Spellsinger 04 - The Moment Of The Magician

staring down at his hands. "It's my legal training, or

maybe just my natural disposition, but when I en-

counter pain and unhappiness and suffering, I have

to try to do something about it."

Mudge nodded back in the direction of Witten

and Fault. "There were pain in that relationship,

that's for sure, but there's a certain dollop o' pain in

everyone's existence. Maybe even in your world. As

for un'appiness, I suspect that those folks were just

as 'appy and content as could be until you busted in

on *em."

Alan Dean Foster

106

Jon-Tom looked up at the otter. "But it was wrong,

Mudge."

"Only by your standards, mate. Mind now, I ain't

saying yours ain't better; only that they're yours and

maybe nobody else's, and you'd better quit tryin' to

impose *em on every bunch you feel sorry or compas-

sionate for."

Jon-Tom sighed, moved the duar onto his knees.

When he flicked the strings, lonely notes drifted out

over the surrounding water.

"Now wot? You goin' to try and spellsing me over

to your way o' thinkin'?"

Jon-Tom shook his head. "I don't feel tike spellsing-

ing now. If you don't mind, I'm going to indulge in a

little musical sulking."

He began to play without an eye toward any particu-

lar end, to play just to amuse himself and take his

mind off their present predicament. Where was the

benign tropical land Clothahump had told him about,

the land alive with friendly people and ripe strange

fruits waiting to be plucked from low-hanging branches

and brilliant hothouse flowers? Not within walking

distance, that was for sure. They were going to have

to find a boat.

Unless he could spellsing one up- Sure, why not?

His spirits rose slightly. He'd done it once before.

This time he'd be able to avoid the mistakes which

had plagued them on their previous water journey.

He strained for the right song, a safe and proper

boat song. Mudge had been lying on his back, his

paws behind his head. Now he sat up sharpty, his

nose twitching.

"I thought you weren't goin1 to try any magic-

makin'."

"We need a boat. Remember how 1 did it before?"

"Oi, I remember. I remember it made you fallin'

down drunk for nearly a week."

THE MOMENT OF TOK MAGICIAN

107

"It won't happen again," Jon-Tom assured him.

"I'll be more careful this time. I've reviewed all the

lyrics in my mind and they're perfectly innocuous."

"That's wot you always say." He retreated behind a

large tree to watch as Jon-Tom began his song.

His first thought had been of "Amos Moses," but

there was no boat directly mentioned and the song

possessed disquieting overtones. Another Jerry Reed

ditty served fine, however- He modified the lyrics

slightly, confident he could call up a fully stocked

Everglades-style swamp skimmer to carry them speedily

southward through the marsh to distant Quasequa.

Sparkling, dancing motes appeared in the air around

him. Gneechees, the best indication that his spellsinging

was working. A different light, yellow and brown,

began to form a sheet just above the surface of the

water.

"See, no trouble at all." He concluded the song

with a Van Halenish flourish not exactly appropriate

to Jerry Reed, and waited while the object solidified

and took form.

It had a flat deck and bottom, just like the swamp

skimmer Jon-Tom had hoped for. But as he peered

into the night he frowned. There was no sign of the

airplane prop that should have been mounted aft.

He shrugged. A small oversight in the magic. Maybe

he'd confused a verse or two. An outboard would

serve adequately.

The craft bumped gently against the shore. Mudge

walked down to pick up the rope attached to the bow

end.

There was no inboard. There was no outboard.

There wasn't even a rudder. But there was plenty of

board.

The raft was fashioned of split logs. It was eight

feet wide by ten long. Mounted on each side was a

Alan Dean Porter

108

large, split-bladed oar that could be used to propel it

slowly through the water,

"An elegant example o' otherworldly technology,"

Mudge observed sarcastically.

"I don't understand. I tried so hard, I was so

careful." He strummed the duar. "Maybe if I tried

again..."

"No, no, mate!" said Mudge hastily, putting his

paws over bare fingers. "Leave us not push our luck.

So it ain't elaborate and it ain't fast and it ain't

labor-savin'. But it floats, and it beats cuttin' down

green trees to try and make one ourselves."

"But I can do better than this, Mudge. I know I

can."

"Best not to get greedy where magic's involved,

guv. You might make it better, 'tis true. Then again,

you might sink wot we 'ave, and we'd be back to

walkin'- A bush in the 'and's worth two in the bird,

right? No tellin' wot you might call up a second

time."

As if to emphasize the otter's concern, the water at

the raft's stern began to froth and bubble. Mudge

raced up the sand to grab for his bow and arrows

while Jon-Tom backed slowly away from the water's

edge. Something was materializing at the back of the

boat that had nothing to do with its locomotion or

seaworthiness.

Eyes- Eyes the size of plates.

VII

They glowed bright yellow against the night, and

each was centered with a tiny, bright black pupil.

Then there were two more emerging from the water

nearby, and another pair, until ten hung staring

down at the little islet.

Trouble was, they all belonged to the same creature.

Nor did they operate always in pairs. Instead they

drifted with a sickening looseness on the ends of

thin, flexible strands that protruded from a smoothly

rounded, glowing skull. Arms and tentacles rose

from around the raft. Two of them seemed to be

holding the bald yellow skull in place, lest it drift off

on its own.

There was a long thin slit of a mouth, dark against

the glowing bulbous head. It was a strip of solidity in

a mass of insubstantial semkransparent yellow lumi-

nosity- You could see swamp water and the raft and

trees right through it.

"Go away!" Jon-Tom stuttered. "I didn't sing you

upl Mudge, I didn't sing this up."

"Right, mate," said Mudge, his tone indicating

what he thought of his companion's disclaimer. He

held his bow at the ready, but what was there to

109

Alan Dean Foster

110

shoot at? He was confident his shafts would pass

clean through the apparition.

"I know wot it is. mate. 'Tis a Will-o'-lhe-Wisp, for

certain. I've heard tell of them livin' in swamps and

marshes and such places, if you can call that livin'."

"There is no such thing as a Will-o'-the-Wisp."

Jon-Tom held tight to his duar as though its mere

existence might protect them. "They're not living

things, just floating globes of swamp gas."

"And what are you?" said the Will-o'-the-Wisp in a

surprisingly resonant tone for such an insubstantial

creature. "An earthbound sack of water with a few

brains floating around inside one end." It nudged

the raft, which was shoved halfway up onto the tiny

beach. Swamp water sloshed over Jon-Tom's boots.

"You hit me with this," the wraith said accusingly.

"Now, why would you go and say a thing like that,

mate?" said .an injured Mudge. "Wot would we be

doin' with a bunch o' dead logs like that when we 'ave

this nice, dry little island to spend our lives on?"

"Don't lie, Mudge." The otter threw up his hands

and looked imploringly heavenward.

The Wisp floated out of the water, hovering above

the tallest trees. Glowing eyeballs focused on Jon-

Tom, all ten of them. Then they shifted to stare

down at Mudge.

Mudge smiled ingratiatingly up at the ghostly horror.

"'E's not with me, guv'nor. I'm goin' this way, 'e's

goin' that way- Now if you'll just excuse me..." The

otter turned to dive into the water.

"I mean you no harm," the Wisp told them. "I was

only curious because this"—and he nudged the raft

all the way out of the water—"seemed to appear

from Nowhere. Nowhere is a land my kind usually

have to ourselves, except for the occasional tourist."

"It was an accident," Jon-Tom explained. "We needed

some transportation, so 1 called this up. I didn't

THB MOMENT or TSB M^OICIAM

111

know you were anywhere around." He hesitated,

asked, "Are you sure you aren't just swamp gas?"

"I should be insulted," replied the Wisp, "but I am

not, because the fact is that I am largely swamp gas."

To demonstrate this truism, several tentacles broke

free and drifted off into the distance. They were

rapidly regenerated.

"I just don't like being called swamp gas, that's all"

"No harm intended," said Jon-Tom. "We ail have

pet names that we dislike. For instance, not long ago

someone called me a preppie. Say, maybe you can

help us out. We're heading south from here for a

place called Quasequa. Anything about the country

between here and there you can tell us about?"

"1 linger longest in Nowhere," the Wisp informed

him. "Does this Quasequa lie in that region?"

"I hope not," Jon-Tom confessed.

"Then I do not know of it. But this I do know. If

you go south from here, you have the great Wrounipai

to cross, and that is very near to Nowhere."

**\bu mean there's much more o* this filthy disgustin*

'ell ahead o' us? I want to be sure," Mudge added

pleasantly, "before I slit me friend's throat."

The water glowed where it foamed around the

Will-o'-the-Wisp's body.

"A great deal more, travelers. Even I do not know

its full extent."

"Tropical flowers." Mudge was staring forlornly at

the dark water. "Compliant lasses waitin' to greet you

with open arms." He turned angrily on Jon-Tom.

"You know wot, mate? I always did 'ave a 'ankerin' to

try some turtle soup."

Jon-Tom smiled up at the Wisp- "We thank you for

that information, even if it's not quite what we wanted

to hear."

"We don't always get to hear what we want to, do

we?** The energetic phosphorescence curled about

ALut Dean Porter

112

itself. "Now, I"—and the mulli-eyed skull floated

frighteningly near to Jon-Tom—"happen to like music.

I heard yours. Could you sing me a little more?"

"Why, I'd be glad to"

Mudge put his paws over his ears. "Saints preserve

us, not another music lover, and this one ain't even

got the decency to 'ave proper ears."

The unfortunate otter was kept awake all that

night as Jon-Tom sang every old Halloween song he

could remember. The eerie chords drifted out over

the calm swamp water while the WilI-o'-the-Wisp

danced delightedly in the air, tossing off sparks and

glowing splinters of its gaseous self and making lowly

lichens and algae flare with rainbows.

Jon-Tom couldn't remember the last time he'd had

such an appreciative audience. Sadly, when the Will"

o'-the-Wisp's interest finally evaporated, it did, too.

The otter's mood hadn't improved much by the

time morning dawned. "Wonder if this wondrous

Quasequa even exists," he grumbled. "Probably some

poor fallin'-down mud-town if it does. Wouldn't be

the first time 'is sorcererness 'as lied to us."

"He doesn't lie, Mudge. It's against the wizard's

code to lie. He told me so."

Mudge sighed and looked disgusted. "The com-

panions fate 'ands you" His voice rose. "Suppose this

bloomin' paradise do exist? Suppose 'tis everything

your 'ard-shelled instructor says it is? Wot 'e neglected

to tell us before we set out on this little stroll is that

there's a thousand leagues o' swamp between 'ere

and there, wot? Wot a load o' wizardly crap!"

Jon-Tom looked unhappy. "He wasn't too specific

about the distance to be crossed. I admit I didn't

press him on the point."

"I'd like to press 'im on the point," Mudge said

grimly, savoring the thought as he fingered his short

THE MOMKNT OF THE MAGICIAN 113

sword. "I'd like to press the point right through the

back o' 'is deceiving shell and use the 'ole for a—"

"Careful, Mudge," Jon-Tom said warningly. "It's

not healthy to be disrespectful of a sorcerer's powers

even if he's a fair distance from you."

"Frog farts! I tell you, mate, I'm gettin' fed up with

these bloody surprises o' yours. For 'alf a gold piece

I'd leave you now and 'ead back to the good ol'

Bellwoods."

"Back through Witten and Fault? By yourself?"

"You broke their bloomin' totem, not me- Besides,

I've got some unfinished business back in Fault I

wouldn't mind taking care of."

"If General Pocknet gets his paws on you, he'll

finish your business."

Mudge shrugged. "So I'd circle around both towns.

Then 'tis back to the Bellwoods for me, back to

Lynchbany and Timswitty and Dornay and real

civilization. Back to.. -"

Even had Mudge not rambled on, it's unlikely

either of them would have seen the shadow. The

swamp was a world of shadows, and one more was

easily lost in the shifting, diffused light. The shadow

blended in completely with trees and creepers.

But this shadow was different. It moved indepen-

dently of those which blanketed the island, moved

with purpose and exceptional speed. They didn't see

it until it was directly over them, and then it was too

late.

Mudge yelled a warning white Jon-Tom dove for

his ramwood staff. The otter reached for his sword:

no time for bow and arrows.

Then it was gone, as quickly as it had appeared-

Mudge lay panting hard on the sand, eyes wide, his

sword held defensively in front of his chest even

though there was nothing left to defend against. The

danger had vanished along with the shadow.

Atan Dean Foster

114

In its place it left three things: Jon-Tom's ramwood

staff, his sword, and a single steel-gray feather. The

feather was four inches wide and two feet long- It lay

motionless near the otter, the only hard evidence of

something which had come and gone with blinding

speed.

Mudge picked it up, ran it through his paws. The

quill was as thick around as his finger. He straight-

ened his cap, which somehow had stayed on his head

during the seconds-long fight, and gazed eastward.

The shadow had disappeared in that direction, carry-

ing Jon-Tom in a single brace of impossibly big

talons.

The otter considered his situation in light of his

recent declarations. The raft was intact, and in addi-

tion to his own weapons and supplies, he also had

the spellsinger's. He was uninjured.

Well, that was that, then. So much for one brave,

ignorant, meddling, exasperating, immature spellsing-

er. There was no shame now in returning home.

He would even report the debacle to the wizard

Clothahump. Sure, he owed the unfortunate Jon-

Tom that much. At least the youth wouldn't be

worrying about returning to his own world anymore.

As for the wizard, he would accept his student's

demise philosophically, and there was no way he

could blame it on the otter. It had happened too

fast.

One minute Jen-Tom had been sitting there next

to him, listening politely to his complaints, and the

next he'd been carried off by a dark cloud. Not

Mudge's fault, no sir. Couldn't have been prevented-

He loaded the raft and stepped aboard, then pushed

out into the water. At last he could start living his

own life, without fear of being conscripted for some

lethal journey halfway across a hostile world. He

could get back to living like a normal person again,

THE MOWSHT OF THE UAWCIAH

J.IS

could sleep soundly once more without listening for

strange sounds in the night.

Certainly there was nothing he could do. There

wasn't, was there? He pushed angrily against the

shaft of the split-bladed paddle and wondered why

his thoughts were so damn troubled....

Jon-Tom hung in the grasp of the powerful talons

and did not struggle, hoping the enormous eagle

. which had carried him off preferred live food to

dead. Because dead he'd certainly be if the bird let

him fall. The Wrounipai flashed past far below.

He twisted as best he was able in the unyielding

; grip and examined his captor. The eagle had at least

' a twenty-foot wingspan. It carried him effortlessly.

Like the much-smaller feathered inhabitants of this

world, it wore a kilt which trailed backward over hips

^ and tail and a vest with a peculiar zigzagging pattern

of black on gray. The pattern was almost familiar to

Jon-Tom, but he didn't pursue it through his memory.

^ At the moment he was not in a position to spend

tmuch time doing a detailed analysis of another

creature's clothing.

\ Since the bird showed no sign of stopping, Jon-

^ Tom tried to make a detached survey of the terrain

^ below. It was much as the Will-o'-the-Wisp had

|f described: endless swamp and water stretching off in

^ all directions spotted here and there with tiny islets.

^ A short while later their apparent destination hove

ff into view. Some powerful tectonic disturbance had

{thrust a vast mass of black basalt straight up out of

the earth. It was thickly overgrown with climbing

I. trees and vines as thick as a man's body.

^ An opening showed in the rock two-thirds of the

^ way up its side. The eagle dove straight for it. For an

^ instant Jon-Tom didn't think those huge wings would

^' make it, but the eagle just managed to squeeze

Alan Dean Foster

116

through the opening without bashing Jon-Tom's head

or legs against; the rock betow.

The opening was not a cave. It was a tunnel

leading to the interior of the butte. The inside was

hollow.

The eagle flapped its wings twice before touching

down on one foot. It flicked its prize away, almost

contemptuously.

Jon-Tom rolled over several limes, feeling gravel

cut into his face. He suffered the pain and chose

instead to do his best to protect the duar strapped to

his back. When he finally rolled to a stop he was

bruised and scratched, but otherwise in one piece.

Keeping one eye on the eagle, he rose to examine

his surroundings.

The hollow place was not a volcanic throat, but

rather the result of some convulsive fracturing. Six-

sided stone columns rose toward the distant sky.

Jon-Tom had seen them before, in pictures of the

Giant's Causeway in Scotland and the Devil's Postpile

in California's High Sierra.

Where each column had broken, a natural perch

was formed. These were occupied by numerous nests

and homes. The floor of the great open shaft was a

charnel house full of bones picked clean by razor-

sharp beaks.

The occupants of the homes and the owners of the

beaks were normal-sized avians. Not one stood more

than four feet in height. With increasing interest, he

noted kilts belonging to hawks and falcons, ospreys

and fish hawks and vultures- They soared and swam

through the air of the shaft, coming and going

through the opening above and, less often, through

the tunnel that had served as his own entrance. They

all seemed to be talking at once. The multiple screech-

ing was deafening.

