Moment Of The Magician Page 4

  “Some others tried to.”

  “Oh ho!” said another, whose throat was blue as an alpine tarn. “A fight! If it’s a fight they’re looking for. . .” He curled the tips of both wings into fists and glared belligerently at the sky, looking for someone to sock.

  “Watch your blood pressure, Spin,” said the third bird. He was slightly less hyperkinetic than his companions.

  “Watch your rear.” The bird dove on him, and the three of them went round and round in the air, jabbing with feet, wings, and beaks. When they finally separated, Pandro saw that no harm had been done. None of them was even breathing hard. Two buzzed upward for a sugary drink while the third regarded the injured visitor sorrowfully.

  “That’s the trouble these days. Nobody knows how to have a good fight anymore.”

  “I know civilization’s in a bad way,” Pandro agreed dryly, “but it’s going to be worse if I don’t carry out my mission.”

  “Hot damn, a mission!” He danced all around Pandro as the raven stood and tested his wings. Emeralds flashed on his tiny chest.

  Except for a few missing feathers and the naked scar that ran from the back of his neck downward, Pandro seemed to be intact.

  “Yes, a mission for the wizard Oplode, former chief advisor to the Quorum of Quasequa.”

  “Never go into Quasequa,” declared the hummingbird, shaking its head and forcing Pandro to duck back to avoid the swinging bill. “Nothing going on there. Talk about dull.”

  “Cousin, to your kind, everything is dull. Are the rest of us responsible if you happen to live at a speed twenty times faster than anyone else’s?”

  “No, you’re not,” said the one called Spin. “You can’t help it if you’re slow and boring. The whole rest of the world is slow and boring.”

  “It’s liable to get exciting real soon,” said Pandro grimly. “Some weird human’s taken over as chief advisor in Quasequa. This Oplode’s worried about what he might do. The newcomer’s a powerful magician, and Oplode doesn’t seem to think much of his plans.” He had a sudden horrible thought, and a wingtip went to his chest. When he clutched the vial containing the messages, he relaxed. The demons had ripped off his backpack, but they’d missed the chain and vial hanging around his neck. A good thing he’d taken care to put the messages there for safekeeping.

  He eyed the sky. “I guess they think they got me.”

  “Who thinks they got you?” asked Oun, the second hummingbird.

  “The demons. They must’ve been sent after me by Markus the Ineluctable, that new advisor I just told you about. Oplode warned me to watch out, but there wasn’t anything I could do. They were just too fast for me.”

  “Demons, wow!” said Spin. “About time we had a decent scrap.” He turned to his two companions. “I’ll go find Wix and the rest of the gang and we’ll—!”

  “Hold on a minute,” said Pandro. The hummingbird pivoted in midair. “You don’t want to go looking for these things.”

  “We’re not afraid of anything that flies.”

  “I’m sure you’re not, but these were different.” He shuddered, remembering that cold, barren contact on the back of his neck. He made a chopping motion with one wing. “And they’ve got teeth, not just bills. They’ll take you apart.”

  “Condor crap!” snapped the second hummingbird, darting through the air and striking out with lefts and rights at imaginary opponents. “We’ll pull their wings off! We’ll—!”

  “Do nothing of the kind,” said the spokesman for the trio, “because there aren’t any demons around.”

  Oun’s crimson chest feathers flashed. “There aren’t?”

  “Seen any demons lurking about? Either of you?”

  “Well, no.” Both looked abashed and finally landed on the platform. “Not actually.” Spin lifted slightly. “But if Pandro here could lead us to them. . .”

  The raven shook his head violently. “Thanks, but I’ve got a job to do. Anyway, if they were still looking for me, I’m sure you would’ve seen them by now. They brought me down, but they didn’t kill me.” He flexed long black wings and rose from the platform. No damage to the vital shoulder muscles. Considering that he’d recently missed death by inches, he felt pretty good.

  “Listen, thanks for your help, but I’d better be on my way. I’m beginning to share some of that salamander’s concern about what’s happening in the world.”

  “Phooey,” muttered Spin, “who cares what some old wizard thinks?”

