Spellsinger: A Spellsinger Adventure (Book One) Page 5

  “Mind you, Mudge, what I give the lad is not to be squandered in wining and wenching.”

  “Oh, no, no, no, sor. I’ll see the lad properly dressed and put up at a comfortable inn in Lynchbany that accepts humans.”

  Jon-Tom sounded excited and pleased. “There are people like me in this town, then?”

  Mudge eyed him narrowly. “Of course there are people in Lynchbany Towne, mate. There are also a few humans. None your size, though.”

  Clothahump was rummaging through a stack of scrolls. “Now then, where is that incantation for gold?”

  “’Ere, guv’nor,” said Mudge brightly. “Let me ’elp you look.”

  The wizard nudged him aside. “I can manage by myself.” He squinted at the mound of paper.

  “Geese … gibbering … gifts … gneechees … gold, there we are.”

  Potions and powders were once more brought into use, placed in a shallow pan instead of a bowl. They were heaped atop a single gold coin that Clothahump had removed from a drawer in his plastron. He noticed Mudge avidly following the procedure.

  “Forget it, otter. You’d never get the inflection right. And this coin is old and special. If I could make gold all the time, I wouldn’t need to charge for my services. This is a special occasion, though. Think what would happen if just any animal could wander about making gold.”

  “It would ruin your monetary system,” said Jon-Tom.

  “Bless my shell, lad, that’s so. You have some learning after all.”

  “Economics are more in my line.”

  The wizard waved the wand over the pan.

  “Postulate, postulate, postulate.

  Heavy metal integrate.

  Emulate a goldecule,

  Pile it high, shape it round,

  I call you from the ground.

  Metal weary, metal sound, formulate thy wondrous round!”

  There was a flash, a brief smell of ozone. The powders vanished from the pan. In their place was a pile of shining coins.

  “Now, that’s a right proper trick,” Mudge whispered to Jon-Tom, “that I’d give a lot to know.”

  “Come help yourself, lad.” Clothahump wiped a hand across his forehead. “That’s a short spell, but a rough one.”

  Jon-Tom scooped up a handful of coins. He was about to slip them into a pocket when their unusual lightness struck him. He juggled them experimentally.

  “They seem awfully light to be gold, sir. Meaning no disrespect, but …”

  Mudge reached out, grabbed a coin. “Light’s not the word, mate. It looks like gold, but ’tis not.”

  A frowning Clothahump chose a golden disk. “Um. Seems to be a fine edge running the circumference of the coin.”

  “On these also, sir.” Jon-Tom picked at the edge. A thick gold foil peeled away, to reveal a darker material underneath. High above, Pog was swimming air circles and cackling hysterically.

  “I don’t understand.” Clothahump finished peeling the foil from his own specimen. He recognized it at the same time as Jon-Tom took an experimental bite.

  “Chocolate. Not bad chocolate, either.”

  Clothahump looked downcast. “Damn. I must have mixed my breakfast formula with the transmuter.”

  “Well,” said the starving youth as he peeled another, “you may make poor gold, sir, but you make very good chocolate.”

  “Some wizard!” Pog shouted from a sheltered window recess. “Gets chocolate instead of gold! Did I mention da time he tried ta conjure a water nymph? Had his room all laid out like a beaver’s lair, he did. Incense and perfume and mirrors. Got his water nymph all right. Only it was a Cugluch dragonfly nymph dat nearly tore his arm off before …”

  Clothahump jabbed a finger in Pog’s direction. A tiny bolt of lightning shot from it, searing the wood where the bat had been only seconds before.

  “His aim’s always been lousy,” taunted the bat.

  Another bolt missed the famulus by a greater margin than the first, shattered a row of glass containers on a high shelf. They fell crashing, tinkling to the wood-chip floor as the bat dodged and skittered clear of the fragments.

  Clothahump turned away, fiddling with his glasses. “Got to conjure some new lenses,” he grumbled. Reaching into his lower plastron, he drew out a handful of small silvery coins, and handed them to Jon-Tom. “Here you are, lad.”

  “Sir … wouldn’t it have been simpler to give me these in the first place?”

  “I like to keep in practice. One of these days I’ll get that gold spell down pat.”