Several of them walked or flew by to greet the

THE MOMENT OF THE XAdTCUM

117

giant who had brought him with a spirited, "Hail,

Gyrnaught!" Each raised a right wingdp in salute.

That also struck Jon-Tom as somehow familiar, but

he didn't pay overmuch attention to it. There were

too many other things to try and absorb simultaneously

and he was too disoriented for deep thought.

For one thing, he was far more concerned about

his immediate fate, since the giant eagle didn't ap-

pear particularly interested in eating him. Not yet,

anyway. The mountain of bones which covered the

floor of the shaft was anything but reassuring.

The shadow towered over him again. The eagle

was not quite as impressive as it had been with its

wings outspread, but it was just as intimidating.

"Stand up straight!" the eagle commanded him.

Still sore and cramped, Jon-Tom fought to comply

with the request.

"They say, 'Hail, Gyrnaught.' You're Gyrnaught?"

A minuscule nod of head and beak. The eagle was

big enough to bite him in two without straining

itself.

"What do you want with me?"

"Not dinner. Flesh is cheap." He gestured with a

wing. "Welcome to the Raptor's Lair. You have been

brought here to serve, not to be served. If you prove

yourself."

"I don't understand."

Again the beak dipped, this time to gesture toward

the duar. "An instrument. You are a musician?"

"Uh, yeah." Somehow Jon-Tom felt this wasn't the

most opportune time to explain that he was also a

spellsinger. He might want to demonstrate that tal-

ent later. In fact, it was all but a certainty. The

longer he could keep that fact a secret from his

captor, the better Jon-Tom's chances of catching him

unawares.

Alan Dean Foster

118

"I thought as much," said Gyrnaught. "I have

need of a musician."

It was in Jon-Tom's mind to comment that the

eagle didn't look much like a music lover, but he kept

his thoughts to himself. Trying to still his trembling,

he struggled to put up a bold front. The fact that he

wasn't on the evening's menu helped-

"Quite a place you've got here."

"Ah, this is but the beginning." Gyrnaught was

pleased. Good, Jon-Tom thought, gaining a little

confidence. He can be flattered. To what extent

remained to be seen. "This is only a temporary lair

for my troops and myself. They are but the foam of

a wave which will fly forth to dominate the whole

world. Today this mountain, tomorrow the Wrounipai;

later the world! The nest will reign for a thousand

yearsi" The eagle's eyes flashed as if focusing on

something .only it could see, and (hat, too, half

reminded Jon-Tom of something.

"I don't think I recognize the pattern on your kilt

and vest."

"You could not, for it is not of this world. I

brought it here from another place many years ago.

It has taken me this long to organize just this small

striking force." He made a disgusted noise. "The

raptors of this world are difficult to convince of the

truth"

"Really? Another world? That's interesting. See,

I'm from another world myself."

The eagle's eyes narrowed. "Say you so? What

were you in your world?"

"A student of law and a singer of songs," he

admitted truthfully.

"I have need of song. As for law, I make my own"

"What were you?" Jen-Torn asked hastily, to change

the subject.

"I?" The eagle gazed down at him proudly. "I was

THE MOMENT OF THE MAOfdJUr

119

a symbol. I was everywhere, in thousands of replica-

tions. In stone and steel and brass. In symbols as

small as this"—and he held the two great wingtips

barely an inch apart—"and in granite monoliths big-

ger than you can imagine. I was a symbol every-

where and all people bowed down to me.

"But," he went on angrily, "they saw me only as a

symbol. They did not stop and pause and consider

when they chose one of their own to be a symbol

over me. From that moment on my powers were lost.

I could not manifest my true self. When their substi-

tute symbol was ground into the dust, only I. of

many thousands of me, escaped destruction. While

in symbols I was destroyed, in this world I found

myself set free. Here I am whole again and can start

the work properly, myself." He gestured at the rap-

tors swarming through the shaft, the light dancing

on their wings,

"My soldiers will rule above all others. It is des-

tined to be so, destined for the strong to rule over

the weak. We of beak and claw shall dictate to those

who only can walk. It is right- It is destiny."

It all came together in Jon-Tom's mind. He'd

studied too much history for it to escape him for

long.

He'd seen Gyrnaught before, in metal and stone

standards. Just as the eagle said. Seen him in pic-

tures rising above obscene parade grounds, atop cold

inhumane structures, a frozen caricature of evil.

"1 know you," he said. "It was before my time, but

I know what you stand for."

Gyrnaught looked pleased. "A historian as well as a

musician. You wilt prove even more valuable to the

nest. Tell me, then, do you know the Horst Wessel

song?"

"No. Like I said, it was before my time. But I know

the kind of music you want. What I want to know is,

Alan Dean Foster

120

why should I sing for you? Why should I help you

spread your old evil to this new world when your

infection has already been cleared from mine?"

"Because if you don't, I will bite off your head and

swallow it like a pumpkin."

Jon-Tom moved the duar around in front of him.

"Can't argue with that kind of logic."

"Ah, you are going to be reasonable, then. That is

good. If you continue to be reasonable, you will

continue to live. Besides, you should be proud that

the nest has need of your services."

"What is it, exactly, that you want?" Jon-Tom sighed.

Gymaught gestured at his fellow avians. "These

are difficult to inspire. I have not yet been able to

convince all of them that they are destined to rule all

others, that they belong to the master race."

"Why? Because they have wings and the rest of us

don't?"

"Naturally. It is only right for the higher to rule

the lower. I will see to it that alt the raptors of this

world flock to my banner."

"There aren't enough of you. You're just a few

species among many."

Gymaught looked smug. "We will enlist others to

serve under us, and they will do the heavy dying.

They will be proud to when they see what the new

order is to be."

"You haven't got a chance, any more than your

human counterpart did."

"He was a fool, and only a human. I am confident."

That beak moved dose, but Jon-Tom stood his ground.

There was no place to retreat to anyway. "And now

we shall see if there is truth to your words. Sing, stir

(he hearts of my followers, and you will live long."

Jon-Tom did so, though it stung badly. He rational-

ized his efforts by assuring himself he was only

stalling for time. Stalling until Mudge arrived to

THE MOMEJVT OF THE MAGICIAN 121

spirit him out of this place. Then they'd figure out a

means of stopping this disease that had crossed over

from his own world before it could spread.

He sang all the marches he could think of. The

raptors were drawn to the music, dipping low to

listen. There was a screech of approval at the conclu-

sion of each martial melody.

WhenJon-Tom's lungs Finally gave out, Gymaught

put a friendly wing over him. Jon-Tom felt suddenly

unclean.

"You did well, musician! Put aside your otherworldly,

primitive moral conceits and join me. I am not

ungrateful to those who pledge their lives to me."

Jon-Tom wanted to tell the eagle precisely what he

thought of him and his totalitarian philosophy, but

he had sense enough to shrug and say instead,

"Maybe you've got something here. Maybe it could

work in this world if not in the one we've left

behind."

"That's the spirit." Gymaught patted him on the

back, nearly knocking Jon-Tom down. "The others

moved too fast and became insane. But 1 am not

insane, and I will not force my wing. Our advance

and conquest will be patient, but inexorable. This

time the cause will not fall." He looked around.

"Over there is a small cave. A good place for you,

unless you would prefer a higher perch."

Jon-Tom let his gaze travel up the vertical walls of

the shaft. "I'd never get up or down. I think I'll stay

close to the ground."

"A poor, earthbound creature. But you see, with

me, you can fly! In truth, good singer, you will be

able to lord it over your fellows. Think on that."

Another crushing pat and Gymaught walked off

to talk with his underlings.

Smooth, Jon-Tom thought. He has the charisma

down pat. The odor of the charnel house was power-

Alan Dean Foster

122

ful in Jon-Tom's nostrils, an echo of similar, greater

slaughterhouses from his own world's recent history.

That could not be repeated here, must not be repeated.

But he had to be careful. Gyrnaught was ,no fool.

He would listen carefully to anything Jon-Tom might

sing until he was more confident of his pet human's

loyalty. So he had to be careful until he could do

something.

He just wasn't sure what.

One thing struck him forcefully as the days passed

within the shaft: the ease with which Gyrnaught had

taken control of the minds and spirits of this world's

raptors. They drilled efficiently on the ground and

in the open air overhead, seemingly having readily

abrogated their traditional independence in favor of

Gyrnaught's rule. It just wasn't like them, according

to those Jon-Tom had met in his travels.

One day he asked an osprey about it. To his

surprise, the bird informed him that when left to

themselves, the hawks and falcons and other birds of

prey often questioned the wisdom of Gyrnaught's

philosophy. They weren't sure they really wanted to

conquer the world- But in his presence they were

helpless. The force of the eagle's personality and the

strength of his arguments overwhelmed any hesitant

opposition. Furthermore, anyone who questioned it was

never seen again. So there was no organized opposi-

tion to his plans.

The osprey left Jon-Tom much encouraged. May-

be they weren't confident enough to oppose him, but

at least not all of the raptors had signed over their

souls to Gyrnaught. That uncertainty could be

exploited, but not gradually. Gyrnaught would sure-

ly trace any such dissension to its source, and that

would be the end of Jonathan Thomas Meriweather.

No, it would have to be fast, a sudden collapse of

will if not outright opposition. Trouble was, all the

THE MOMENT or THE MAOICLW 123

songs he knew were full of life and delight and fun.

He didn't know any music darker than the martial

bombast Gyrnaught himself favored. Nor could he

think of anything potentially disruptive which would

work fast enough. And he didn't think he had much

time. His renditions of old marches were quickly

•bang their edge as his own disenchantment manifested

itself, and Gyrnaught was getting suspicious. One

day soon the eagle might decide to go hunting for a

new musician.

He was sitting in his private alcove on the bed of

straw that had been provided for his comfort, chat-

ting with a small falcon named Hensor.

"Tell me again," he asked the raptor, "why you all

follow Gyrnaught so blindly and willingly. Because

he's bigger than the rest of you?"

"Of course not," said Hensor. "We follow because

he is smarter and knows what's best for the rest of

us. He knows how to make us act as a single talon

able to strike death into the hearts of any who

oppose us."

"Yeah, but nobody's opposing you."

"All oppose us. All who do not bow down to the

rule of the master race."

"Well, suppose everyone else did bow down to

you?"

*They won't." Hensor spoke with confidence. "We'll

have to knock it into their heads. Gyrnaught says so."

"I'm sure he's right, but just suppose, just for a

moment, that everyone did bow down to you. Then

what?"

"Then we would rule without bloodshed. Except

for the inferior races, of course, who would have to

be disposed of."

Jon-Tom felt a chill but continued politely. "Who

would rule?"

Alan Dean Foster

124

"We would, the raptors would. Under Gyrnaught's

enlightened leadership, of course."

"I see."Jon"Tom shifted on the straw. "Suppose all

this comes to pass, suppose you conquer the whole

world under Gyrnaught's direction. Then what

happens?"

"Well..." Hensor hesitated. Evidently Gyrnaught's

orations hadn't sought that far into the future. "We

wouldn't have to work. Others would do our fishing

and hunting and gathering for us."

"Then what will you do?"

"Why, we will rule, naturally."

"But you already have everything you require."

"Then we'll get more."

"More what? How much food can you eat? How

much wood do you need for a house or traditional

nest?"

"I... I don't know." The falcon shook his head,

rubbed at his eyes with the flexible tip of one red-

feathered wing. "Your questions hurt my thoughts."

"I know what you'll do, and I'll tell you."Jon-Tom

peered quickly outside. Gyrnaught wasn't around.

Probably off drilling troops somewhere. "You'll get

bored, that's what you'll do. You'll sit around doing

nothing until your feathers fall out and you can't fly

anymore. You'll look like a bunch of chickens."

"Take care," Hensor warned him. "Some of my

best friends are chickens."

"Well, you know what I mean. Laziness will result

in flighdessness."

Hensor's confidence returned. "No it won't. Gyr-

naught's drills will keep us strong."

"Strong so you can do what? No, once you've

conquered everyone else, you'll get bored and soft

because you won't have anything else to fight for.

and defeated people will see to all your needs. Rap-

THE MOMENT or THE MAGICIAN 125

tors are born to hunt. Without any need to do that,

you'll all get flabby and flightless."

"You confuse me."

"Oh, I don't mean to do that," Jon-Tom assured

him immediately. "Heavens no. I'm just concerned,

that's all. You're all such strong fliers now, I'd hate to

see you waste away."

"What do you suggest?"

Jon-Tom moved close, spoke in a conspiratorial

whisper. "There'll be one of you who'll never get fat

and lazy because he'll be too busy making sure the

rest of you stay in line. Those that don't, of course,

are liable to end up on his dinner table."

Hensor looked shocked. "No, that would never

happen! Gyrnaught would never do that."

Jon-Tom shrugged. "He'd only be following his

own philosophy. The strong rule, the weak perish."

He hoped he was having some impact on Hensor

because the convoluted reasoning was beginning to

make him a little dizzy himself. "There is a solution

to the problem, though."

"What?" asked Hensor eagerly.

"It's simple. Everyone must be equal. None of the

master race must be any less the master than his

neighbor. That's only fair, isn't it? That way every-

one will have to maintain himself in optimum condi-

tion for lighting."

Hensor's expression showed that this notion of all

chiefs no Indians was new to him. "Gyrnaught wouldn't

like it," he replied slowly.

"Why not? If you're all members of the master

race, shouldn't you all have an equal part in ruling

the lesser races? He'd still be the prime leader, but

you'd all be leaders together. Isn't that how it's

always been among the raptors?"

"Yes, that's true," Hensor agreed excitedly. "We

could all be leaders. We are all leaders." He turned

Aim Dean Foster

126

and spread his bright red wings. "I must tell the

others!"

Jon-Tom retreated to the depths of his alcove and

went through the motions of rearranging his few

belongings. Before too much time had passed his

attention was drawn outside by a rising din. He

smiled to himself as he turned to peek out of the

cave.

Something a mite stronger than an animated dis-

cussion was taking place among the soldiers of the

master race, high up in the air of the central shaft- It

appeared to involve a majority of them, in fact. In

the midst of the discussion was a large gray shape,

dipping and swinging its wingtips in what looked

very much like fury.

Soon it was raining feathers. They were of many

sizes and colors, and Jon-Tom amused himself by

gathering a few and stuffing them into the lining of

his cape. As the screeching and angry squawking

continued, he casually picked up his duar and strolled

toward the path leading to the tunnel. No one paid

him the slightest attention, since everyone was fully

involved in determining who was qualified to be a

leader and who was not.

Apparently Gyrnaught was having some difficulty

sorting out this business of multiple leadership, and

the offer to make him prime leader wasn't sufficient

to satisfy his ego. There was only one leader here,

one master! His heretofore obedient soldiery was

vigorously disputing this position.

Jon-Tom reached the lip of the tunnel, spared a

last backward glance for the argument which had

freed him, and then hurried into the passageway. He

was almost to the exit when a very large hawk

swooped down from a hidden perch near the ceiling

to challenge him.

Jon-Tom hadn't expected a guard. This one had

TtSS MOMENT OF THE MAOICSAN

127

an eight-foot wingspan and gripped a long \w\e

tipped with four sharp points in both flexible wingdps.

Jon-Tom was more fearful of its natural weapons.

Beak and talons could tear him apart.

"Where are you going, musician?"

i "Just getting a little air," Jon-Tom told the guard,

smiling thinly. He glanced over his shoulder, eyed

the hawk significantly. "Aren't you going to join the

discussion and put your application in?"

"What discussion?" The hawk's bright eyes never

left him.

"The one where everybody's going to determine

who's a proper member of the master race and who

isn't."

"I am the sentry," the hawk told him. "That is

enough for me to be."

"But everyone else is—" The hawk cut him off by

taking a step forward and jamming the sharp spikes

against Jon-Tom's belly. Jon-Tom retreated. The hawk

followed, prodding him backward.

"Haven't you heard about the discussion?" Jon-

Tom asked lamely-

"I'll find out later."

"But everyone's a master now, everyone's a leader."

"I'm only a sentry. I think maybe we'd better talk

to Gyrnaught about this. I don't think you're allowed

out to 'get a little air.' There's plenty of air in the

lair." Again the spikes pricked Jon-Tom's gut, forcing

him back another couple of steps.

He was on the verge of panic. Unarmed, there

wasn't a chance he could overpower this determined

guard. In a little while Gyrnaught might whip his

fracturing reich back into shape. When he did, Jon-

Tom had a hunch the eagle would do some interrogat-

ing. Then he'd come looking for his pet musician,

whose clever songs wouldn't save his skin from being

slowly peeled from his clever body.

Atan Dean Foster

128

"Can't we talk this over?" he pleaded.

"Nonsense. I can't discuss things with a member of

an inferior race because it would—" The hawk stopped

in mid-sentence. He pivoted slowly, and as he did so,

Jon-Tom saw something like a quill protruding from

the back of his skull. It wasn't a quill and it had

feathers of its own. An arrow.