  “Some might,” said the third flier thoughtfully. He stared at Pandro. “Fly high, cousin, and don’t look back.”

  “Don’t worry.” Pandro rose skyward. “And while I’m gone, consider this: Oplode the Sly believes that this new wizard may have evil designs that extend even beyond Quasequa. Perhaps even to your forest.”

  “Then he better not come here,” hummed Spin, darting and jabbing at the air, his wings a blur. “Flying demons or no flying demons, we’ll send him running without his tailfeathers.”

  Pandro’s voice was faint now with distance. “He doesn’t have any feathers. I told you, he’s a human.”

  Spin settled back onto his branch. “A human. Now what would a human want with us?” He shrugged, turned to his companion Oun. “What say we go round up Wix and the rest and have ourselves a good punch-up anyway?”

  “Yeah, sure!” They zoomed toward the next emergent.

  The third member of the trio held back and struggled to grasp the import of the raven’s words. Then he shrugged and flew off to join his friends.

  That’s the trouble with being a hummingbird. One’s attention span is so damned short.

  III

  “But I know that she loves me!” Jon-Tom spoke as he paced back and forth in the turtle’s bedroom. There was plenty of headroom even for his lanky six feet two inches because Clothahump had thoughtfully expanded the internal dimension spell another foot.

  For that matter, the entire tree was Filled with rooms that shouldn’t have been, thanks to Clothahump’s wizardry. The turtle wasn’t engaging in any wizardry now, though. He was lying on his plastron among the mass of strong cushions which served him as a bed, his arms crossed under his horny chin. Only his eyes moved as he followed the nervous progress of the upset young spellsinger.

  “You know, I was once in love myself, lad.”

  That revelation was sufficient to halt Jon-Tom in his tracks. “What. . . you?”

  Raising his head, the turtle peered indignantly at the tall and tactless young human through hexagonal-lensed glasses.

  “And why not me?” He looked suddenly wistful. “It was about a hundred and sixty years ago. She was quite attractive. The colors and patterns in her shell reminded one of flatly faceted jewels, and her plastron was smooth as polished granite.”

  “What happened?”

  Clothahump sighed, “She threw me over for a slick-talking matamata. I believe her tastes were rather kinkier than mine.” His attention snapped back to the present.

  “So I am speaking from some experience, my boy, when I tell you that this Talea does not love you. Besides which, you are a spellsinger with a promising future and can do better. She is nothing but a petty thief.”

  Jon-Tom didn’t turn away from the wizard’s gaze. “It’s not her profession I’m interested in. She saved my life and I saved hers and we love each other and that’s that.”

  “It is not ‘that’ or anything else,” argued the imperturbable turtle. “I do not for an instant deny that she is brave and courageous. I wish I could also add that she is thoughtful. Brave and courageous do not automatically translate into love, however. As for thoughtful, if she were that and she did indeed love you, she would be here now.”

  Jon-Tom looked uneasy. “Well, you remember how she is. Flighty, high-strung, nervous, especially around you.”

  “Me? Now, boy, why should she be in the slightest nervous around me?”

  “You are the greatest, most powerful sorcerer in the world. You make a lot of peopl
e nervous.”

  “Do I? Dear me,” said the turtle, “I thought I only made a lot of people irritable. Take my advice, my boy, and put her out of your mind. She will interfere with your studies, which you neglect as it is.” He brushed dust from one of the bed pillows and frowned. “Have to get Sorbl to clean this place up, if I can corner the little sot long enough to put a dirt hex on him.”

  “Damn it, I know that she loves me!” Jon-Tom spoke with unaccustomed intensity. “I know she does. I can feel it. She’s just. . . she’s just not quite ready to make it permanent, that’s all. She needs more reassurance, more encouragement.” He stared at the wood chips carpeting the floor. “Of course, that would be easier to do if I had some idea where she is.”

  “You’ll never get a wild type like that to settle down.” Clothahump removed his glasses and squinted through one eye as he gave them a perfunctory cleaning, then set them back on his beak. “Why not just marry her and then go your separate ways? There’s so much world left for you to see.”

