Spellsinger Read online

  lettered in unknown script.

  Three stories above ground a doweled landing post projected from the massive

  tree. Braking neatly, the robin touched down on this. With surprisingly agile

  wing tips it reached into the chest sack, fumbled around, and withdrew several

  small cylinders. They might have been scrolls.

  These the bird shoved into a dark recess, a notch or small window showing in the

  side of the tree. It warbled twice, piercingly, sounding very much like the

  robins who frequented the acacia tree outside Kinsey Hall back on campus.

  Leaning toward the notch, it cupped a wing tip to its beak and was heard to

  shout distinctly, "Hey, stupid! Get off your fat ass and pick up your mail!

  You've got three days' worth moldering up here, and if I come by tomorrow and

  it's still piled up I'll use it for nest lining!" There followed a string of

  obscenities much out of keeping with the bird's coloring and otherwise gentle

  demeanor. It turned from the notch with a gruff chirp, grumbling under its

  breath.

  "Horace!" shouted the otter. The bird looked downward and dropped off the perch

  to circle above them.

  "Mudge? Whatcha doin'?" The voice reminded Jon of one he'd heard frequently

  during a journey to another exotic section of the real world, a realm known as

  Brooklyn. "Ain't seen ya around town much lately."

  "Been out 'untin', I 'ave."

  "Where'd ya pick up the funny-looking bozo?"

  "Long story, mate. Did I 'ear you right when you said the old geezer hain't been

  'ome in three days?"

  "Oh, he's inside, all right," replied the bird. "Mixing and sorcering as usual.

  I can tell because there's a different stink blowing out that mail drop every

  time I fly in. You wouldn't happen to have a worm on ya, would ya?"

  "Sorry, mate. Crayfish and oysters run more t' my taste."

  "Yeah, I know. No harm in asking." He cocked a hopeful eye at Jon-Tom. "How

  'bout you, buddy?"

  "Afraid not." Anxious to please, he fumbled in his jeans' pockets. "How about a

  Juicyfruit?"

  "Thanks, but I've had all the berries I can stand for now. I'm up to my ass

  feathers in berries." He stared at Jon a moment longer, then bid them a civil

  good-bye.

  "Always did envy them birds." Mudge looked envious. "Wings are so much faster

  than feet."

  "I think I'd rather have real feet and hands."

  Mudge grunted. "That's a point t' reckon with, guv'nor." They moved to the

  doorway. " 'Ere goes now. Mind," he whispered, "you be on your best behavior,

  Jon-Tom. Old Clothahump's got the reputation o' bein' fair-tempered for a

  wizard, but they're a cranky group. Just as soon turn you into a dung beetle as

  look at you. It ain't good policy t' provoke one, 'specially one as powerful and

  senile as Clothy-nose 'ere."

  The otter knocked on the door, nervously repeated it when no reply was

  forthcoming. Jon-Tom noted the animal's tenseness, decided that for all his

  joking and name-calling he was deeply fearful of wizards or anything having to

  do with them. He twitched and shifted his feet constantly while they waited. It

  occurred to Jon-Tom that at no time had he actually seen the otter standing

  motionless. Trying to ignore the pain pounding in his side he struggled to stand

  straight and presentable.

  In a moment the door would creak inward and he would be standing face to face

  with what was, at least to Mudge's mind, a genuine magic-making wizard. It was

  easy enough to visualize him: six and a half feet tall, he would be garbed in

  flowing purple robes enscribed with mystic symbols. A bestarred pointy. hat

  would crown the majestic head. His face would be wrinkled and stern-what wasn't

  hidden beneath a flowing white beard-and he would very likely be wearing thick

  glasses.

  The door opened inward. It creaked portentously. "Good morning," he began,

  "we..."

  The rest of the carefully rehearsed greeting shattered in his throat as he

  stumbled backward in panic, tripped, and fell. Something tore in his side and he

  sensed dampness there. He wondered how much longer he could tolerate the wound

  without having it properly treated, and if he might die in this falsely cheerful

  place, as far from home as anyone could be. The monstrosity that had filled the

  open doorway drifted toward him as he tried to crawl, to scramble away....