The guard fell on his face, a heap of dead feathers,

"Are you goin' to stand there gawkin' all day,"

snapped Mudge as he notched another arrow into

his longbow and tried to see down the tunnel, "or do

you think it'd be too much of me to ask that you

move your bloody aggravatin' arse?"

VIII

t "Mudgel"

^ "Oi, I know me name and you know yours." The

^Otter was starting to back toward the exit. "Now, if

^your legs are still connected to your feeble brain, I'd

^appreciate it if you'd get the latter t' movin' the

^'former."

^ Mudge led him outside, then down the tree-choked

i^ope to the water's edge, where their raft was beached.

Jon-Tom had been disappointed when he'd called it

; Up, but now it was as beautiful as a forty-foot motor

| yacht. They pushed off and began rowing furiously

|^fith the paddles.

^ From time to time Jon-Tbm could see several shapes

"rise from the hollow interior of the island only to

dive back inside.

"Beginnin' to think I'd never run you down, mate,"

' Mudge was saying.

"Why'd you bother, after what you were saying the

last time we talked? There were plenty of good

reasons for you to forget about me, and none for

coming after me."

"Well, let's call it curiosity and leave it at that,

mate. If I think on it much I'm liable to get sick.

Maybe I was just interested in seein' if you'd ended

129

Alan Dean Foster

130

up as bird food or wotever. Or maybe I'm crazier

than a neon worm."

"1 don't care why you did it, I'm just glad that you

did"

Mudge jerked his head in the direction of the

rapidly shrinking island. "Wot 'appened in there,

anyways? Never 'eard a screekin' and yowtin' like that

in me life. You put a spellsong on 'em?"

"Not exactly. I just sort of convinced them to

engage in a dialogue aimed at preventing the spread

of injustice while maintaining equality among them-

selves."

"Cor, no wonder they was 'avin' a bloody mess of

it! The poor flap-faces. Think they'll come after us

after they get things sorted out among themselves?"

"Not right away, if then. If their leader survives

this little debate, he's going to be too busy trying to

put his organization back together again to worry

about my whereabouts for a while. It probably wouldn't

be a bad idea to keep a close watch on the sky for a

few days, though"

"I follow you, mate. We won't be surprised from

above like that again."

"Damn right we won't." He turned thoughtful.

"I'm hoping that Gymaught... that's the eagle who

snatched me... Finds out what happens to the kind

of system he espouses, finds out that it's doomed to

self-destruction. I hope he learns that power cor-

rupts absolutely. That greed quickly overtakes loyalty

in the minds of supposedly obedient followers."

"Why 'e grab you anyways, mate, if not for

munching?"

"He needed a musician."

"Teh. All 'e 'ad to do was ask, and I'd *ave told him

as 'ow *e was wastin' 'is time." He grinned. "Sounds

like a fowl business all the way 'round, mate."

THE MOMENT OF THE MAGICIAN

131

If he hadn't just saved his life, Jon-Tom would

have pushed him overboard.

The further south they rowed, the more relaxed

I Jon-Tom became. Clearly Gyrnaught had his wings

t full with his newly enlightened flock, and even if he

» did Find the time to wonder where his musician had

jf gone to, he had no way of knowing which way

xJon-Tom had fled. As days slipped by, he was more

^and more convinced he'd seen the last of the eagle.

| His relief was tempered by their surroundings,

Iwhich grew thicker and more humid than ever.

'^Clothahump's "pleasant tropical country" was closing

|in on them with a vengeance. The trees of the

^W^nnipai towered above their frail raft, supported

d|»y labyrinthine root systems which sometimes choked

|E?ff their chosen route, forcing them to detour to east

|or west. Occasionally the roots themselves grew so

||tall it was possible to paddle beneath them. Shelf

fungi and toadstools clung determinedly to the bases

|»f the smaller trees.

? What little dry land they did encounter was so

thickly overgrown with brambles and thorn thickets

Ithat they had to hunt carefully to find campsites for

jtfie night. Mudge insisted they do this because the

jl-egular evening concert of eerie squeals and groans

Hnnade him leery of anchoring out on the water.

^. Man and otter would huddle close together in

front of their small fire for a long while before

drifting off into an uneasy, disturbed sleep. But

while both found the nocturnal noises unnerving,

nothing slouched out of the muck to devour them as

they slept.

Still, the dark, dank gloominess was all-pervading.

Not quite as Clothahump had described it.

Mist clung to them day and night, rising from the

, steaming surface of the water- When it rained, which

| was often, the heat abated somewhat, but it became

Alan Dean Foster

132

almost impossible to judge direction. This forced

them to seek shelter beneath the towering roots ot

the larger trees. After a couple of weeks, jon-Tom

was certain the morning growth that covered his face

was more mildew than beard.

Everything in the Wrounipai waff slick with moss

or rough with fungi. The intense humidity threat-

ened to rot the clothes otf their backs. .It also seemed

to penetrate to work on their minds, disorienting

them and making identification of the most ordinary

objects difficult.

They had beached the raft on a sand bar beneath

the natural roof formed by several interlocking aii

roots, sharing it with freshwater crustaceans and

other inhabitants of the brackish environment. Their

campfire crackled Fitfully, the flames struggling against

the cloying atmosphere. It was a pitch-black night

Trees blocked out the clouds, and the clouds shuttered

the moon. Their only light came from the fire.

But he could still hear, and something sounded

very peculiar indeed.

Jon-Tom roused himself, his eyes heavy from lack

of sleep. Nearby, Mudge lay rolled up in his thin

blanket, snoring on, oblivious of the strange rushing

noise which had awakened Jon-Tom.

The spellsinger listened for a long time before

donning his cape and walking to the edge of the

water. The sound was an unnatural one, steady and

moist, like a rushing in a vacuum. He put his hand

out into the rain, jerked it back as if he'd been stung,

then slowly extended it a second time. He stared at it

in wonder, shook his head to clear it. The phenome-

non persisted. So he wasn't crazy.

Water beaded up against his extended hand. It felt

like normal rain. It looked like normal rain. He drew

back his hand again and tasted of it. A pungent, salty

flavor that wasn't normal. He was relieved for that. It

THE MOMENT OF THE MAOICIAH 133

meant his senses were functioning properly, and he

was relieved that it was the precipitation that was

deranged and not himself.

He watched it until he was completely awake, then

walked back to wake Mudge.

"Huh... wuzzat, wot?" The otter blinked up at

him. Jon-Tom's face must have presented a less than

pleasing sight, lit only by the feeble glow of their

campfire. "Wot is it, mate? Cor, 'tis black as a

magistrate's thoughts out."

"It's still night. The sun's not up yet."

"Then why," asked a suddenly irritated Mudge,

"did you wake me?"

"It's raining, Mudge."

, The otter paused a moment, listening. *T can hear

it. So wot?"

"It's not raining right."

"Not right? 'Ave you gone daft?"

"Mudge, it's raining up."

"Gone over the edge," the otter muttered. "Poor

' bugger." He slipped free of his blanket and staggered

sleepily toward the water's edge. A paw reached out

.into the rain. Water beaded up against the back of

'his hand while the palm stayed dry.

^ "I'll be corn'oled, so it is."

! Jon-Tom's hand reached out parallel to the otter's.

"What does it mean?" It was fascinating to watch the

droplets strike the back of his hand, crawl around

the fingers, and shoot up into the dark sky.

"I guess it means, guv, that 'is wizardness wasn't

kiddm' when he told us this part o' the world was

tropical. My guess is that the land 'ereabouts gets so

wet from the 'umidity that it 'as to give back some o'

the water to the sky from time to rime. Not such an

improper arrangement, if you thinks about it. Keeps

everythin' in balance, wot? Up, down, up, down: a

body could get confused."

Alan Dean Foster

134

**1 can see what it's doing, but what does it mean?"

Mudge pulled his paw out of the upside-down

storm and licked the fur on his wrist to dry it as he

strolled back toward his makeshift bed.

**It means that the world's a wet place, mate."

Jon-Tom watched the up-pour a while longer be-

fore rejoining his friend. He curled up underneath

his cape but lay wide-awake, staring out into the

storm. The steady rush of sky-bound water was

soothing.

"Actually, it's kind of neat. I mean, there's a won-

derful symmetry to it, a kind of meteorological poetry."

"Right, mate. Me thought exactly. Now go to sleep."

Jon-Tom turned to him. The otter's silhouette was

barely visible against the fading fire. "You live too

fast, Mudge. Sometimes I don't think you have the

slightest appreciation for any of the world's natural

wonders."

"Wot, me?" He blinked sleepily at Jon-Tom. " 'Ow

can you say that, mate? Why, this upside-down drizzle,

it revises me 'ole estimation o' 'ow the world's

constructed."

"Does it? Then maybe there's hope for you yet, if

it enables you to appreciate the strangeness and

beauty of nature, the astounding surprises that it has

in store for all of us. There is magnificence in a

slightly altered natural phenomenon like rain."

"Actually, mate, 1 see it a little differently. See, I

always thought the world was a toilet. 'Tis nice to

learn that it can function as a bidet also." Whereup-

on he rolled over once more and went back to sleep.

Jon-Tom resigned himself to the fact that his com-

panion was, aesthetically speaking, a primitive. He

contemplated the upside-down rain thoughtfully. It

was disorienting, but lovely and not at all dangerous.

If naught else it was a welcome change to their

monotonous surroundings.

THB MOMENT or THE MAGICMIV 135

It continued to pour upward for a good part of

the early morning. Standing on the raft, they remained

clean and dry as they paddled through a sheet of

rising precipitation. The raft was a little cube of

dryness sliding across the plant-choked waters of the

Wrbunipai.

Eventually the humidity fell below a hundred per-

cent and they left the region of constant rain behind.

The water had become a narrow, lazy stream, one of

many cutting through parallel ridges of upthrust

granite and schist. It was an improvement over the

country they had crossed, but not the balmy paradise

Clothahump had described. Dense undergrowth still

crowded for space among the stone and water. They

found themselves paddling down a green tunnel lit

by intermittent sunlight.

On one rocky outcropping Mudge located bushes

which produced delicious green-black berries shaped

like teardrops, and the two travelers spent a whole

afternoon gorging themselves. The stony island provid-

ed a clean, dry resting place as well, and they de-

cided to spend the night.

Jon-Tom awoke the following morning, stretched,

and was awake in an instant. They were surrounded.

Not by Gyrnaught's minions, nor by the faceless

demons of Markus the Ineluctable.

There were thirty otters staring back at him, and

every one of them looked exactly like Mudge. Jon-

Tom had experienced his share of oddities recently,

but nothing to match this.

"Good morning, Jon-Tom!" the thirty chorused in

unison.

He tried to rein in his panicky thoughts. Was he

seeing some kind of multiple mirror image fashioned

by someone well versed in the wizardiy arts? No- If

that were the case, they should all move as well as

talk simultaneously. But some were bending over in

Alan Dean Foster

136

laughter, others talking to their neighbors, still oth-

ers doffing their hats by way of greeting. Each moved

independently of the other.

There was a simpler explanation, of course. This

world had finally sent him over the edge.

One similarity stood out on careful inspection. It

was enough to convince him he hadn't tumbled

down some metaphysical rabbit hole. While each

duplicate of the otter moved independently of the

others, displaying different expressions and making

different gestures, every one of them stayed in one

spot. None retreated and none approached.

Until one stumbled into him from behind and

nearly scared him to death. He grabbed this sole

mobile by the shoulders and shook it violently.

"Mudge, is it you?"

The otter's eyes were glazed. "I ain't sure no more,

mate. I used to think I were me. Now I ain't so sure.

I was out gatherin' breakfast berries when I came

back to see this lot." He gestured at the circle of

Mudges enclosing their campsite. "Maybe I ain't me.

Maybe one o' them is me."

"We're all you," said the otterish chorus, "every

one of us."

"Yes, but I'm a better you," insisted a pair of

Mudges off to the right.

"Not a chance," argued three across the circle.

"We're the best Mudges, we are."

"Oi, you couldn't fool your own real parents,"

declared a quartet of Mudges from the right flank.

"There has to be an explanation for this," Jon-

Tbm said quietly, "A sensible explanation"

"Sure there is, mate," said the Mudge standing

next to him. "I've been 'angin' around you too long,

and now I'm as loony as you are"

"Neither of you is loony," said *the two Mudges

directly in front of them.

THB MOMENT or TOE MAGICIAN 137

As Jon-Tom blinked, or thought he blinked, the

Mudges disappeared. They were replaced by some-

thing much worse; a pair of six-foot-two-inch-tall,

indigo-and-green-clad Jon-Toms. He stared at the

perfect duplicates of himself.

^"A trick, it's a trick of some kind. An optical

illusion." Sure it was, but who was doing it, and why?

They'd heard nothing during the night, and the

sensitive Mudge would surely have been alerted by

the encroachment of so many intruders. He turned

to the otter.

"You haven't heard anyone on the island besides

us?"

"Not a soul," the otter assured him. "But we sure

'as 'ell 'ave acquired some company."

"There has to be more than one of them at work

here," Jon-Tom muttered. "There's too much hap-

pening simultaneously for a single creature to be

responsible."

"You're right there." He turned on the voice, only

to see three more Jon-Toms chatting amongst them-

selves. One leaned against his ramwood staff, an-

other pointed, while the third studied his hands. But

they stayed rooted in three spots. In fact, it seemed

asif... yes, he was positive. The three new Jon-Toms

occupied the same locations as three now-vanished

Mudges. The otters had turned into Jon-Toms.

"I don't know who you are or what you are, but if

you're trying to frighten us, you've failed."

"Speak for yourself, mate," Mudge mumbled un-

der his breath.

"Frighten you? Why should we want to frighten

you?" inquired a trio of Mudges off to their left.

Once more Jon-Tom's mind underwent an unsettling

shift in perception. The Mudges vanished, to be

replaced by three trees. Each consisted of a trunk

which topped out in a weaving, flexible point- Flow-

Alan Dean Foster

138

ers grew from the base of the trunk. In the center of

each was an indistinct, puttylike face. Jon-Tom could

see eyes and mouths but no nose or chin. An ear

protruded from each side, and a single thick, tapering

vine grew from the top of the tree. Or maybe the

trunk became the vine; Jon-Tom couldn't teil where

one ended and the other began. Maybe there was no

tree: Just the single tall vine.

"We don't want to frighten you- We're just practic-

ing our art. It's rare that we get an audience."

Jon-Tom turned and looked behind him. Three more

Mudges had disappeared. They had been replaced

by another pair of trees and a single giant butterfly.

It fluttered but didn't stray from its Fixed position-

"That's so true," the butterfly declaimed. "Our

audiences are few and far between."

"Your art?" Jon-Tom murmured.

"We're mimics, imitators, mimes," said one of the

vines. "It started as a defense against the plant-

eaters. Our trees are actually below the surface." So

these were vines he was looking at, Jon-Tom mused.

"We protect our buried trees by imitating things the

plant-eaters are scared of."

"It works very well," said a giant caterpillar. "It's

hard to try and eat something that looks like you.

Personally, being into photosynthesis, I never could

understand the motile digestion cycle,"

"Anyways," said a couple of Daliesque nightmares,

"it gets dull just sitting around waiting for something

to try and dig up your tree. So we stay in shape by

practicing different duplications. That gets boring,

too, unless we get a new audience with a fresh

perspective." The nightmares vanished, were replaced

by twenty pairs of applauding hands.

"Come now," said something like a small dinosaur,

"what would you like to see us mimic? We're the best,

on this side"

THE MOMBATT OF THE MAGICIAN 139

"Not quite the best," insisted a quartet of upside-

down birds across from the boaster. "You could

never do this."

"Fertilizer!" snapped the other vine, immediately

becoming an astonishingly colorful assortment of

dangling avians.

"The feathers don't run the right way."

"They do too'" The reversed birds all stared at

Jon-Tom. "Tell us, human, do they look right to

you?"

He was slowly repacking his kit. "It's hard for

me to say. Not really my area of expertise. I guess

they're okay, for feathers." He started toward the

beach where they'd left their raft the night before.

Mudge was right behind him.

"Oh, you don't have to be an expert." Three vines

interlocked to block their retreat. "All you have to do

is bring a fresh perspective, to be a new audience.

You're the best we've had in a long time. Much too

long. We can't let you go now. We have so many

imitations stored up. We need someone new to evalu-

ate them for us"

Jon-Tom eyed the intertwined vines and took an-

other cautious step forward. The vines sprouted

clusters of six-inch-long, poisonous thorns.

"What do you think, Mudge?"

"I don't know, mate. 1 'aven't judged any contests

in a day or so,"

"It won't take long," several other vines assured

them.

"Our repertoire isn't infinite."

"We should Finish in a couple of years," said four

giant rats.

The rapid changes were making Jon-Tom slightly

queasy as his brain struggled to keep up with his

eyes.