  “I want to see it all with her.” An uncomfortable pause followed. Then Jon-Tom moved to the bed and knelt before it. “Look, you’re the greatest wizard alive. Can’t you help me?”

  Clothahump shook his head, wrestled himself into a sitting position, and crossed his arms over the compartments in his plastron.

  “I must say it is hard to refuse the requests of one of such perspicacity. I only wish you could find a more stable possibility for a mate.”

  “Talea’s the one I love.”

  “What about that Quintera female you brought over into this world?”

  Jon-Tom swallowed, turned, and walked away from the bed. “Why bring that up? You know it’s a sore point with me.”

  “Why? Because in the end she preferred that sophisticated hare Caz to you?” Clothahump shook a warning finger at him. “That’s what comes of projecting your own desires onto someone else. She may have been your physical ideal, but mentally and emotionally she was neither. . . and neither is this Talea.”

  “No!” Jon-Tom whirled on the bed. “Talea’s the right one. I’m sure of that, even if our relationship is developing a little, uh, slowly. Come on, Clothahump, I know you can help if you want to.”

  “With what? You want me to mix you up a love potion to slip into her drink?” He shook his head. “I don’t deal in those kinds of petty emotionally manipulative devices and you know it. If that’s what you want, go to the chemist in Lynchbany. I’ll give you a prescription, but I won’t mix you anything myself. You’ll be wasting your money, though. Ninety percent of that stuff’s no better than what you can buy over-the-counter.”

  “I don’t want your potions or prescriptions, Clothahump. I want your wise, sage advice.”

  “Really? All right. Get a haircut.”

  Jon-Tom moaned. His hair was only shoulder-length. “Not here too. Or do you have a prejudice against fur because you’ve none of your own?”

  The turtle looked down at himself. “My, my, so you’ve noticed that, have you? I can’t imagine how one so observant hasn’t been able to win the undying affection of the woman he thinks loves him.”

  “It’s not a question of’winning,’“ Jon-Tom muttered. “This isn’t a war.”

  “Isn’t it now? Dear me! Perhaps after your first two hundred years you’ll learn to adjust that view.”

  “And don’t lay any of that ‘venerable ancient’ shit on me, either! I want your advice, not your sarcasm.”

  Clothahump peered over his glasses. “If you want to learn what love is all about, my boy, you’d better learn to handle sarcasm.”

  Jon-Tom shifted to another tack. “I’ve been working on a song for her.”

  “If you think you can spellsing her into love with you, my boy, then you—”

  “No, no, just a friendly little song to show her how I feel about her. I’ve always been better at conveying my emotions through music. Want to hear it?”

  Clothahump muttered under his breath, “Do I have a choice?”

  Jon-Tom walked over to the corner where he’d set down his duar and picked up the peculiar, double-stringed instrument. He caressed it lovingly. It had brought him through some tough spots, that duar. It, and his ability to make magic with it, however erratic and unpredictable.

  “Just something to put her in the right mood,” he assured Clothahump. “I’ve been trying to remember what she likes so I can sing about it the next time we meet.”

  “Sing about a rich drunk lying alone in an alley,” Clothahump suggested.

  Jon-Tom ignored the gibe. “I remember her telling me one time how much she liked roses. She said they were pretty. She’d never use the word ‘romantic.’ Talea’s not the romantic type. But she said she liked their smell and the way they went with her hair. So I’ve been trying to think of a song about roses. It wasn’t easy. It’s not the sort of thing my favorite musicians like to write songs about, and I have to be careful or I’ll wind up with that amazonic tigress I told you about.

  “Anyhow, I finally settled on this. I’d like your opinion of it.”

  “Hold on a moment, boy. I want none of your hit-and-miss spellsinging in my home. If you feel the need to practice, do it outside.”

  “Oh, it’s all right.” Jon-Tom found himself a seat on a strong shelf. “It’s just a little tune. I’m not going to do any spellsinging.”

  Clothahump eyed him warily. “Well, if you’re sure. . .”

  Jon-Tom smiled confidently at him. “Sure I’m sure. What could be dangerous about a song about something as innocent as roses?” He let his fingers fall lightly across the first set of strings, then the second, adjusted the control for tremble ever so slightly.