  “Why not make the lad a new set of clothes?” asked Mudge.

  Clothahump turned from trying to refocus a finger on the jeering famulus and glanced angrily at the otter. “I’m a wizard, not a tailor. Mundane details such as that I leave to your care. And remember: no care, no fur.”

  “Relax, guv’nor. Let’s go, Jon-Tom. ’Tis a long walk if we’re to make much distance before dark.”

  They left Clothahump blasting jars and vials, pictures and shelving in a vain attempts to incinerate his insulting assistant.

  “Interesting character, your sorcerer,” said Jon-Tom conversationally as they turned down a well-trod path into the woods.

  “Not my sorcerer, mate.” A brightly feathered lizard pecked at some bananalike fruit dangling from a nearby tree. “’Ave another chocolate coin?”

  “No thanks.”

  “Speakin’ o’ coins, that little sack o’ silver he gave you might as well be turned over t’ me for safe keepin’, since you’re under me protection.”

  “That’s all right.” Jon-Tom patted the pocket in which the coins reposed. “It’s safe enough with me, I think. Besides, my pockets are a lot higher than yours. Harder to pick.”

  Instead of being insulted, the otter laughed uproariously. He clapped a furry paw on Jon-Tom’s lower back. “Maybe you’re less the fool than you seem, mate. Frost me if I don’t think we’ll make a decent animal out o’ you yet!”

  They waded a brook hauntingly like the one that ran through the botanical gardens back on campus. Jon-Tom fought to keep his mind from melancholy reminiscence. “Aren’t you the least bit curious about this great crisis Clothahump was referring to?” he asked.

  “Bosh, that’s probably just a figment o’ ’is sorceral imagination. I’ve heard tell plenty about what such chaps drink and smoke when they feels the mood. They calls it wizardly speculatin’. Me, I calls it gettin’ well stoked. Besides, why dwell on crises real or imagined when one can ’ave so much fun from day t’ day?”

  “You should learn to study the thread of history.”

  Mudge shook his head. “You talk like that in Lynchbany and you will ’ave trouble, mate. Thread o’ ’Istory now, is it? Sure you won’t trust me with that silver?” Jon-Tom simply smiled. “Ah well, then.”

  Any last lingering thoughts that it might all still be a nightmare from which he’d soon awake were forever dispelled when they’d come within a mile of Lynchbany, following several days’ march. Jon-Tom couldn’t see it yet. It lay over another rise and beyond a dense grove of pines. But he could clearly smell it. The aroma of hundreds of animal bodies basking in the warmth of mid-morning could not be mistaken.

  “Something wrong, mate?” Mudge stretched away the last of his previous night’s rest. “You look a touch bilious.”

  “That odor …”

  “We’re near Lynchbany, like I promised.”

  “You mean that stench is normal?”

  Mudge’s black nose frisked the air. “No … I’d call ’er a mite weak today. Wait until noontime, when the sun’s at its ’ighest. Then it’ll be normal.”

  “You have great wizards like Clothahump. Haven’t any of them discovered the formula for deodorant?”

  Mudge looked confused. “What’s that, mate? Another o’ your incomprehensible otherworldly devices?”

  “It keeps you from smelling offensive,” said Jon-Tom with becoming dignity.

  “Now you do ’ave some queer notions in the o
ther worlds. How are you t’ know your enemies if you can’t smell ’em? And no friend can smell offensive. That be a contradiction, do it not? If ’e was offensive, ’e wouldn’t be a friend. O’ course you ’umans,” and he sniffed scornfully. “’ave always been pretty scent-poor. I suppose you’d think it good if people ’ad no scent a’tall?”

  “It wouldn’t be such a bad idea.”

  “Well, don’t go propoundin’ your bizarre religious beliefs in Lynchbany, guv’nor, or even with me t’ defend you you won’t last out the day.”

  They continued along the path. This near to town it showed the prints of many feet.

  “No scent,” Mudge was muttering to himself. “No more sweet perfumes o’ friends and ladies t’ enjoy. Cor, I’d rather be blind than unable t’ smell, mate. What senses do they use in your world, anyway?”

  “The usual ones. Sight, hearing, touch, taste … and smell.”

  “And you’d wish away a fifth o’ all your perception o’ the universe for some crazed theological theory?”