"We'd love to watch you perform," he said slowly,

Alan Dean Foster

140

"but we have important business of our own to attend

to and I'm afraid we can't quite spare a couple of

years."

"Oh, come on," said two versions of himself, using

their ramwood staffs to push him back toward the

center of the circle, "you'll enjoy it. Be good sports.

We'd go hunting an audience if we could, but we

can't. We're stuck to our trees."

"Yeah, don't you sympathize with us?" said some-

thing Jon-Tom couldn't even give a name to.

"Sure I sympathize," he said quickly. "We just

don't have the lime to spare, that's all." He spoke

politely, white wishing he had a family-sized bottle of

weed killer in his backpack.

"Just sit back and relax," said five startlingly volup-

tuous naked ladies from off to one side. "You'll get

used to it after a couple of months and then you'll be

with us in spirit as well as body."

"Be with you in spirit?" Mudge squeaked.

"The spirit of the performance."

"Oh." He let out a sigh of relief.

"I'll start, I'll start'" declaimed one of the women.

It became, quite remarkably, three fish swimming in

empty air- This was only the first of countless

astonishing imitations, as the stage shifted from one

vine or group to another, the duplications traveling

around the circle in dizzying profusion.

If either Jon-Tom or Mudge showed signs of

boredom, they found themselves rudely jostled back

to attention by shouts or smells,

Morning became afternoon and afternoon wore

on into evening. When night crept over the island,

the mimevines turned to mimicking creatures capa-

ble of bioluminescence.

"This is all very entertainin'," Mudge commented to

his companion, "but I'd rather not make it me career,

mate."

TBS MOMS/IT OF THK SSAGICIAN 141

"Me neither. There has to be a way out of this."

*"0w about makin' a show o' inspecting one of

their bioomin* imitations close-up-like and then makin*

a break for it between 'em? They're stuck 'ere. Once

past *em, we ought to be able to make it easy to the

Wt."

"I'm not sure what they'd be capable of if agitated,"

Jon-Tom muttered. "Maybe they can imitate things

that throw toxic darts. I don't want to find out. Not

that it matters. They're watching us too closely, and I

don't think we could surprise them as you suggest.

Actually, they're pretty decent folks, for a bunch of

art-obsessed vegetables, but I think this is what's

meant by a captive audience.

"They're going to keep us here. judging their

work, until they've run through a couple of years*

worth of imitations."

"We won't be much use as judges if they let us

starve."

"I don't think they'll let that happen. But we're

stuck here, unless,. -"

"Unless wot?" wondered Mudge, flinching as a

huge luminous crustacean materialized behind him.

"That was a good one, wasn't it?" asked the eight-

pincered crab-thing. The vines flanking it opted to

become delicate orange anemones.

"Unless I can get them to imitate a certain

something." He climbed to his feet and found he was

the center of attention. Ghostly glowing things eyed

turn intently.

"Okay, everybody, listen upl" The vines swayed

toward him. They'd been nothing short of polite, in

their childlike fashion, but he didn't think he'd get a

second chance at this. Better get it right the first

time.

"You claim you can imitate anything?"

"That's right... that's right...!" they chorused back

Alan Oean Foster

142

at: him. "Anything at all. Just name it. Or describe it."

They rippled and flared in the darkness, displaying

everything from gymnastic feet linked to, long arms

to a talking rainbow.

"Not bad." Jon-Tom showed them his duar. "But

how are you at reacting to a musical description

instead of a verbal one? How are you at listening and

imitating what you hear?"

"How's this?" said a giant, fleshy ear.

"That's not exactly what 1 mean. Can you mimic

only what you hear in the music? Pure music, with-

out descriptive words? Can you imitate feelings, for

example?"

"Try us, try us!" urged a chain of worms.

So Jon-Tom sang the song he'd selected, a gentle,

easygoing, relaxing song. He'd sung it once before,

and it had put an entire pirate crew safely into the

arms of Morpheus.

It seemed-to work here, too. The vines slumped,

resembling for the moment nothing more complex

than vines. When the song ended, he shouldered his

backpack and nodded for Mudge to follow.

They were almost to the edge of the clearing when

two vines suddenly rose to interlock in front of him.

They formed a very authentic-looking wall of g^ant

razor blades.

"Nice try," said a couple of sarcastic Mudges from

nearby. "We thought you might try and trick us. It

won't work. We're as alert and aware of what's goin'

on around us when we're imitatin' as we are when

we're not."

"So you might as well relax and enjoy the show,"

four Jon-Toms told them. "When you're hungry

we'll bring you berries. Real berries, not imitation."

Jon-Tom and Mudge reluctantly returned to their

seats of honor in the center of the clearing. The

kaleidoscopic procession of imitations resumed.

143

THE MOUEHT OF THE MAGICIAN

Mudge leaned over to whisper to his companion.

**I like those berries, mate, but if I 'ave to eat *em for

the next two years, I'll turn into a bloomin' berry

meself. Unless I go bonkers first. You're goin' to 'ave

to try some stronger kind o' spellsingin'."

\ "I don't know," he murmured. "Next time they

might take my duar away." He made placating motions,

raised his voice.

"Okay, okay, you've convinced me we can't get

away, just as you've convinced me that we're in the

presence of the all-time masters of mimicry." Mutters

of appreciation came from around the circle. "But so

far everything I've seen you mimic has been alive.

Almost everything, anyway."

"Live things," said a three-foot-tall cornflower, "are

much harder to mimic than not-live things. There's

no challenge in imitating dead things."

"Then you haven't been properly challenged. For

example"—he bent to pick up a piece of feldspar—

"can you imitate this? Not just any chunk of rock,

but this specific piece, perfectly?"

"He asks if we can imitate it," said an irritated

moose. Instantly Jon-Tom and Mudge were sur-

rounded by a wall of feldspar slivers.

"I have to admit, that's pretty good." Jon-Tom

rose, tossed the fragment of rock aside. "Though I

do see a little movement here and there. You're all

supposed to be rock-steady. So you think mimicking

not-live things is easy, do you? Here's a tough one for

you." He paused for effect. "Let's see all of you

mutate water."

This generated a flurry of uncertainty from the

encircling vines, mixed with excitement at the pros-

peo; of a real challenge. They twisted and jerked,

Struggling with the necessary physical and mental

contortions demanded by the request, until applause

sounded from behind Jon-Tom.

144 ALan Dean Foster

He turned. Several of the vines were applauding

one of their colleagues- This vine had vanished. In

its place was a stable, very narrow waterfall. The

water never touched the earth, but the illusion was

remarkably real.

"Congratulations! That's more like it." Mudge gave

him a nudge.

" 'Ere now, mate, let's not go gettin' too interested

in this business, wot?"

Jon-Tom ignored him, spoke to the rest of the

mimics. "Come on, surety that's not the only one

who can do it!"

The vines continued to struggle. Soon he and

Mudge were surrounded by waterfalls, bits of lake

and pond and swamp.

"I didn't think you could do it," he told them. "I'm

impressed, I admit it."

"Don't stop now," said several of the vines, caught

up in the spirit of the moment. "We can go back and

finish our stored illusions anytime. Challenge us

again."

"Yes, something harder this time!" said another.

"I'll try." Jon-Tom rubbed his chin and tried to

look intense. He already knew what he was going to

say, but he didn't want his captors to know he'd

thought it out carefully beforehand. If this was going

to work, it had to appear spontaneous. Even to

Mudge.

"Okay," he said, as though the idea had just oc-

curred to him. He turned a slow circle, gesturing

eloquently with his hands as he spoke. "You thought

water was hard? Try this. I want you all to imitate..."

and he let it hang tantalizingly for a moment, "emotions."

That froze the vines. Then they began contorting

and jerking as they launched into vigorous discus-

sion among themselves. Jon-Tom heard whispers of

"Can't be done... never been tried" interspersed with

THE MOMENT OF TSSK MAOICIAfi 145

more positive assertions such as "Can we mimic

anything or can't we?... Can't let the human think

he's stumped us... Sure it can be done.. -Just takes a

lot of work..."

"And 10 make it worthwhile," Jon-Tom went on,

"no more of this hanging around waiting for one of

your companions to come up with the solution. You

all take a chance on it simultaneously or it isn't fair.

Otherwise you're just imitating the first one of you to

be successful." He indicated the initial waterfall. "You've

•got to try and do it together."

One of the vines fluttered toward him. "Fair enough,

man. Go ahead and try us!"

"Right- First emotion is... anger."

A brief hesitation, and then the vines began to

darken. They turned deep, violent shades of crim-

son and yellow and orange. Some sprouted barbs

and thorns that twitched and cut at the air.

"Good. Very good," Jon-Tom complimented them.

The vines relaxed, congratulating themselves and

conversing as they faded to their normal green hue.

"No time to relax. I'll go faster now and make it

harder on you. Next emotion is laughter."

Vines ballooned, drifting in the air tike pennants

despite the fact that there was no breeze. Some

displayed polka dots, others were checkered, some

boasted stripes like barber's poles, and one enterpris-

ing vine turned plaid.

"Sadness!" Jon-Tom barked.

The laughter vanished as the vines immediately

went limp and stringy, turning deep pea-soup green

or mauve or lavender. They began to drip false

tears, swaying plaintively to an unheard dirge. They

were getting better with practice and Jon-Tom changed

emotions with increasing rapidity. Surprise, fear,

elation, suspense, uncertainty...

"'Ere now, guv," said Mudge, "this party's lots o'

Alan Dean Poster

146

fun, but don't you think we ought to—?" Jon-Tom

put a hand on the otter's shoulder and squeezed

hard, continued to shout suggestions.

Faith, hope, charity, insanity...

He spoke the last in the same tone as all the

others, with the same inflection. The effect on the

primed and responsive mimevines was shocking.

For the first time, there was no rhyme or reason to

their imitations. Colors shifted wildly. Some vines

expanded while others bulged. A couple shrank all

the way back down into their underground, hidden

trees. Two flailed the earth until they came apart,

beating themselves to pieces on the hard ground-

He didn't have time to observe all the damage his

challenge had caused, however, because he was

running like mad for the beach where their raft lay.

He had to pull Mudge at first, but the otter

caught on quickly enough. This time no imitation

steel materialized to block their retreat. As they

crossed through the circle, Jon-Tom looked back.

Those vines that were still intact were slamming into

each other, beating the air, the ground, whistling

and moaning and shrieking. The noise was worse

than the sight.

"I had to get them going," Jon-Tom explained as

he ran panting toward the water. "Had to get them

to doing their imitations fast, one after the other,

barn, barn, bami Had to get them working without

thinking, acting reflexively on my challenges, so that

it would become a point of pride for each individual

to keep up with its neighbors.

"I didn't think my earlier lullaby was going to

work, but it was worth a try. They'd probably been

watching out for just that kind of trick on our pan,

so I figured the worst that could happen was that

they'd get to show us we couldn't escape. I let them

believe we were resigned to our fate and then tried

THB MOMENT OF TVS MAGICIAN

147

to make it look like I was caught up in the spirit of

the contest."

They were on the raft now, pushing hard on the

paddles, sliding out onto the water of the Wrounipai

and putting some distance between themselves and

the floral asylum they'd left behind.

Mudge glanced back toward the island. "You think

they'll ever come out of it, mate?" Distant shouts and

moans could still be heard, though they were fainter

now.

"I think so. Gradually one of them will realize that

they're doing it to themselves and cure itself. Then

the others will imitate its return to sanity. Those who

aren't too far gone. I could've left them with that

thought, but I'd rather they discover it on their own,

after we're safely on our way."

"Right. You sure 'ad me fooled, mate." He frowned.

Jen-Tom's expression had turned sorrowful. "Hey,

wot's wrong now?"

"Oh, I don't know." He turned back to concentrat-

ing on his paddling. "It's just that... this is silly, I

know... but while we were trapped back there 1 had

thoughts of... you remember Flor Quintera?"

"The dark-'aired lady you brought over from your

own world? The one who went off with that smoolh-

talkin' rabbit?"

"Yeah, that's her. 1 thought for a minute back

there about asking the mimevines to imitate her.

That would have been an interesting sight, thirty

perfect copies of that perfect body all dancing around

us."

"Blimey," Mudge whispered, "now, why didn't I

think o' that? Not to do up your ideal, o' course, but

some o' me own favorite fantasies."

'Too late now," Jon-Tom said with a sigh. "Unless

you'd like to go back. I could wait for you on the

Taft. Maybe the same trick would work again."

148 Alan Dean Foster

"Not bloody likely. No thanks, mate, but I've 'ad

more than enough o' vegetables that look like your

Aunt Sulewac one minute and somethin' out o' a bad

dream the next. 1 wouldn't go back there even for

thirty perfect females. Me, I prefer me paramours

with all their imperfections intact."

IX

After the tidal wave of variety provided by the

mimevines, the monotonous regularity of the Wrou-

nipai was a welcome change. But as they floated

further south, the terrain, if not the climate, began

to change. Tall stone spires cloaked with thick foliage

began to thrust skyward from the water. Instead of

granite, the rock was mostly limestone. Creepers and

bromeliads found footholds in the pitted stone, crack-

ing and eroding the towers.

"A semi-submerged karst landscape," Jon-Tom

murmured in wonder.

"Just wot I were about to say meself, guv," said

Mudge doubtfully.

That night they camped on a sandy beach oppo-

site a cliff too steep even for creepers to secure a

hold. While Mudge hunted for dry wood, Jon-Tom

walked over to inspect the rock wall. It was cool and

dry, a comforting feeling in a land brimming with

quicksands and mud.

Mudge returned with an armful of dead limbs and

dropped them into the Firepit he'd dug. As he brushed

dust Syom his paws, he frowned at his friend.

"Find somethin' unusual?"

"No. It's just plain old limestone. I was just think-

149

Alan Dean Foster

ISO

ing how nice it was to find some firm ground in the

middle of the rest of this muck.

'This was once the floor of a shallow sea. Tiny

animals with lots of calcium in their shells and bodies

died here by the trillions, fell to the bottom, and over

the eons turned into this stone- As time passed the

sea bottom was lifted up. Then running water went

to work here, wearing away open places."

"Do tell," said Mudge dryly.

Jon-Tbm looked disappointed. "Mudge, your scien-

tific education has been sorely neglected."

"That's because I was too busy gettin' educated

sorely in practical matters, guv."

"If you'd Just listen to me for five minutes, I could

reveal some of nature's hidden wonders to you."

"Maybe after we eat, mate," said the otter, raising

a quieting paw, "1 want to enjoy me supper, wot?"

Following the conclusion of a sparse but satisfying

meal, Jon-Tom discovered he no longer felt like

lecturing. His mood tended more toward melancholy.

Lifting the duar, he regaled the unfortunate Mudge

with long, sad ballads and bittersweet songs of

unrequited love.

The otter endured this for as long as he could

before rolling up tightly in his blanket. This man-

aged to muffle most of Jon-Tom's singing.

"Don't be so damned melodramatic," the insulted

balladeer said. "After all these months of steady

practice, my singing must have improved somewhat."

"Your playin's better than ever, mate," came a

voice from beneath the blanket, "but as for your

voice, I fear 'tis still a lost cause. You still sound like

you're singin' underwater with a mouth full o' pebbles.

Or would you prefer me to be tactful instead o'

truthful?"

"No, no," Jon-Tom sighed. "1 thought I'd im-

THE MOMENT OF THE MAGICIAN

151

proved a lot." He strummed the duar's dual strings

as he spoke.

Mudge's head emerged from beneath the covers.

His eyes were half-closed. "Me friend, 'tis late. You

can pow carry a tune o' sorts, whereas a month ago

your mouth wouldn't 'ave known wot to do with it.

That's an improvement o' sorts. 'Tis not willingness

you lack, but a voice. Be satisfied with wot you 'ave."

"Sorry," Jon-Tom replied huffily, "but I need to

practice if I'm going to get any better."

Mudge made a strangled sound. He couldn't win.

If he praised the man's singing, then he sang all the

more enthusiastically, and if he criticized it, then

Jon-Tom needed his "practice." Life kept dealing

him jokers.

"All right then, mate." He burrowed back beneath

his blanket. "Try and get 'er all out o' your system.

Just don't wail on till dawn, okay?"

"I won't be at it too much longer," Jon-Tom as-

sured him- He sang about days at the beach, and old

mother earth, and friends he had known back in the

real world. Then he put the duar aside and pre-

pared to curl up next to the fire.

Something gave him pause. More than a pause: it

was like an electric shock against his retinas. He sat

up and blinked.

It was still there, and growing stronger. Or was it?

Leaning over, he shook the ball of fur and blanket

next to him.

"Oh crikey, now wot?" The otter stuck his head out

for the third time that night. "Listen, mate, you can

'ave the bleedin' fire. Me, I'll sleep on the raft-

Hey"—he sat up quickly, suddenly very much awake—

"you look like you saw a ghost."