  The chords floated through the room, soothing and mellow, not nearly as sharp or discordant as Jon-Tom’s heavy metal favorites. Clothahump relented.

  “All right, boy.” He moved as far back on the bed as he was able. “If you’re certain you know what you’re doing and have everything under control.”

  Jon-Tom smiled reassuringly and began to sing. The music was lovely, but that didn’t relax Clothahump. He was watching and listening to more than the melody.

  Sure enough, there it was: an intense red glow near the foot of the bed.

  “Boy, see there, I told you. . .!”

  But Jon-Tom wasn’t listening to his mentor. He was transported to the kingdom of love by images of how Talea would react to this song, composed specially for her by the man who adored her.

  The intense, blood-red ball of light hung in the air, throwing off red sparks as Jon-Tom’s voice rose passionately. Clothahump waved anxiously at it and was pleased to see it fall to the floor and disappear.

  He let out a relieved sigh and narrowed his gaze as he waited for Jon-Tom to finish his song. So he did not see the branches that sprang forth from beneath the carpet of wood chips. They grew with astonishing speed. Jon-Tom concluded his chorus and looked proud.

  “There, you see? Nothing to worry about. I’ve been working hard on my control, and I think I’ve gotten it to the point where I only conjure up what I want to.” His expression changed to one of curiosity. “That’s funny. I don’t remember your planting anything at the foot of your bed.”

  Fearing the worst, Clothahump tumbled forward to peer over the edge of the bed. Growing out of the floor was a small, nicely, pruned collection of thin branches. As they both watched, some two dozen American beauty blossoms erupted from the naked twigs.

  “Hey, how about that?” said Jon-Tom, delighted. “Now I ask you, what girl could resist that?”

  “Well,” Clothahump said reluctantly, “I have to admit that’s quite a charming little bouquet you’ve called up.”

  Jon-Tom hefted the duar. “I didn’t even get to the second chorus. What color would you like this time? How about a nice canary yellow?” He sang again, and this time the second bush appeared sooner than its predecessor. It was also twice as tall and, sure enough, heavy with fragrant yellow blooms.

  �
�Nothing to it. I told you I’ve been practicing my control.”

  Clothahump stared at the bush. “Good. Then you can stop it now.”

  Jon-Tom’s jaw hung a little slack. “Uh, stop what?”

  “Stop it from growing.”

  “But I have stopped. I’m not singing anymore.”

  Clothahump pointed. “Tell it to that rosebush.”

  Indeed, it didn’t take especially sharp vision to see that the bush was continuing to expand. It was almost up to the roof. When it hit the ceiling, the branches began to spread out sideways, throwing out shoots and blossoms in every direction.

  “No sweat. I’ll just sing the final chorus. That ought to finish it.” He proceeded to do so, the words falling gentle and sweet on the now heavily aromatic air of the bedroom.

  It had absolutely no effect on the fecund rosebush, which continued to spread out across the walls. Having covered ceiling and sides, branches began to fill the room, crisscrossing and occasionally running into one another. Some of the stems were now as thick as birch trunks. The room was shaking.

  “That’s enough, boy!” Clothahump was hemmed in against the headboard of his bed. Jon-Tom was trying to edge his way toward the near doorway, had to duck as two sapling-thick branches boasting three-inch-long thorns tried to block his exit.

  “I. . . I don’t understand. I’m not singing anymore.”

  “You bet your ass you’re not, lad.” Clothahump struggled with one drawer in his plastron, finally yanked it open. “Got to lubricate these one of these days.” The drawer finally popped open and he rummaged around inside himself. “Hope I can stop it before. . .”

  “Before what?” wondered the thoroughly distraught Jon-Tom as he stumbled back from an encroaching branch. It vomited a three-foot-wide blossom in his face, and the burst of perfume made him dizzy.

  “Before these damned things start growing out of us,” Clothahump shouted at him.

  His path to the door blocked, Jon-Tom scrambled across the floor toward the only remaining open section of the room. . . Clothahump’s bed.

  “Maybe I overdid it a little bit.”