  II

  Mudge stared disgustedly down at his charge, sounded both angry and embarrassed.

  "Now wot the bloody 'ell's the matter with you? It's only Pog."

  "P-p-pog?" Jon-Tom was unable to move his eyes from the hovering horror.

  "Clothahump's famulus, you colossal twit! He..."

  "Never mind," rumbled the gigantic black bat. "I don't mind." His wing tips

  scraped the jambs as he fluttered back into the portal. Oversized pink ears and

  four sharp fangs caught the light. His voice was incredibly rough, echoing from

  a deep gravel mine. "I know I'm not pretty. But I never knocked anyone down

  because of it." He flew out now to hover nearer Jon.

  "You're not very handsome yourself, man."

  "Go easy on 'im, Pog." Mudge tried to sound conciliatory. " 'E's been magicked

  from 'is world into ours, and 'e's wounded besides." The otter diplomatically

  avoided mentioning that he'd been the cause of the injury.

  Jon-Tom struggled unsteadily to his feet. Claret ran from the left leg of his

  pants, thick and warm.

  "Clothahump been workin' up any otherworldly invokings?"

  "He is soberer dan usual, if dat's what you mean." The bat let loose a derisive

  snort.

  A rich, throaty voice called from the depths of the tree, an impressive if

  slightly wavering voice that Jon-Tom instinctively knew belonged to the master

  sorcerer. "Who's there, Pog?"

  "Mudge, da otter hunter, Master. And some damaged, dopey-looking human. ""Human,

  you say?" There was an excited edge to the question. "In then, bring them in."

  "Come on," ordered Pog curtly. "His nibs'll see you." The bat vanished into the

  tree, wings larger than the robin's barely clearing the entrance.

  "You all right, mate?" Mudge watched the swaying form of his unwanted companion.

  "Why'd you 'ave a fit like that? Pog be no uglier than any other bat."

  "It wasn't... wasn't his countenance that upset me. It was his size. Most of the

  bats where I'm from don't grow that big."

  "Pog be about average, I'd say." Mudge let the thought slide. "Come on, now, and

  try not to bleed too much on the floor."

  Refusing the otter's support, Jon-Tom staggered after him. The hallway was a

  shock. It was far too long to fit inside the oak, despite its considerable

  diameter. Then they entered a single chamber at least twenty-five feet high.

  Bookshelves lined the walls, filled with tomes of evident age and all sizes and

  bindings. Incense rose from half a dozen burners, though they could not entirely

  obliterate the nose-nipping miasma which filled the room.

  Scattered among books lay oddly stained pans and bowls, glass vials, jars filled

  with noisome objects, and other unwholesome paraphernalia. Skulls variously

  treated and decorated were secured on the walls. To Jon-Tom's horror, they

  included a brace that were obviously hu
man.

  Windows offered ingress to topaz light. This colored the high chamber amber and

  gold and made live things of the dust motes pirouetting in the noxious air. The

  floor was of wood chips. A few pieces of well-used furniture made of heavy wood

  and reptile skin dominated the center of the room.

  Two doors ajar led to dimly glimpsed other rooms.

  "This is impossible," he said to Mudge in a dull whisper. "The whole tree isn't

  wide enough to permit this one room, let alone others and the hallway we just

  came through."

  "Aye, guv'nor, 'tis a neat trick it is." The otter sounded impressed but not

  awed. "Sure solves the space problem, don't it? I've seen it in towns in a few

  wealthy places. Believe me, the initial spell costs plenty, not t'mention the

  frequent renewals. Permanently locked hyperdimensional vortical expansions don't

  come cheap, wot?"

  "Why don't they?" Jon-Tom asked blankly, unable to think of a more sensible

  comment in the face of spatial absurdity.

  Mudge looked up at him conspiratorially. "Inflation."

  They looked around to see Pog returning from another room. "He says he'll be

  along in a minute or two."

