanes ensconced neatly in alcoves in one wall. There was a Fokker biplane painted red, a Cutlass WWII dive bomber, and a miniature Beechcraft Bonanza.