"Not a ghost," he mumbled. "I saw... Mudge, I'm

not sure what I saw,"

Alan Dean Foster

152

The otter studied the darkness. "I don't see nothin'.

Wot do it look like? Where'd you see h?"

"Over there." He rose and walked toward the bare

white cliff. Mudge followed, eyeing the night uneasily.

Jen-Torn pointed at the rock. "There. That's where

I saw it. And there was something else. Just the

slightest quivering under me as I lay down.*A tremor,

like"

"Mate, this 'ole country's on shaky ground."

"No, this is solid rock under this sand, Mudge. It

was an earthquake. I'm sure of that. There's lots of

earthquakes where I come from, and I know what

one feels like."

"I didn't feel anything."

"You were asleep."

"Right. So wot were this thing you saw up against

this 'ere rock?"

"Not up against it, Mudge." He put his hand on

the limestone and rubbed it. It was coot, solid,

absolutely unyielding. Impenetrable. "It was m the

rock"

A dubious Mudge also ran a paw across the solid

stone. He spoke carefully, as if speaking to a cub.

"Couldn't 'ave been nothin' 'ere, mate. There ain't a

crack in this cliff."

"Not in the cliff," Jen-Tom corrected him firmly.

"In the rock." He turned abruptly on his heel, returned

to the campsite, and picked up his duar. He started

to repeat the last song he'd sung.

Nothing. Mudge stood near the cliff looking angry,

tired, and frustrated all at the same time.

Then it was back. Just the slightest trembling in

the earth, hardly enough to disturb one's sleep.

They would have slept right through it ifJon-Tom

hadn't seen it as well as felt it.

This time Mudge saw it, too. Jon-Tom knew he did

because the otter was backing quickly away from the

THE MOMBffT OF THE MAGJCMJT

1S3

cliff. The earth tremor faded and returned, but the

thing in the cliff remained.

"You see it, too, Mudge. You do!"

"Not only do 1 see it, mate," the otter whispered.

**I see them."

jon-Tom continued to play. More and more of the

wispy, ghostly creatures materialized. They were not

slipping or crawling over the face of the rock: they

moved easily through the unbroken limestone itself.

Faintly glowing worm-forms about the size and shape

ofJon-Tom's arm. Oversized, brightly luminous eyes

showed against the front of each specter. Barely

discernible designs flickered to life on glowing sides

and backs, each different from the other, no two

alike.

As Jon-Tom and Mudge stared in fascination, they

linked together head to tail, forming a long line that

snaked through the rock. The line gave a twist, and

jEhe earth underfoot trembled again. Then the line

-broke apart and they scattered, a bunch of insubstan-

tial big-eyed flatworms swimming through the stone.

Jon-Tom stopped singing. They began to fade

away, only that wasn't right. They didn't fade away:

they dove down into the solid rock. He moved as if

in a trance toward the cliff. There, a minuscule crack

BO wider than a hair, running through the rock and

down into the ground. That was where they'd con-

gregated when they'd formed the link and the last

tremor had struck. They'd lined up along the tiny

stress fracture and twisted, and when they'd twisted,

the ground had convulsed.

"I wonder what they are," he muttered aloud.

"I don't know, mate, but they seem to be going on

their way, and I ain't about to ask 'em to linger." The

otter was retreating toward his blanket, his gaze

fastened to the rock. "I've seen enough of 'em."

A few still swam across the cliff face. Jon-Tom

Alan Dean Foster

154

put his Fingers on the duar's strings. "All right, I

guess we've seen enough. I called them up, so I

guess 1 can make the last of them go away."

"That is what you think," said one of the worm-

shapes in a breathy, barely audible voice.

Jon-Tom's Fingers froze halfway to the strings.

"My God, they talk!"

"Of course we talk." The voice was like a distant

breeze, a faint rustling against his tympanum.

Mudge was too mesmerized to retreat. "How can

they talk," he asked, "when there ain't nothin' to

*em?"

"There's something to them, Mudge, Just not very

much. But they're there, they're real."

"Of course we are real. Such conceit." The faint

words were precise, very proper and clear, though

Jon-Tom saw no movement of lips. indeed, the spec-

tral worm had no mouth. "As a matter of fact, we can

talk quite well, but there is no reason to practice

conversation with those who live on the world's skin."

"Then why are you talking to us now?" Jon-Tom

wondered.

"Your singing fetched us forth from our homes in

the crust. Most extraordinary singing." The shaped

glow momentarily vanished, only to reappear sec-

onds later at another place in the cliff. It moved

easily, fluidly, as if traveling through water.

"We are sensitive to vibrations. Good vibrations."

"The last song I sang," Jon-Tom mused. "I'll be

damned."

"We are also in the business of vibrations," it told

him. "Normally we ignore those who inhabit the void

above the earth, as we ignore the vibrations they

make. But yours were pleasing and unusual, extreme-

ly much so. We came to feel your vibrations, and to

return the favor to you."

THE MOMKfIT OF THE MAGICIAN

169

"Return the fav—"Jon-Tom considered. "You mean

you made the little earthquakes?"

"The vibrations, yes." The worm-light paused and

linked kself to several of its kind. Once again they

Une<^ up along the hairline crack in the cliff. Once

again they gave a sharp twist. The sand shifted

under Jon-Tom's feet.

The chain dissolved and many of its component

individuals fled back into the rock.

"But this is impossible. You can't live in solid rock."

"Solid? Most of what appears to be solid is empty,"

the creature told him. "Do you not know this to be

^ so?"

^ It was quite right, of course. Matter was composed

^.of protons and neutrons and electrons and far smaller

^fclts of existence like quarks and pi-muons and all

sorts of exotic almost-weres. In between them all was

, nothingness, bridged by forces with even more bi-

1 Zaire names like color and flavor. The planets them-

selves were largely composed of nothingness.

So why not creatures which would find such empti-

ness spacious and comfortable? Of course they would

have to be composed largely of nothingness themselves.

"What do you call yourselves?" In his own world

they would be called ghosts—frightening, rarely

glimpsed creatures of luminous insubstandality. They

didn't look anything like dead human beings, but

then, manatees didn't look much like mermaids, either,

and look how many sailors had mistaken them for

wateriogged sirens.

Why shouldn't these worm-shapes be responsible

for the reports of ghosts in many worlds? Vibrations

could call them forth, psychic in his own world, his

spellsinging here. It made a certain sort of supernat-

ural sense.

"We do not name what is, and we simply are," said

the glowing nothing.

166

Alan Dean Foster

TUB MOISEHT OF TBB MAGICIAN

157

"Sing another song." whispered a voice in Jon-

Tom's ear. "Sing another song abou^ the earth we

live in." '

He did so, drawing on every tune he could remem-

ber that mentioned the earth, the ground, the rocks.

The cliff came alive with dozens of the warm-glows,

all cavorting to and delighting in his spellsinging and

the vibrations the duar and his voice produced.

From time to time they linked up to produce minute, ,

no longer disquieting earthquakes. '7-

"What a pity you cannot follow and sing always ^

among us," the speaker said. "Such exquisite rip- '^

plings in the fabric of reality. But you cannot live in • ^

our world, just as we cannot exist in the void you call ' V

yours." 'ji

"It's not a void." Jon-Tom reached out and touched 1|

the stone. "There's atmosphere here, and living , •f

creatures." \ ^

"Nothingness," said the worm speaker, and before "'

Jon-Tom knew what was happening it had glided

into his hand. He stared openmouthed at his fingers.

Mudge let out a little moan. "Nothingness, except

for those few solid things that move."

His hand was on fire, radiating light in all directions.

There was no pain, only the strangest trembling, as

though the bones had fallen asleep. It traveled all

the way up to his elbow, then slid back down to his

fingers. He pressed them to the cliff and the light

went back into the rock.

"That hurt," said the worm-glow, "and I could not

do it for long. There is practically nothing to you,

near vacuum. The earth is better, more compact, *

room to move about without losing oneself. Now it is

time to go. Proximity to the void you are depresses

us."

Only the speaker remained. The others had all

vanished into the rock.

"Sing for us some other time and we will try to stay

longer."

"I will." Jon-Tom waved. He didn't know how else

to say farewell to something that barely existed.

The head went first, followed by the rest of the

worm-shape in a continuous, sinuous curve. It melted

into the cliff. Then it was gone. There was a last

feeble earthquake, accompanied by a distant rumble.

Analog to his wave? Perhaps. Then sound and shaking,

too, had ceased.

"Good-bye. They were saying good-bye to us," he

murmured, enchanted by the memory of their visitors.

"What a world this is."

Mudge sucked in a deep breath. "I do so wish,

mate, that you'd let me know in advance when you're

planning on doin* some spellsingin'."

Jon-Tom turned from the cliff. "Sorry. I didn't

know I was doing any. I was just singing."

Mudge sat down and pulled his blanket over his

legs. It was starting to drizzle. "I ain't sure you can

just 'sing,' guv." Raindrops sizzled into oblivion as

they contacted the fading campfire.

Jon-Tom curled up beneath his cape, careful to

make certain the duar was also out of the rain.

"I mean," the otter continued, "it seems you can't

control the magic when you're tryin' to spelfsing and

you can't control it when you're not, wot?"

"At least I didn't conjure up anything dangerous

this tame," Jon-Tom countered.

"Blind luck. They were an interestin' lot, though."

"Weren't they? Kind of pretty too. I wonder how

much of the earth they claim for their home. Maybe

ail the way to the molten inner core."

"Molten wot? Now that's a unique conception,

guv'nor,"

"Nothing unique about it." Jon-Tom pulled his

Alan Dean Foster

188

cape over his face to keep ofi the rain. "What do you

think the center of the planet is, if not molten rock?"

"Everybody knows wot it is, mate. Tis a giant pit.

The earth's nothin' but a ripening fruit, you know.

Planted in infinity. One o' these days she's goin' to

sprout, and then we'll all see some changes."

"Primitive superstitious nonsense. The center of

the planet is composed of metal and rock kept mol-

ten under the influence of tremendous heat and

pressure." That said, he rolled over and tried to go

to sleep.

The rain trickled down his cape, drumming on its

impenetrable exterior, spattering on the surface of

the Wrounipai. A giant pit. What an absurd notion!

As absurd as the presence of barely substantial crea-

tures living within the rock itself. Wormlike creatures.

Didn't worms infest rotten fruit?

Nonsense, utter nonsense. He refused to consider

it any further. It was ridiculous, insane, crazy.

Besides, the image it conjured up made him dis-

tinctly uncomfortable.

He tried to concentrate on the memory of their

visitors instead. What could you call them? Earth-

dwellers, rock people, stone citizens? Idly he won-

dered what would happen if thousands, millions of

them joined together along a really big crack in the

earth's crust. Along the San Andreas Fault back

home, say. What lay beneath that ancient fracture?

Merely different sections of continental plate rub-

bing against each other? Or was it occasionally lined

with millions of the geological folk joined head to

tail, all preparing to produce one sudden, convulsive

twist every hundred years or so?

That thought wasn't conducive tcr restful sleep

either, here or on any other world. Geologic folk

brought to the surface of the earth by his spellsinging:

how absurd! As were so many things in heaven and

THE MOMS/IT or TVS MACHCSAM

1S9

earth that were no less real for their absurdity.

Geological folks. Geo folk. Geolks. Since they had no

name for themselves, he'd call them that. In his

memories, since it was highly unlikely he'd ever

encounter them again. He drifted slowly off to sleep,

wondering if he'd ever be able to go spelunking

again without seeing luminous, insubstantial eyes all

around him.

Jon-Tom had hopes that the karst landscape they

were passing through was an indication of drier

country to come. Several days of steady travel south-

ward quickly dispelled such hopes. The rocky spires

became smaller and smaller and were not replaced

by spacious, dry islands. Once again they found

themselves paddling through scum-encrusted stag-

nant water beneath umbrellalike, drooping trees.

As they progressed he came to at least one decision:

if Clothahump ever asked him again to undertake

another "pleasant little journey," he was going to insist

first on getting an accurate, non-metaphorical descrip-

tion of the country he was going to have to cross.

But of course, that wouldn't matter, because he

and this Markus the Ineluctable were going to be-

come fast friends, and Jon-Tom was going to utilize

their joint talents to enable him to return home-

That exhilarating thought helped sustain him as he

and Mudge slogged on through the relentless heat

and humidity.

At midday they usually paused for a rest and a

brief snack, and also to allow the steaming sun an

hour or so to fall from its zenith. The little islet they

chose was not particularly inviting in appearance—

full of odd-shaped, inflexible growths and gnarled

protrusions—but it was the only dry land in the

Unstable bog they were presently traversing.

Return home. Home meant Big Macs and Monday

Night Football, throwing Frisbees at the beach and

Alan Dean Foster

160

watching Saturday morning cartoons... the good old

stuff, not the sloppy new 'crap.:. catching up on his

back work and the movies he'd missed. If there was

any back work for him to return to. As far as anyone

at the university was concerned, he'd simply disap-

peared, dropped out. quit. He was going to have a

hell of a time getting his active status restored, much

less changing the incompletes he'd have received in

class- Sure he was.

All he had to do was tell them what he'd been

doing these past months- Sorry, counselor, but you

see, I just happened to find myself yanked through

to this other world, but if my friends Clothahump

and Mudge were here to explain... Clothahump,

see, he's a wizard. A turtle, sir, abdut four foot high.

Mudge is taller, but that's because he's an otter

and... excuse me, counselor, but who are you calling?

No, he'd have to concoct something a bit more

believable than that. Believable and elegant. Maybe

he could tell them that he'd become bored with the

routine of studying and had gone off to South America

to expand his mind. Professors always liked to hear

that you'd been expanding your mind.

A light tremor made the ground shift slightly

beneath them.

"Your ghostly friends again," Mudge suggested,

his words garbled because his mouth was full of fish

jerky.

Jon-Tom gazed down at the slick surface they sat

upon. It was bright daylight and hard to tell, but he

didn't see any sign of the geolks. Besides, he wasn't

playing anything on his duar. Maybe they were just

lingering in his wake, hoping he'd play again some-

time soon.

He bent over, squinted. Very strange ground. Dead

and dying vegetation, lichens and mosses, algae and

crustaceans. "1 don't think the geolks are around,

THX MOMENT OF TUB JHAGICMJV

161

Mudge. Anything could shake this pile of humus

we're sitting on. Maybe it was a passing wave."

The otter gestured at the stagnant water surround-

ing them. "Ain't no waves here, mate, except the ones

ypu and I make with the raft."

A second tremor rattled their senses, much stronger

than the first. Gingerly, jon-Tom rose to a standing

position-

"Uh, Mudge, I think it might be a good idea if we

got back on the raft. Real quiet- and quick-like."

The otter was several syllables and three steps

ahead of him. The shaking resumed and now it was

constant as Jon-Tom half ran, half stumbled toward

the raft.

The island was beginning to rise beneath them.

x

"Damn it, mate, move your arse!" Mudge yelled as

Jon-Tom fell to hands and knees. The otter extend-

ed a paw out to his friend.

Jon-Tom tried to stand, but the surface under his

feet was now .shaking like Jell-0 as it rose from the

water. He gathered himself and leaped, landing hard

on the raft. Mudge shoved frantically at the paddles,

trying to push them back into the water.

Too late. The island had risen on all sides, and

they found themselves ascending into the damp air

along with the beached raft- Water rushed off the

black hillside, turning to foam where rising mass met

the swamp. Mudge lay flat on the deck of the raft,

clinging to the vines that held the logs together,

while Jon-Tom wrapped both arms around one of

the paddle poles. They were surrounded by strange

growths which seemed to be attached to the island's

bulk even where it had rested beneath the water.

They resembled the skeletons of dead cacti, hollow

and light,

Shellfish, snails, and other inhabitants of shallow-

water environments scrambled for the water as their

homes were lifted into the air. Jon-Tom would have

162

THE MOMENT OF THE MAGICIAN

163

joined them, but they couldn't abandon the raft and

all their supplies.

The section of island on which they teetered final-

ly stabilized, but the black land ahead continued

riding- This substantial tower of mud and swamp

ooze didn't stop growing until it loomed threateningly

over them. Innumerable bottom-dwellers, frantic fish,

and trapped underwater plants dripped from the

tower's sides.

Then the ooze opened its dozen or so eyes and

stared down at the puny creatures marooned on its

back.

Mudge let go of the vines, put both hands over his

eyes, and moaned, "Oh shit!" while Jon-Tom contin-

ued clinging to the paddle nearby, staring wide-eyed

up at the emergent mountain of swamp muck.

"Ho, ho, ho!" said the apparition, showing a dark,

toothless mouth more than wide enough to swallow

the raft and its occupants whole- "What have we

here? Strangers!"

Jon-Tom tried to smile. "Just passing through."

"You scratched me." The voice was heavy, ponderous,

and slow.

"We're sorry. We didn't mean to."

"Oh, that's all right. I liked it." It grinned hugely.