  "What kind of mood is he in?" Jon-Tom looked hopefully at the bat.

  "Comprehensible." Keeping his balance in midair, the bat reached with a tiny

  clawed hand set halfway along his left wing into a pouch strapped to his chest.

  It was much smaller than the robin's. He withdrew a small cigar. "Gotta light?"

  "I'm out o' flints, mate."

  "Just a second." Jon-Tom fumbled excitedly in his jeans. "I do." He showed them

  his cheap disposable lighter.

  Mudge studied it. "Interestin'."

  "Yeah." Pog fluttered close. Jon-Tom forced himself to ignore the proximity of

  those gleaming, razor-sharp fangs. "Never saw a firemaker like it." He swung the

  tiny cigar around in his mouth.

  Jon-Tom flipped the wheel. Pog lit the cigar, puffed contentedly.

  "Let's 'ave a look, lad." Jon-Tom handed the lighter over. The otter turned it

  around in his paws. " 'Ow's it work?"

  "Like this." Jon-Tom took it back, spun the wheel. Sparks, but no flame. He

  studied the transparent base. "Out of fluid."

  "Got stuck wid a bum spell?" Pog sounded sympathetic. "Never mind. And thanks

  for da light." He opened his mouth, blew smoke squares.

  "It has nothing to do with spells," Jon-Tom protested. "It works on lighter

  fluid."

  "Get my money back if I were you," advised the otter.

  "I'd rather get me back." Jon-Tom studied his wrist, "My watch has stopped, too.

  Battery needs replacing." He held up a hand. "And I don't want to hear anything

  more about spells." Mudge shrugged, favoring Jon-Tom with the look one would

  bestow on an idiot relation. "Now where's this lazy old so-called wizard of

  yours?" Jon-Tom asked Pog.

  "OVER HERE!" a powerful voice thundered.

  Shaking lest his discourteous remark had been overheard, Jon turned slowly to

  confront the renowned Clothahump.

  There were no flowing robes or white beard, no peaked hat or cryptically marked

  robe. But the horn-rimmed glasses were present. Somehow they remained fixed

  above a broad, rounded beak, just above tiny nostrils. The glasses did not have

  arms extended back and behind ears, since a turtle's ears are almost invisible.

  A thick book clutched in one stubby-fingered hand, Clothahump waddled over to

  join them. He stood a good foot shorter than Mudge.

  "I mean no disrespect, sir," Jon had the presence of mind to say. "I didn't know

  you were in the room and I'm a stranger here and I..."

  "Tosh, boy." Clothahump smiled and waved away the coming apology. His voice had

  dropped to normal, the wizardly thunder vanished. "I'm not easily offended. If I

  were I wouldn't be able to put up with him." He jerked a thumb in Pog's

  direction. "Just a moment, please."

  He looked down at himself. Jon followed the gaze, noticing a number of small

  knobs protruding from the wizard's plastron. Clothahump tugged several,

  revealing tiny drawers built into his front. He hunted around for something,

  mumbling apologies.

  "Only way I can keep from losing the really important powders and liquids," he

  explained.

  "But how can you... I mean, doesn't that hurt?"

  "Oh heavens no, boy." He let loose an infectious chuckle. "I employ the same

  technique that enables me to enlarge the inside of my tree without enlarging the

  outside."

  "Bragging," grumped Pog, "when da poor lad's obviously in pain."

  "Hold your tongue!" The bat whirled around in tight circles, but went silent. "I

  have to watch his impertinence." Clothahump winked. "Last time I fixed him so he

  could only sleep right side up. You should have seen him, trying to hang from

  his ears." He chuckled again.

  "But I don't like to lose my temper in front of guests. I cultivate a reputation

  for mildness. Now then," he said with a professional air, "let's have a look at

  your side."

  Jon-Tom watched as the turtle gently eased aside the crude bandage concocted by

  Mudge. Stubby fingers probed the glistening, stained flesh, and the youth

  winced.

  "Sorry. You'd best sit down."