  “It has nothing to do with theology,” Jon-Tom countered, beginning to wonder if his views on the matter weren’t sounding silly even to himself. “It’s a question of etiquette.”

  “Piss on your etiquette. No greetin’ smells.” The otter sounded thoroughly disgusted. “I don’t think I’d care t’ visit long in your world, Jon-Tom. But we’re almost there. Mind you keep control o’ your expressions.” He still couldn’t grasp the notion that anyone could find the odor of another friendly creature offensive.

  “You ’old your nose to someone and they’ll likely spill your guts for you.”

  Jon-Tom nodded reluctantly. Take a few deep breaths, he told himself. He’d heard that somewhere. Just take a few deep breaths and you’ll soon be used to it.

  They topped the little hill and were suddenly gazing across treetops at the town. At the same time the full ripeness of it struck him. The thick musk was like a barnyard sweltering in a swamp. He was hard pressed not to heave the contents of his stomach out the wrong orifice.

  “’Ere now, don’t you go be sick all over me!” Mudge took a few hasty steps backward. “Brace up, lad. You’ll soon be enjoyin’ it!”

  They started down the hill, the otter trotting easily, Jon-Tom staggering and trying to keep his face blank. Shortly they encountered a sight which simultaneously shoved all thought of vomiting aside while reminding him this was a dangerous, barely civilized world he’d been dragged into.

  It was a body similar to but different from Mudge’s. It had its paws tied behind its back and its legs strapped together. The head hung at an angle signifying a neatly snapped neck. It was quite naked. Odd how quickly the idea of clothing on an animal grew in one’s mind, Jon-Tom thought.

  Some kind of liquid resin or plastic completely encased the body. The eyes were mercifully closed and the expression not pleasant to look upon. A sign lettered in strange script was mounted on a post driven into the ground beneath the dangling, preserved corpse. He turned questioningly to Mudge.

  “That’s the founder o’ the town,” came the reply.

  Jon-Tom’s eyes clung to the grotesque monument as they strolled around it. “Do they always hang the founders of towns around here?”

  “Not usually. Only under special circumstances. That’s the corpse o’ old Tilo Bany. Ought t’ be gettin’ on a couple ’undred years old now.”

  “That body’s been hanging there like that for hundreds of years?”

  “Oh, ’e’s well preserved, ’e is. Local wizard embalmed ’im nice and proper.”

  “That’s barbaric.”

  “Want to hear the details?” asked Mudge. John-Tom nodded.

  “As it goes, old Tilo there, ’e’s a ferret you see—and they come o’ no good line t’ start with—’e was a confidence man. Fleeced farmers ’ereabouts for years and years, takin’ their money most o’ the time and their daughters on occasion.

  “Well, a bunch of ’em finally gets onto ’im. ’E’d been buyin’ grain from one farmer, sellin’ it t’ another, borrowin’ the money, and buyin’ more. It finally came t’ a ’ead when a couple o’ ’is former customers found out that a lot o’ the grain they’d been buyin’ afore’ and existed only in Tilo’s ’ead.

  “They gets together, cornerin’ ’im in this ’ere grove, and strings ’im up neat. At that point a couple o’ travelin’ craftsmen … woodworker and a silversmith, I think, or maybe one was a cobbler … decided that this ’ere valley with its easy water would be a nice place t’ start a craft’s guild, and the town sort o’ grew up around it.

  “When folks from elsewhere wanted t’ locate the craftsmen, everyone around told ’em t’ go t’ the place where they’d lynched Tilo Bany, the confidence ferret. And if you ’aven’t noticed yet, guv, you’re breathin’ right easy now.”

  Much to his surprise, the queasiness had receded. The smell no longer seemed so overpowering. “You’re right. It’s not so bad anymore.”

  “That’s good. You stick near t’ me, mate, and watch yourself. Some o’ the local bully-boys like t’ toy with strangers, and you’re stranger than most. Not that I’d be afraid t’ remonstrate with any of ’em, mind now.”

  They were leaving the shade of the forest. Mudge gestured ahead. His voice was full of provincial pride.

  “There she be, Jon-Tom. Lynchbany Towne.”