Jon-Tom noted that the size of the vast mouth wasn't

fixed. It expanded and contracted and sometimes

tended to slide toward the side of the head. So did

the eyes, which ballooned from tiny dots to globular

bulbs the size of a car. The vast curving bulk blotted

out trees and sky.

"I am," Jon-Tom replied carefully, "relieved to

hear it."

"You're nice," said the ooze. "Different. I like

different." Eyes indicated the surrounding swamp.

"Nothing here is different. Everything's always the

same. 1 like different."

Alan Dean Foster

164

Jon-lbm's arms were cramping. Slowly, he loosened

his grip on the paddle pole. "You live here in

the swamp?" Now, there, he thought, was a clever

question.

The answer was not as self-evident as he believed.

A slow, rippling laugh emerged from somewhere

down in the depths. It sounded like distant Strums.

"Sort of. I am the swamp, I am the ————" and it

said something incomprehensible.

Jon-Tom frowned. "Sorry. I didn't get that last."

The intelligent ichor repeated the rumble, which

sounded more like a volcanic belch than anything

else.

"What do you make of that, Mudge?"

"Indigestion, or else its name is Brulumpus." The

otter had recovered enough courage to peek out

between his shielding fingers.

"Brulumpus," Jon-Tom muttered to himself. He

kept his eyes on those of the swamp, which wasn't

an easy task, considering how they tended to float

in and out of the black goop. They moved about like

marbles in oil. A queasy concept. He tried to think of

something else.

"That is me, the ————" and it made the belching

sound again.

Jon-Tom let go of the pole. Despite its size and

bulk, the mountain of muck did not sound threatening.

If anything, it seemed to be making an effort to be

friendly. Also. Clothahump had once told him never

to let himself be intimidated by mere size. That was

not so easy to do when a potential threat completely

surrounded you.

He tried to phrase his words carefully. The

Brulumpus didn't seem especially bright. "Very pret-

ty swamp you are. I'm glad we haven't bothered

you." He gestured with his left hand. "We're on a

journey south "

THE MOMEJVT OT THE MAGICIAN

165

"That's nice," said the mountain.

Not very bright at all, Jon-Tom mused. "Now, in

order for us to be able to continue on our way, we

have to have our raft here back in the water. Could

ypu"—and he described the action with his hands—

"let us down so we can get back in the water to

continue our journey?"

"Continue your journey." The sides of the Brulum-

pus shimmied and Jon-Tom had to steady himself

with the paddle. "But you are different. You are a

change. I like different. I like changes."

"Yes, and we like you, too, but we really do have to

be on our way. It's very important."

It made no impression on the Bruhimpus. "Change.

A change," it repeated ponderously. "I want you to

stay and be different for me."

"We'd love to, but we can't. We have to be on our

way."

"Stay. I'll keep you close to me always and take care

of you. You want food, I can give you food." A

portion of submerged swamp rose. Trapped within

the cuplike shape was a whole school of small, silvery

fish. They fluttered helplessly for a moment until

the swamp sank again-

"Ifyou are wet, I can make you dry." Jon-Tom and

Mudge winced as a thick shield of solid goo arched

from the water to shield their raft from the clouds

overhead. It hung there for several seconds before

withdrawing.

"I will hug you and love you and keep you,"

announced the delighted Brulumpus.

"That's awfully sweet of you, and we'd love to take

^ou up on it, but we really have to—"

"Hug you and love you and please you and pet you

and..."

Jon-Tom was about to reiterate his protest when a

Alan Dean Foster

166

strong paw on his wrist made him hesitate. Mudge

stood on tiptoe to whisper.

"Stow it, mate- Can't you see you're not getdn'

through to it? Garbage you're tryin' to be logical

with, and it with brains to match. It ain't goin' to let

us leave any more than the mimevines were goin' to."

"But it has to let us go." The duar rested comfort-

ably against his back. "I can always try singing us

out."

"Don't know as 'ow that'll work. this time, guv. 1

don't know if this pile o' shit is smart enough to be

spellsung- 'Tis friendly enough now- We sure as 'ell

don't want to do nothin' to upset the little darlin*. It

doesn't move real fast and it doesn't think real fast,

and it just might get irritated-like before your

spellsingin* could 'ave any effect."

"Keep you happy and feed you and hug you." The

Brulumpus kept repeating the paternal dirge over

and over.

"Then what do we do, Mudge?"

"Don't look at me, mate. I'm just suggestin' caution,

is all. You're the would-be wizard around 'ere. Me, I

just copes with things as they come. Ordinary things,

everyday things. I'll fight me way through any swamp,

no matter 'ow filthy and disease-ridden. But I'm

damned if I'm goin' to sit and argue with it."

"You're such a great help to me, Mudge."

The otter smiled thinly. " 'Tis all done out 'o grati-

tude for the wonderful opportunities you've sent me

way, mate." He put his paws to his ears to try and

shut out the Brulumpus's unbroken recitation of

love.

"Touch you and hold you and feed you..."

"Wotever you're goin' to try, male, try it soon. I

ain't certain 'ow much longer 1 can stand listemrf to

that slop,"

"What do you expect from slop except slop-talk?"

THE MOMENT OF THE UAOICIAM

167

Keeping Mudge's warning in mind, he tried to decide

what to try next while the Brulumpus persisted with its

affectionate litany.

It liked them because they represented a change

in monotonous surroundings, because they were

different. That couldn't last forever. Eventually it

would grow bored with them- Given its low level of

intelligence, however, that day might be a long time

in coming. How long? No way to tell. The Brulumpus

might continue loving and holding and petting them

for a couple of decades. Or even longer. If the

/ Brulumpus was indeed a part of the Wrounipai it

| might be extremely long-lived. It might not tire of

'A them until they'd become a couple of desiccated

corpses waiting to be shucked off tike any other kind

of boredom.

- What did it find so different, so intriguing about

them? Not their appearance, surely, for there was

nothing distinctive about either man or otter. Their

intelligence, perhaps? Sure, that had to be it! The

Wrounipai wanted more than companionship and

company- It wanted to listen to some new conversation,

wanted what it couldn't get from a tree, a rock, a

fish.

There had to be a way out, a way that would allow

them to depart without alarming their benign captor.

"Want to hear something interesting?" The moun-

tain of muck leaned forward, drenching one end of

the raft with scum and swamp water. Jon-Tom and

Mudge retreated hastily to the other end. "That's

dose enough. I'll speak up if you can't hear me

clearly." Proximity to (hat gaping, bottomless maw

was disconcerting despite the Brulumpus's avowed

good intentions. Maybe one day soon, out of boredom,

instead of hugging and petting and loving them, it

might decide to taste them.

168 Alan Dean Foster

"Go ahead," it told Jon-Tom, "say something

interesting. Say something different."

"Actually, we're not all that interesting." He tried to

sound bored with himself. "We're really very ordinary,

even dull."

"No." The Brulumpus wasn't that stupid. "You are

very interesting. Everything you say and do is differ-

ent and interesting. I like different and interesting."

"Of course you do, but there's something that's a

lot more interesting than we are. Something that's

new and interesting and different all the time."

The Brulumpus leaned back. Water sloshed against

its flanks as it took a long time to consider this

simple statement. "Something more interesting than

you? Is it more lovable, too?"

Jon-Tom hadn't considered the last, but he was on

a roll now and could hardly hesitate. "Sure. More

lovable, more interesting, more different. More

everything. It won't argue with you or confuse you

or even make you think. It'll just always be there for

you, interesting and lovable and changing-'*

"Where is it?"

"I'll bring it here for you to have, but in return,

you have to promise to let us go,"

The Brulumpus mulled the offer over. "Okay, but

if you lie to me," it said darkly, "if it's not more

everything than you are, then you'll stay with me

forever, so I can hug you and pet you and..."

"I know, I know," said Jon-Tom as he swung the

duar around. He practiced a few chords. These

songs would be a cinch for him to spellsing. Not only

were they as deeply ingrained in his memory as any

lyrics he'd ever heard, they even had a compelling

power in his own world.

"Wot the 'ell can you conjure up for this mess that

fulfills all those requirements, mate?"

"Don't bother me, Mudge. I'm working."

THE MoJEBwr or THE MAGICIAN

169

The otter leaned back, glancing up at the thoughtful,

expectant Brulumpus. "All right, guv, but you'd bet-

ter satisfy this smothering pile o' crud real soon-like,

because I think it's gettin' to like us more by the

minute. Though if nothin' else, your singin' may

change that"

Jon-Tom ignored the barb as he began to sing.

Despite the threat posed by the Brulumpus, he was

in fine form that day. Even Mudge had to admit that

some of what the man sang actually bore some small

, resemblance to harmony.

The first item that appeared in a ball of soft light

| on the Brulumpus's back was a toy gyroscope. It held

I; the creature's attention only for a few minutes. Next

^Jon-Tom produced a grandfather clock. This was

;; more intriguing to their captor, but he noted that

, ton-Tom could produce the same noise as the clock's

7 chimes.

'• Jen-Torn tried to interest it in a game of Monopoly,

.but die Brulumpus wasn't interested in playing at

: real estate, being a considerable bit of real estate

Itself. With Mudge looking on warily, he produced in

wild succession a food processor, a Fugelbell tree,

,:and a performing flea circus. The Brulumpus had

/jw> use whatsoever for any of them. Mudge, however,

made the acquaintance of the flea circus immediately,

and dove into the water, digging and scratching

frantically at himself.

"You'll drown the act," Jon-Tom leaned over to tell

him.

"That ain't all I'm goin' to drown!" The Brulumpus

boosted him back onto the raft, where he glared at

the singer. "Let's endeavor to stay clear of performin*

parasites, shall we?"

Jon-Tom sighed. "It didn't engage his attention

wry long anyway. Don't worry. I'm just getting warmed

up."

Alan Dean Foster

170

"Huhl" Mudge sat down and began wringing out

his cap.

The flea circus gave Jon-Tom the idea of trying to

sing up something to infect the Brulumpus, but

everything he could think of was more likely to

afflict himself and Mudge than it was "a mass of

already corrupting ooze.

So he concentrated on continuing the cornucopia

of randomly interesting objects. He produced a model

ship that ran by remote control, a clamer-h lumieres

from an old Scriabin concert, a stack of Playboys, a

coal scoop, a rocking horse. None held the attention

of the Brulumpus for more than a moment or two,

and the space around the raft was beginning to

resemble the back room of a Salvation Army store.

Jon-Tom's confidence was starting to slip.

"Isn't there anything I can conjure up that will

interest you more than we do?" he asked plaintively.

"Of course not," rumbled the Brulumpus. "How

could there be, when I can have everything you can

bring forth and still keep you?"

That sent Jon-Tom staggering. He hadn't thought

of that. Slow the Brulumpus might be, but it also

had an instinctive grasp of the obvious.

"Oi, we didn't think o' that one, did we, spellsinger?"

Mudge taunted him. "We're so clever, ain't we,

spellsinger? We ought to 'ave thought o' that one

first, oughtn't we to, spellsinger? Now me, I finds

you duller than a dead rat, but this 'ere blob o' barf

ain't nearly so discriminatin' in 'is company. So it

appears as *ow we're stuck, wot?"

"There's still the first thing I thought of. Like I

told you, this is all warm-up. Though," he admitted,

"I never thought of that last argument. Now I'm not

so sure it'll work. See, this thing I have in mind is

designed to appeal only to a true moron, and now

I'm afraid the Brulumpus may be more than that.

THE MOMENT OF THE MAOICIAK 171

Anything too complex would go by him without

having an effect, but anything too simple won't inter-

est him as much as we do."

"Well. you'd better try it, mate, wotever it be."

"I'm going to," Jon-Tom assured him. His fingers

touctied on the strings of the duar.

Mudge had listened to some strange lyrics fall

from the lips of his friend the spellsinger, but none

as bizarre as those which now poured forth in a

Steady stream. They made no sense, no sense at all,

And yet he could feel the power attendant on them.

-Strong spellsinging for certain, just as Jon-Tom had

.l«aid. He waited anxiously to see what the music would

^bring forth.

^ ; Once more the drifting ball of lambent green light

'^sgippeared before Jon-Tom. Yet again a strange new

^(nape appeared in its center and began to take on

flolktity and form. It was utterly different from every-

thing that had preceded it. It bore no resemblance to

;the grandfather clock, or the toy boat, or the rocking

horse, though it did somehow remind Mudge of the

thing Jon-Tom had called a food processor.

Only this thing wasn't dead. It was noisily, vibrantly

alive. Or was it? Mudge blinked once and saw through

die illusion. No, it wasn't alive. It merely cloaked

' itself with the appearance of life. It generated illu-

sions of life, but in reality it was full of zombies.

The fascinated Brulumpus leaned forward to stare

at it, kicking up small waves at its sides. Multiple

eyeballs slipped round to focus on the thing Jon-

Tom had called up. Jon-Tom had matched intelligence

to materialization perfectly. The Brulumpus ignored

them as though they were no longer there.

Mudge found himself gazing dazedly at the box

full of cavorting zombies. He could understand the

Bmlumpus's fascination. This was some magic! He

tried to make sense of what the zombies were saying

Alan Dean Poster

172

and could not. yet somehow their shouts and cries

held him as if paralyzed. He couldn't pull away,

couldn't turn his eyes. It was locking onto him tightly

now, taking him prisoner just as it had trapped the

Brulumpus, those strange, soothing, challenging, fre-

netic zombies who at the moment were assaulting

him verbally and visually....

"Double your pleasure, double your run, with

doublegood, doublegood, Doublemint gum!"

Another zombie appeared, and his tone was as

ponderous and lugubrious as that of the Brulumpus.

All the weight of the world was on the poor zombie's

shoulders as he stared straight out at Mudge and

said, "Do... you.., suffer... from,.. irregularity?"

Something was tugging urgently at Mudge's arm.

He blinked, to see Jon-Tom staring anxiously down

at him.

"A minute, mate," he said, not recognizing his own

vioce. "Just a minute. I 'ave to listen to this 'ere

message. Tis important, see, and I... 1..." He paused,

licked his lips.

"You what, Mudge?"

"I was just learnin' 'ow to save me kitchen "floor

from unsightly waxy yellow buildup. Blimey, and 1

don't even 'ave a kitchen floor!"

"Come on, Mudge. Fight it, don't let it get to you."

He dragged the otter toward the raft. Mudge

fought weakly.

"But, mate, wot about the ring around me collar?"

"Snap out of it, Mudge!" Jon-Tom slapped him a

couple of times, then shoved him toward the other

paddle pole. By pushing against the paddles, they

managed to slip off the side of the now rock-steady

Brulumpus and back into the water. They pushed

and pulled on the poles for dear life, and the otter

slowly regained consciousness.

"Bugger me for an alderman," Mudge finally

THE MOMENT OF TBK MAQICSAH

173

breathed, "wot were that 'orrible magic?" Behind

them the Brulumpus was fading under the horizon.

It lay utterly motionless in the water, staring at the

screaming, cheerful, demanding box which had

rendered it instantly comatose. From its back blared a

few last energetic words of farewell.

"Youuuu deserve a breakkkk todayyyyy!"

"Jon-Tom?"

"What?" He continued to dig at the water, wanting

,to put as much distance as possible between them

,and the part of the swamp that called itself the

^rulumpus in case, just in case, the magic failed.

^- "I'll never criticize your spellsingin' again."

**0h, yes you will," Jon-Tom said with a grin.

"Nope, never." Mudge raised his right paw. "I

, swears on the best parts o' Chenryl de Vole, Timswitty's

slickest courtesan." He eyed the trail the raft had left

in the water and shuddered. "It 'ad me, too, mate.

Sucked me right in without me ever knowin' wot was

'Stppenin'. Bloody insidious." He looked back at his

companion as they both ducked some dangling moss.

**Wot does you call the mind-suckin' little 'orror?"

"Commercial television," Jon-Tom told him. "I think

dial's all that it's going to play. Twenty-four hours

nonstop 'round-the-clock."

"It'll be too soon if I never see anything like it

again."

"I only hope it doesn't burn out the Brulumpus's

brain." Jon-Tom murmured. "For a pile of ooze, he

wasn't such a bad sort."

"Ah. mate, that soft 'cart will be the end o' you one

o* these days. You'd smile on your own assassin."

"I can't help it, Mudge. I tike folks, no matter what

they happen to look like."

"Just keep in mind that most of *em probably don't

like you.**

Alan Dean Porter

174

Jon-Tom looked thoughtful. "Maybe 1 should sing

another few jingles, just to reinforce the spell."

"Maybe you should just paddle, mate."

"See?" Jon-Tom smiled at the otter. "I told you

you'd start criticizing my spellsinging again."

"It ain't your spellsingin' 1 'ave a 'ard time with,

guv. *Tis your voice."

The argument continued all the rest of that day

and on into the next, by which time they were

confident they'd passed beyond the Brulumpus's

sphere of influence. Several days later they received

a pleasant surprise. The landscape was changing

again, and so was the climate.