  "Thank you, sir." They moved to a nearby couch, whose legs were formerly

  attached to some live creature of unimaginable shape. He lowered himself

  carefully, since the cushions were barely half a foot off the floor, at a level

  designed to accommodate the turtle's low backside.

  "Stab wound." Clothahump regarded the ugly puncture thoughtfully. "Shallow,

  though. We'll soon have you fixed."

  " 'Ere now, your wizardship," Mudge broke in. "Beggin' your pardon, but I've

  always 'eard tell 'twas sorceral procedure to seek payment for magicking

  services in advance."

  "That's not a problem here... what did you say your name was?"

  "I didn't, but it's Mudge."

  "Um. As I said, payment will be no problem for this lad. We'll simply consider

  this little repair as an advance against his services."

  "Services?" Jon-Tom looked wary. "What services?"

  "He ain't much good for anything, from what I've seen," Mudge piped up.

  "I would not expect a mere scavenger such as yourself, Mr. Mudge, to

  understand." The wizard adjusted his glasses haughtily. "There have been forces

  at work in the world only I could fully comprehend, and only I am properly

  equipped to deal with them. The presence of this lad is but a small piece of a

  dangerously complex puzzle."

  There, Mudge thought triumphantly. Knew he'd been muckin' about.

  "It is obvious he is the one I was casting for last night. You see, he is a

  wizard himself."

  "Who... 'im?" Mudge laughed in the manner of otters, high and squeaky, like the

  laughter of wise children. "You're jokin', mate."

  "I do not joke in matters of such grave import." Clothahump spoke somberly.

  "Yeah, but 'im... a wizard? He couldn't even put a new spell on 'is firemaker."

  The turtle sighed, spoke slowly. "Coming as he does from a world, from a

  universe, other than our own, it is to be expected that some of his magic would

  differ from ours. I doubt I would be able to make use of my own formidable

>   talents in his world. But there is an awesome interdimensional magic abroad in

  the world, Mudge. To cope successfully with it we require the aid and knowledge

  of one accustomed to its workings." He looked troubled, as though burdened by

  some hidden weight he chose to keep hidden from his listeners.

  "He is the magician I sought. I used many new and unproven words, many

  intergrams and formulae rare and difficult to blend. I cast for hours, under

  great strain. I had given up hope of locating anyone, and then chanced upon this

  drifting spirit, so accessible and free."

  Jon-Tom thought back to what he'd been smoking; he'd been drifting, no doubt of

  that. But what was all this about him being a wizard-magician?

  Sharp eyes were staring into his own from behind thick lenses. "Tell me, boy.

  Are not the wizards and magicians of your world known by the word En'geeniar?"

  "En'gee... engineer?"

  "Yes, that is the proper sounding of it, I think."

  "I guess that's as good an analogy as any."

  "You see?" He turned knowingly back to Mudge. "And it is through his service he

  will pay us back."

  "Uh, sir...?" But Clothahump had disappeared behind a towering stack of books.

  Clinking noises sounded.

  Mudge was now convinced he'd have been much better off had he never tracked that

  granbit or set eyes on this particular gangling young human. He studied the

  slumping form of the injured youth. Jon-Tom was spritely enough of word... but a

  wizard? Still, one could never be certain of anything, least of all appearances,

  when dealing with wizardly doings. Common folk did well to avoid such.

  How could anyone explain a wizard who could not spell a simple firemaker, much

  less fix an injury to himself? The lad's disorientation and fear were real

  enough, and neither spoke of the nature of wizards. Best to wait, perhaps, and

  see what concealed abilities this Jon-Tom might yet reveal. Should such

  abilities suddenly surface, it might also be best to insure that he forgot who

  put the hole in his ribs.

  "Now lad, don't pay no mind t' what Clothahump says about payments and such. No

  matter what the final cost, we'll see it's taken care of. I feel sort o'

  responsible t' make certain o' that."

  "That's good of you, Mudge."

  "Aye, I know. Best not even t' mention money to 'is nibs."

  Laden with bottles and odd containers fashioned of ceramic, the turtle waddled