  IV

  NO FAIRY SPIRES or slick and shiny pennant-studded towers here, Jon-Tom mused as he gazed at the village. No rainbow battlements, no thin cloud-piercing turrets inlaid with gold, silver, and precious gems. Lynchbany was a community built to be lived in, not looked at. Clearly, its inhabitants knew no more of moorish palaces and peacock-patrolled gardens than did Jon-Tom.

  Hemmed in by forest on both sides, the buildings and streets meandered down a narrow valley. A stream barely a yard wide trickled through the town center. It divided the main street, which, like most of the side streets he could see, was paved with cobblestones shifted here from some distant riverbed. Only the narrow creek channel itself was unpaved.

  They continued down the path, which turned to cobblestone as it came abreast of the rushing water. Despite his determination to keep his true feelings inside, the fresh nausea that greeted him as they reached the first buildings generated unwholesome wrinkles on his face. It was evident that the little stream served as community sewer as well as the likely source of potable water. He reminded himself firmly not to drink anything in Lynchbany unless it was bottled or boiled.

  Around them rose houses three, sometimes four stories tall. Sharp-peaked roofs were plated with huge foot-square shingles of wood or gray slate. Windows turned translucent eyes on the street from second and third floors. An occasional balcony projected out over the street.

  Fourth floors and still higher attics displayed rounded entrances open to the air. Thick logs were set below each circular doorway. Round windows framed many of these aerial portals. They were obviously home to the arboreal inhabitants of the town, cousins of the red-breasted, foul-mouthed public servant they had met delivering mail to Clothahump’s tree several days ago.

  The little canyon was neither very deep nor particularly narrow, but the houses still crowded together like children in a dark room. The reason was economic; it’s simpler and cheaper to build a common wall for two separate structures.

  A few flew pennants from poles set in their street-facing sides, or from the crests of sharply gabled rooftops. They could have been family crests, or signals, or advertisements; Jon-Tom had no idea. More readily identifiable banners in the form of some extraordinary washing hung from lines strung over narrow alleyways. He tried to identify the shape of the owners from the position and length of the arms and legs, but was defeated by the variety.

  At the moment furry arms and hands were working from upper-floor windows, hastily pulling laundry off the lines amid much muttering and grumbling. Thunder rumbled through the town, echoing off the cobblestone streets and the damp walls of cut roc
k and thick wooden beams. Each building was constructed for solidity, a small home put together as strongly as a castle.

  Shutters clapped hollowly against bracings as dwellers sealed their residences against the approaching storm. Smoke, ashy and pungent, borne by an occasional confused gust of wet wind, drifted down to the man and otter. Another rumble bounced through the streets. A glance overhead showed dark clouds clotting like black cream. First raindrops slapped at his skin.

  Mudge increased his pace and Jon-Tom hurried to keep up.

  He was too fascinated by the town to ask where they were rushing to, sufficiently absorbed in his surroundings not to notice the isolated stares of other hurrying pedestrians.

  After another couple of blocks, he finally grew aware of the attention they were drawing.

  “It’s your size, mate,” Mudge told him.

  As they hurried on, Jon-Tom took time to look back at the citizens staring at him. None stood taller than Mudge. Most were between four and five feet tall. It did not make him feel superior. Instead, he felt incredibly awkward and out of place.

  He drew equally curious stares from the occasional human he passed. All the locals were similarly clad, allowing for personal differences in taste and station. Silk, wool, cotton, and leather appeared to be the principal materials. Shirts, blouses, vests, and pants were often decorated with beads and feathers. An astonishing variety of hats were worn, from wide-brimmed seventeenth-century-style feathered to tiny, simple berets, to feathered peaked caps like Mudge’s. Boots alternated with sandals on feet of varying size. He later learned one had a choice between warm, filthy boots or chilly but easily cleanable sandals.

  Keeping clean could be a full-time trial. They crossed the main street just in time to avoid a prestorm deluge when an irritable and whitened old possum dumped out a bucket of slops from a second-floor porch into the central stream, barely missing the pair below.

  “Hey … watch it!” Jon-Tom shouted upward at the closing shutters.

  “Now wot?”

  “That wasn’t very considerate,” Jon-Tom mumbled, his nose twisting at the odor.