As far as Mudge was concerned, the lessening of

humidity was long overdue, as was the appearance of

some real dry land. The Wrounipai began to assume

the aspect of tropical lake country instead of near-

impenetrable swamp. Islands rose high and solid

above the water, from which accumulated scum and

suspended solids were beginning to disappear. In-

stead of pooling aimlessly around trees and islets.

the water began to flow steadily southward. Currents

could become rivers, and rivers gave rise to commerce.

Civilization.

They could not be too far from their destination.

And then, as had happened on more than one

occasion, growing confidence was dispelled by an

unexpected disaster.

On calm water beneath a windless sky, the world

turned upside down.

Jon-Tom was thrown into the air, legs kicking,

arms thrashing. He hit the water hard and righted

himself. But as he started to swim for the surface,

something grabbed him around the ankles. He felt

himself being dragged downward, away from the

fading light of the sky, away from the oxygen his

burning lungs were already starting to demand.

TOE 9SOMEMT OF THE MAOJCUW

173

He couldn't see what had ahold of him and wasn't

sure he wanted to. The harder he kicked and pulled

with his arms, the faster he seemed to be going

backward. Down, straight down toward the bottom

of the Wrounipai. His lungs no longer burned; they

threatened to explode alongside his pounding heart.

The last thing he remembered before he started to

drown was the sight of Mudge off to his left. A far

stronger swimmer than himself, the otter was also

^feeing pulled bottomward by something powerful,

"Streamlined, and indistinct.

|| The nightmare of drowning was still with him

^•When he rolled over and started puking.

^ As soon as he'd cleared his lungs and stomach of

,*^what felt like half the Wrounipai, he sat up and

^^lakily took stock of his surroundings. He was sitting

^on a mat of dry grass and reeds that had been placed

-; atop a floor of tightly compacted earth. Diffuse light

poured through the curved, transparent dome

overhead. It looked like glass but wasn't.

Off to his left, Mudge stood examining one wall of

die dome. In front of the mat was a pool of water

Which lapped gently at the packed earth. The water

was very dark.

Sensing movement, the otter glanced in his direction.

**I was beginnin' to wonder if you'd ever come around,

mate."

**So was I." He climbed unsteadily to his feet. "I

think for a minute there, there was more water

inside me than out." He coughed again. His mouth

tasted of swamp and his guts were throbbing.

"Where are we?"

"V^e are in somebody's 'ometown, mate," the otter

informed him glumly, "and I don't think you're goin'

to Kke the somebodies."

"What do you mean?" Mudge's words implied

familiarity with their captors, but Jon-Tom had nev-

Alan Dean Poster

176

er been in a place like this in his life. At least, not

that he could recall.

The otter beckoned him over. " 'Ave a look at this

stuff."

Jon-Tom moved to join him in inspecting the wall

of their transparent prison. As he ran his ^fingers

over it, he saw it wasn't glass, as he'd initially suspected.

Nor was it plastic. Actually, it was slightly sticky, like a

clear glue. He had to yank his fingers clear of the

wall. A portion of it stuck to his nails and he had to

rub the stuff off on his pants.

Something else: his pants were dry. That meant

he'd been unconscious for several hours, at least.

The wall did not run or drip. As for the source of

the dim, rippling light, that was instantly apparent-

The dome rested on the bottom of the lake. The

Wrounipai was overhead, and the surface, Jon-Tom

estimated, was a good sixty feet out of reach. He

couldn't be certain. He wasn't used to judging the

depth of water from below.

He turned back to the wall. "I think it's some kind

of secretion."

"You mean, somebody went and spit it up.''"

"In so many words, yes." He waved his hand at the

ceiling of the dome. "This is all organic, not manu-

factured."

A recent memory made him stare down at the

otter again.

"You said this was somebody's home.'*

"Oi, that 1 did." Mudge led him across the cham-

ber and had him look out the other side of their

prison.

The dome rested on a gentle slope which fell off

sharply just beyond the structure's outer edge- A

profusion of similar buildings occupied the lake bot-

tom another fifty feet further down. Their architec-

ture was unfamiliar. All were simple in design and

THE MOUKHT Or THE MAGJCMW

177

devoid of visible ornamentation. Shapes moved slowly

through and among them.

Jon-Tom recognized a few of the shapes, and the

small hairs on the back of his neck stiffened as some

of -the most unpleasant moments of his life came

back to him in a rush.

"1 told you, you wouldn't like it," Mudge murmured.

Jon-Tom moved as close to the wall of the dome as

he could without making contact with the sticky

material and stared into the depths. Despite the dim

light there was no mistaking the identity of their

captors.

Plated Folk.

XI

They didn't belong here, in these warm, tranquil

waters so far from their stinking home in the distant

Greendowns. The Plated Folk were the builders of

the implacable insect civilization which he and

Clothahump had helped to defeat at the battle of the

Jo-Troom Gate not so very long ago. This wasn't the

Greendowns, and Clothahump had said nothing about

the possibility of encountering any of them on the

way to Quasequa.

Therefore Clothahump himself knew nothing of

their presence here. That was a disquieting thought.

It meant that in all likelihood, neither did anyone

else in the warmlands.

"This is crazy. What are they doing so far from

their homeland? A colony of them wouldn't be toler-

ated by the locals."

"I agree, mate. Any self-respectin' warmlanders

would run the 'ard-shelled bastards all the way back

to that cesspool they call *ome. If they knew they

were settlin' in to stay in their own backyards, that is.

But think about it: this 'ere's pretty empty country,

and these oversized cockroaches are all underwater-

dwellers. Ain't nobody goin' to raise the alarm over a

bunch o' invaders they can't see."

178

TBK MOMENT OF THE MAGICIAN

179

"It's hard to believe that they haven't been seen by

a few hunting parties out from Quasequa or some

other town."

"Maybe they have been seen, mate." Mudge's words

wexe short and clipped. "Maybe them that sees *em

ends up down 'ere like us, and maybe they never gets

'ome to tell anyone else about wot they've seen."

Silently, they turned back to the wall and stared

out into the poisoned waters. Jon-Tom saw waterboat-

men paddling along on their backs, their eyes cast

forever downward. Dragonfly nymphs were nursed

along- by water tigers, and water beetles of every

imaginable shape and size swooped gracefully above

the buildings of the colony.

If it was a colony. They had no proof of that yet.

"You think they have any contact with the capital

of the empire at Cugluch, or could this be an isolated,

independent community?"

Mudge scratched at his whiskers. "1 couldn't say

for sure, mate, but while you were lyin' there 'alf-

dead, a couple of 'em came in to check on us and did

somethin' that doesn't make me feel any too confi-

dent about our future."

"What's that?"

"They took your duar."

That was bad, Jon-Tom mused, very bad. "Maybe,"

he suggested lamely, "they were just curious about

it."

"Right," agreed Mudge sardonically, "They're just

a bunch o' bug-eyed music lovers and they likes to

collect instruments. Maybe they'll also want you to

play a solo for 'em later, but I wouldn't count on it.

T^sey spent too much time examinin' it and starin' at

you and whisperin'."

"What are our chances of breaking out of here?"

Jon-lbm stared up at the faint, twitching point of

light that was the distant sun.

Alan Dean Foster

180

"This bloody wall's as solid as iron, mate. There's

only the one way in and out, and 1 don't think we'll

be makin' a swim for it anytime soon." He drew

Jon-Tom over to the pool of water that was visible just

inside one section of wall. "See, I don't think we'd get

very far."

Drifting just below and outside the entrance to the

dome was a terrifying marine form. The giant water

bug was at least eight feet in length. It hovered in

place like an armored submersible, displaying open

mandibles big enough to snap off an arm or leg

with a single bite.

Jon-Tom nodded to himself. "So we don't take any

casual baths." He looked past the guard. Something

much smaller was moving toward them through the

water. He found himself backing away. "What's that?"

Mudge didn't budge. "Air delivery."

The three-foot-long beetle had hind legs twice the

length of its body, each covered with dense, flexible

hairs. Upon reaching the entrance to the dome it

pivoted in the water until its hind end was facing the

opening. Between its back legs was a thin sicken

envelope full of air. It backed toward the entrance

and kicked once.

The silk envelope split. There was a giant btup,

water sloshed over Jon-Tom's feet and then receded,

and a sudden wash of fresh air hit him like a spring

breeze. The beetle swam away.

"They do that regular," Mudge informed him,

"which is why the air in 'ere ain't gone sour on us

yet."

"That's thoughtful of them."

Mudge turned and began nervously pacing the

hard-packed floor. "Wish I could say the same for

the rest o' their manners. I ain't so sure I'd prefer

not to suffocate." After completing half a dozen

THE MOMENT or THE MAGICIAN 181

circumnavigations of the dome, he stopped in front

of the entryway again.

"Now I know I'm faster than that big bastard, if I

could just get past 'im." He let the thought trail off.

"Trouble is, I'd probably do it in pieces."

Jon-Tom moved back to the reed mat and sat

down. "I never saw them hit us."

"Neither did 1, mate, until it was too late." He

pointed toward the giant water bug floating placidly

outside their prison. "That hunk of armored vomit

came up underneath us., and dumped us in. His

smaller relations were waidn' to drag us down 'ere."

He looked over at his cOan&anion.

"When theyspdumped l|s |n this 'alf bubble, your

face was all sw^ll up like ayifiird's bladder. I thought

y^a.were a golfer for sure-CTBey did a little dance on

ytyur;j)ack an<^ pumped atx'i-tt 'alf a gallon o' water

otit o^ou, th^n gave up an^Uleft- After a couple of

' groanirf, ^en fell asleep. I wiped

face and figured I might as well

woke up. That was yesterday."

I- "I figured I must've been out

happened to our raft and supplies?"

Hsr the lake .bottom," Mudge told

u|e^idn't see fit to salvage. They've

feapoitt iff'a little dry storage area over

the ^ter from ruinin' 'cm. Exhibit A

:utiongyd wliger."

ftiinutes^

|he droo

lurait and

l-^ii

forawtflJ

'^Scattg

him sadly.

got ^11 oui

there, to k

for the pr

Jen-Tom

separated f

smaller, air-

ons and personal be

terminate number o

nt toJIwyalf Nfext to then- prison and

>, it by omy a; foot of water/was a much

ff^ d®n»e. Il^was cramh^ckwith weap-

gings scavenged from an inde-

similarly unlucky travelers to

this part of the Wrounipai. The most recent acquisi-

tions were clearly visible atop a wooden hamper: his

ramwood staff and sword; Mudge's longbow and arrows

and short sword; some of their food stock; and atop

Alan Dean Foster

182

everything else, dry and apparently undamaged, his

precious duar. If not for the intervening water and

walls he might have reached out and grabbed it.

"Mudge, if we could just get ahotd of my duac..."

"Then you'd charm 'em all with your sweet songs.

mate. Unfortunately, there's only one way out o' 'ere,

and 1 ain't about to try it unless that mobile butcher

shop out there swims off to take a crap or somethin',

Uh-oh." He started backing toward the far wall.

Jon-Tom looked around nervously. "What'is it,

what's wrong?"

"Company."

Jon-Tom hurried to join him.

One by one, a trio of Plated Folk entered the

chamber. Spend the majority of their lives beneath

the water they might, but they still had to go up to

the surface from time to time to breathe. Their

bodies concealed lungs, not gills. So they built air

chambers to live in, like the imprisoning dome.

Two of them looked like twins- They wore some

kind of thin, unrusted metal armor. Jon-lbm thought

it might have been tarnished copper, but he wasn't

certain. Each was about four feet in height.

The third was a tall, reedy character who looked

something like a hydrotropic walking stick but really

resembled no insect Jon-Tom had ever seen before

on this world or his own. It wore no armor and,

unlike its two stocky companions, carried no weapons.

Instead, in one set of pincers it held several thin

sheets of metal thick with engraving.

This sickly seven-footer bent to confer with its

aides. Together they appeared to discuss the con-

tents of the metal sheets. Then it straightened to its

full height and pointed an accusatory finger in Jon-

Tom's direction.

"There is no question. He is the one."

"Is the one!" his two shadows declared loudly.

THB MOMENT or TVS MAOSCIAM 183

"Is the one what?" Jon-Tom asked innocently.

**The music wizard who called forth the fire horse

and slew the Empress Skrritch at theJo-Troom Gate.

You are he,"

Jon-Tom burst out laughing. "I'm who? Look, friend,

I never heard of the Jo-Troom Gate or the Empress

Skrritch or any of what you're talking about. My

companion here and I are wanderers in this land.

We're just a little while out from Quasequa, having

ourselves a bit of vacation. I swear I don't know what

the devil you're talking about!"

"But you do know about lying. That much is

evident," murmured the tall speaker, "because you

do it so forcefully. You are the wizard. There is no

point in denying it."

"But I do deny it. Forcefully, as you put it."

The pair of shorter insects moved toward him,

drawing their short, curved swords. Barbs protruded

from the sicklelike cutting edges.

They lumbered past him and one put a sword

against Mudge's throat. The otter made no effort to

dodge. There was nowhere to hide.

The fixed chitin could not convey much in the

way of expression, but the speaker's meaning was

dear to Jon-Tom nonetheless. "Do you deny it still?"

Jon-Tom swallowed. "Maybe I did participate in

the battle for the Gate, but so did half the inhabit-

ants of the warmlands."

The sword pressed tight against Mudge's Adam's

apple, trimming some of the hair from his neck.

*And 1 have some faint recollection of perhaps possi-

bly maybe participating in some small way in the

casting of some minor spell," Jon-Tom added hastily.

The hooked scimitar withdrew and the otter

breathed again.

"That is better," said the speaker.

"No need to take it so personal," Jon-Tom said,

Alan Dean Foster

184

but the speaker ignored him, spoke instead to his

two aides.

"This is a great day for this outpost of Empire. A

memorable day." The aides resheathed their swords.

Their chitin was a rich maroon color, black under-

neath and marked by thick black vertical stripes

across the vestigial wing cases. The speaker was

yellow and black, with white spots on his cases.

"There will be decorations for all, and the war coun-

cil will be pleased. The Empress herself will com-

mend us."

"The Empress?" Jon-Tom blurted it out. There-

seemed no harm, since they were certain of his

identity. "I thought Skrritch was slain during the

battle, as you just said."

"So she was. 1 refer to the Empress Isstrag, now

reigning. She will preside over your deaths. A small

measure of revenge will be gained for the destruc-

tion you wrought at the Gate. I shall turn you over to

the Dissembling Masters myself. Our land-dwelling

cousins will be most delighted."

"Your cousins? Then you didn't participate in the

battle?"

"Distance precluded our lending aid to our cous-

ins in the Greendowns, and in any case the battle was

waged upon the land. We could have been of litde

help. We regretted our exclusion. Now you have pro-

vided us with a means to make up for it."

"If you didn't join in the fight, then you've got

nothing against us, and we've got nothing against

you," Jon-Tom argued desperately. "Why not let us

go on our way? We've no quarrel with the inhabit-

ants of Cugluch."

"Ah, but they have a lingering quarrel with you,

wizard. Your dismemberment will bring much honor

on our isolated community. All will gain in prestige.

THE MOMENT OF TEE BSAGICUN

185

You must be kept alive and well for your delivery to

the Masters"

"Look, guv'nor," said Mudge, "I know I don't 'ave

a 'ole lot o' leverage 'ere, but if you're bound and

determined to deliver us to this new Empress and 'er

private torturers, 'ow about turnin' us in dead?"

The speaker shook his head. "That would mitigate

the delight of the royal court."

"Aw, gee, that'd be a shame, wouldn't it?" said

Mudge saracastically.

The speaker missed it. "It speaks well of you that

z you should take such an attitude. That is commend-

^ able in a servant."

-s,

"Servant! Who's a bloomin' servant!" Mudge's

outrage, like Jon-Tom's earlier disclaimer, was ignored.

"Perhaps the Empress will even allow this unwor-

thy one to be present at the entertainment you will

provide."

"Yeah, I'll wave good-bye to you," Mudge muttered

- sullenly.

"If not, there will still be ample glory in delivering

you up into her presence."

"I'm curious about one thing," Jon-Tom said. "How

did you know who we were?" He indicated the stor-

age chamber outside the main dome. "You've obvi-

ously murdered dozens of travelers."

"Trespassers in our waters." Bulbous compound

eyes focused on Jon-Tom. "As to the matter of identi-

fying you, you underestimate yourself, man." The

speaker's voice was hoarse, a rasping sound, due at

least in part to the long, thin tube of a mouth from

which his words emerged.

"Did you think we are so disorganized as to not

lake care to pass among ourselves descriptions of our

greatest enemies? Do you think we would let them

pass unnoticed among us? Great generals and great

wizards among the warmlanders are well known to

Alan Dean Potter

186

us. You should be proud to be among the notable,

pleased that you should be so quickly recognized in

a land so far from the place where you did battle "

Somehow Jon-Tom didn't feel flattered.'"If you

know that I'm a great wizard, then you must. also

know that I ask these questions only to gratify my

curiosity before we leave this place."

"I do not think your curiosity strong enough to

cause you to linger this long," observed the 'Speaker

cannily. "If you could leave freely, 1 believe you

would already have done so. Indeed, were you capa-

ble of such sorcery, I do not think you ever would

have been captured." He paused, and Jon-Tom had

the feeling the tall insect was eyeing him curiously.

"There was known to be among the warmlanders

during the battle for the Gate a great and strange

spellsinger. To make magic, a spellsinger of any race

must have an instrument with him." He gestured

with a three-foot-long arm toward the storage chamber.

"That instrument, perhaps."

Jon-Tom didn't look toward his duar. "Perhaps. Or

perhaps this small flute I always carry with me." He

reached inside his shirt.

The two stocky insects nearly broke their antennae

diving for the exit, jamming tight for an instant

before tumbling to safety in the water beyond. The

giant water bug stirred uneasily, its massive front

pincers flexing.

The tall speaker flinched but did not retreat. He

relaxed when Jon-Tom's hand stayed concealed in-

side his shirt. "A small amusement. I understand."

He turned his head to eye the dome's entrance. His

two aides were peeking cautiously back into the

air-filled chamber.

Jon-Tom didn't understand the phrasing, but it

certainly sounded like a curse that fell from the

speaker's speaking tube. A contemptuous curse. The

Tae MojitBarr or THB MAOICSAM 167

aides sl^ly reentered the'^ome under the baleful

gaze of <|(-eir superior. Jon^Ebm's interpretation of

their expressions was not pleasant.

As thodgh nothing had happened, the speaker

turned back to him. "Tomorrow we will make a

special conveyance for both of yoQ. It will contain a

small air chamber like this one so chat we can travel

safely to Cugluch underwater. There are many riv-

ers and quiet^akes between here and the Greendowns,

and we shouN not have to expose ourselves to the

land-dwellers Very often. There will he no chance of

rescue for you-You might as well enjoy the journey.

You will be pandered."

"Fatted calvesA Jon-Tom murmured. "How are

you going to cross %aryt's Teeth?**

"There are rivers that tunnel through the mountains.

We know them. You shaHcome,to know them as well,

though it is knowledge yau .frill never be able to

share. Now I have a question^ man. What were you

intending in this country, so-far south of your own

land, from the region backing onto the Gate?"

Mudge jerked a thumb in Jon-lbm's direction.

"This one 'ere, guv'nor. "e's a bloody tourist, 'e is. He

likes to get out and see (he wondersao' nature and all

that crap." ^

"And whai-^Lf you?"

"Me? That^^asy. See, I'm^barkin' insah^ ain't I?

I'd 'ave to be ^ I wouldn't be 'ere." Witlr^hat he

sat down on th^eeds, a decidedly peeved l^o^on

his face, and rerKfcd to answer any more quertQs.

J!!»^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^

The worst they c

"You must be at^

wizai^y. corn mentecT";

ney beo^een here ai

' ^, ^ r

emoy maty adverting co

"•" ^'^"'jpn-Tomtol

iterestn^ perj^n, spellsinger

.speaker. "Itt^a longjpur-

Greendowns. We may

rsation along the way."

lim evenly. "I'm-not

with'^asual killers "

Alan Dean roster

188

"We are not casual. I am disappointed. I would

have thought your reaction to your situation might

have been more enlightened," It performed a ges-

ture that might have stood for a shrug, or, might

have meant something else entirely.

"It will make no difference in the final judgment.

You know your fate."

With dignity, the speaker turned and vanished

through the watery portal, flanked by his stocky aides.

There was respect in the giant water bug's movements

as it swam aside to let the trio pass. Jon-Tom watched

the speaker swim slowly around the dome, heading

back down toward the buildings below.

There was a rush of water from the entrance. The

giant water bug's head, with its massive mandibles,

was even more impressive out of the water.

"YOU STAY," it grunted in a crackling voice, then

pulled clear to resume its motionless patrol. Water

surged in after it, making their humid prison damp-

er than ever.

"Tomorrow, he said," Jon-Tom murmured, gazing

toward the watery sky. Already it was growing dark

inside the dome as the sun sank toward the horizon.

"That doesn't give us much time."

"It doesn't give us any time, mate. We're doomed."

"Never use that word around me, Mudge. I refuse

to acknowledge it."

"Right you are, mate. We're stuck." The otter turned

away, bemoaning his fate.

In truth, there seemed no way out Even if they could

somehow manage to slip past their monstrous guard,

their movement through the water could be detected

and recognized instantly by any of the vibration-

sensitive inhabitants of the underwater community.

As for the dome, if they cut a hole in it, water

would pour in and prevent any exit. In any case, it

would take at least a week to make an impression on

THE MOMENT OF THE MAGICIAN

189

that hard, sticky material with Mudge's claws and his

fingernails. It was as if they were imprisoned in a cell

completely encased in alarm wires. All they had to

do was move to trip one.

That didn't keep him from thinking about escape,

but by the time they'd finished the evening meal

their captors thoughtfully provided, he was forced to

admit that his usually fertile imagination could gener-

ate nothing in the way of a plan. Not even a sugges-

tion of a plan.

Mudge was right this time. They were stuck. May-

be they would have a better opportunity to escape

during the long journey to Cugluch. In that case,

he'd only hurt their chances by not sleeping.

The mat was soft, but not reassuring.

"Where's the other one?" said an excited, rasping

voice.

Jon-Tom opened his eyes. It was light inside the

dome again, but barely. The sun was still rising. He

shivered in the damp cold air.

The dome was alive with activity. Sitting up on the

reeds, he tried to force his eyes to adjust to the

feeble light. Busy water beetles scurried around,

inspecting the walls, sniffing at the floor, tearing the

reed mat up around him. All of them carried six-

inch-long knives.

He counted at least a dozen of them. Two ran past,

still shedding water from their recent entry. As his

brain began to clear he saw that they were not

merely active; they were downright agitated.

Standing close to the entrance was the speaker.

His maroon aides huddled close to him. Their swords

were drawn and they, too, were searching the interi-

or of the dome anxiously.

Then the speaker's words, filtered through his

half-asleep thoughts, struck home.

Aim Dean Footer

100

•'Mudge?" He got on all fours, feeling through the

reeds where the otter had been sitting last night.

"Mudge!" The otter's musk was still strong in the

enclosed chamber. That, and the impression of his

body in the reeds, was all that remained of him.

When Jon-Tom rose, he was immediately sur-

rounded by three of the sword-wielding water beetles.

He put their edginess and Mudge's apparent absence

together and reached an inescapable conclusion.

The otter had split.

As the rising sun shed more light on the search,

his smile grew wider and wider. The Plated Folk

were already repeating themselves. After all. there

were only a limited number of possible hiding places

within the dome. Somehow Mudge had made it to

freedom without waking his companion or alarming

their giant guard.

He wasn't angry with the otter for not alerting

him. Obviously, whatever avenue of escape he'd

followed wasn't suitable for the gangly Jon-Tom, or

Mudge would have gotten both of them out. Sure he

would. Jon-Tom refused to believe otherwise-

He wouldn't allow himself to believe otherwise.

Besides, it was only justice. Only fair that having

been unwillingly dragooned into this expedition,

Mudge should be the one to escape with his life.

Then there was no more time to bask in the

success of the otter's chicanery because the speaker

was towering over him.

Bright compound eyes gazed down at the single

remaining prisoner, and that raspy voice repeated

the question it had asked of its minions only minutes

earlier.

"Where is the other one? The short furry slave?"

"He's not a slave," Jon-Tom said defiandy. "As for

your first question, why don't you go screw yourself

and see if it brings forth enlightenment?" He de-

THE MOMENT OF TOK MAQJCIAH

191

rived unexpected pleasure from the vehemence of

his reply.

It had absolutely no effect on the speaker. "Tell me

or i will have your limbs removed."

"What, and deprive the Empress of so much

delight?" Jon-Tom grinned up at the speaker. "Not

that it matters. I don't know where he is any more

than you do. Your folks woke me out of a sound

sleep. You were here and Mudge was gone. Where to

I couldn't say, and I don't care as long as it's far away

from here."

"I do not think you are telling the truth, but as you

say, it matters not. You are here and he is gone. You

are the important one anyway. You are the one they

will greet with joy in Cugluch. The flight of the

other is irritating. That is all." He gestured with a

long arm. The chitin Hashed in the light.

Several short laborers were bringing something

long and rectangular through the entrance. It looked

uncomfortably like a coffin, for all that Jon-Tom

knew it was designed to preserve his life, not his

corpse.

"The means by which you will be transported

safely to Cugluch," the speaker explained unnecessarily.

"The escort is ready- Now you will be made ready."

Jon-Tom tried to take a step backward, only to

find himself hemmed in on all sides. He was much

taller than every one of the Plated Folk with the

exception of the speaker, but they were stocky and

strong.

"What do you mean, 'ready* me?"

The speaker elucidated. "One as clever and well

versed in the arcane arts as you is always a threat,

even without your magic-making instrument. I will

take no chances on you working mischief during our

journey, or on suiciding at the last moment."

Long arms pushed. Jon-Tom felt himself shoved to.

Alan Dean Foster

192

one side. Looking past the speaker he could see

something like a five-foot-long cockroach waiting

patiently near the portal. An air-Filled ovo^d was

strapped to its back. Within, he could see his ramwood

staff, duar, and the rest of the supplies that had been

salvaged from their raft. The laborers were strap-

ping the air-filled bier onto the back of another.

Then the speaker stepped aside, revealing the

ugliest speciman of Plated Folk Jon-Tom had ever

seen. It walked on alt sixes instead of fours like the

speaker and water beetles. Its body was long and

thin and flattened from head to thorax, while the

abdomen swelled into a grotesque globe- In color it

was mucklededun except for the comparatively small

eyes, which were bright red.

As it moved toward him, it raised its two front

arms. Tiny vestigial wings began to vibrate excitedly

against the thorax, which was very narrow. It was

also the smallest of the Plated Folk in the chamber,

barely three feet long. So was the tightly curled

ovipositor-like tube which protruded from the base

of the bulbous abdomen. It curved up over the

insect's back and head. The hypodermic tip quivered

in the air a foot in front of the creature's head.

Jon-Tom found he was breathing fast as he searched

for a place to hide. There was no place to hide.

"Listen, you don't have do to this," he told the

speaker, his eyes following that wavering point. "I'm

not going to give you any trouble. I can't, without my

duar."

"This is a reasonable precaution, particularly in

light of the disappearance of your companion," said

the speaker. "I do not want you to vanish one night

when we are almost to Cugluch."

"I couldn't do that, I couldn't.'* He wasn't ashamed

of the hysteria rising in his voice. He was genuinely

THE MOMBNT OF THK MAOSCIAM

193

terrified by the approach of what in essence was a

three-foot-long needle.

**There is no need to struggle," the speaker as-

sured him. "You can only hurt yourself. The Ruze's

venom has been used on the warmblooded before. It

knows exactly how large a dose to administer to

render you immobile for the duration of our journey."

"I don't give a damn if it's been to medical school.

You're not sticking that thing in me!" He jumped to

his right, hoping to clear the surprised guards and

make a run for the water, not caring anymore wheth-

er they used their swords on him or not.

They did not have the chance to react. As soon as

Jon-Tom moved, the Ruze struck. The stinger lashed

down like a striking cobra. Jon-Tom felt a terrific

burning pain between his waist and thighs as the

stinger went right through his pants to catch him

square in the left gluteus. He was surprised at the

( intensity of his scream. It was as if someone had

given him an injection of acid.

The Ruze backed away, its work completed, and

studied the human with interest. Beetle guards spread

out. Jon-Tom staggered a couple of steps toward the

entryway before collapsing. One hand went to his

left buttock, where the fire still burned, while he

tried to pull himself forward with his other hand.

The coldness started in his legs. It traveled rapidly

up his thighs, then spread through the rest of his

body- It wasn't uncomfortable. Only frightening. When

it reached his shoulders, he collapsed on his stomach.

Somehow he managed to roll over onto his back. His

elbows locked up in front of his eyes, then his wrists

and fingers.

The long, thin, bug-eyed face of the speaker came

within range of his vision and gazed down at him

from a great height. Jon-Tom fought to make his

vocal cords function.

Alan Dean Foster

194

"You... Hed... to... me."

"I did not lie to you." the speaker replied calmly.

"You will not die. You will only be made incapable of

resisting."

"Not that." It. took a tremendous effort for him to

speak. His words were weak and breathy. '*You said

it... wouldn't... hurt."

The speaker did not reply, continued to regard

him as it would something moving feebly beneath a

microscope.

Jon-Tom wondered how long the effects of the

injection would last. How many times between here

and Cugluch would he be subjected to the Ruze's fiery

attentions? Once a week? Every morning? Better that

he find some way of killing himself quickly. He couldn't

even do that now. His paralysis was their security.

It was difficult to tell if the speaker was pleased,

apologetic, or indifferent. As for the Ruze, it was

only doing a job. The dose it had injected had been

delivered with a surgeon's skill.

Satisfied, it nodded its absurdly small head and

indicated that the task of immobilizing the prisoner

had been completed. The speaker turned to a group

of unarmed water beetles waiting patiently nearby.

Jon-Tom felt stiff, uncaring hands turning him. He

wanted to resist, to strike out against his tormentors,

but the only things he could move were his eyes.

Then they were placing him in the oversized glass

coffin and preparing to load it onto the back of the

waiting cockroach-thing. Inside the water-tight con-

tainer it was peaceful, silent, warm. He fought against

falling asleep: that was what they wanted him to do,

so he stubbornly resisted doing it.

The speaker was nearby, giving orders. Jon-Tom

was lifted into the air, and thin straps were passed

over and around his container. He could tell he was

being moved only because he could see movement

TUB MOMENT or THE MAOICIAM 195

through the transparent material. He could feel

nothing.

Then he was falling. The coffin had slipped, or

been dropped. There was a rush of new activity

around nim, but the cause of it remained foreign to

his senses. His vision was starting to blur from the

effects of the Ruze's toxin. Soon he would be asleep

despite his best efforts to stay awake-

Staring straight upward he thought he could make

out a vast dark shape coming toward him. It was

blocking out the sunlight. For an instant it appeared

to linger near the apex of the dome, and then the

dome came apart. It did not crack or split like glass

or plastic. It simply imploded.

An explosive influx of water sent his coffin spinning,

along with the bodies of his captors. With his

perception already distorted, it was impossible to tell

which direction he was tumbling-

He was alone, a pebble in a bottle, a tiny human

marble being bounced between floor and walls. Some-

thing had shattered the dome. That much he was

certain of. He wanted to cry out as the water spun

him in circles, but his tongue and vocal cords were

paralyzed now. It didn't matter. There was no one to

hear him.

The wall collapsed, and the swirling currents threw

him outside the broken enclosure. The angry waters

quieted. It was peaceful outside the boundaries of

the ruined dome, though stirred-up sediments clouded

the pristine water of the lake. Or was the darkness

only in his mind?

It seemed as though he was falling now, still tum-

bling over and over, bouncing down the side of the

underwater hill on which his prison had been

constructed. He fell slowly because of the water and

because of the air within his coffin. The latter was

already beginning to smell stale. When he started to

Aian Dean Foster

196

black out, he suspected it was due not to the afteref-

fects of the injection he'd received but to the deple-

tion of his small air supply.

In his drugged fashion he was elated. He would

not have to suffer repealed visits from the Ruze, nor

some slow and painful dismemberment in distant

Cugluch. He was going to die here and now. He

would have smiled if his paralysis had permitted it.

The Plated Folk were going to be cheated of their

ceremonial revenge.

Then the darkness came to him, and he welcomed

it.

XII

After an eternity it occurred to him that the tem-

perature around him was rising. Not so surprising in

death, perhaps, but it did surprise him that he could

sense the change.

He tried to open his eyes. The muscles protested.

It was as though he were not completely dead. He

tingled all over, an excruciating sensation.

Since his eyes weren't functioning, he tried to

move his lips. They worked, but fitfully. He forced

them to. He badly wanted a swallow of air.

When he finally managed that complicated series

of movements, he tried to scream. The air went

down his throat and into his lungs like a chunk of

raw liver. The next swallow was easier, however.

Long-dormant glands generated saliva, and this helped

even more.

Possibly he was not dead. He argued the point

with the rest of his body, which insisted he was. He

had drowned or suffocated or both, but he certainly

wasn't alive.

Exhibit A for the defense: he could breathe. The

prosecution faltered in its argument, and then the

case for his demise was in tatters. Nothing like intro-

ducing a surprise piece of evidence at the critical

197

Alan Dean Foster

198

moment, he mused. But now he would have to prove

to the court that he was capable of consciousness.

First witness for the defense to the stand. I

call... sight! Open one lid and swear on your optic

nerve. Do you solemnly swear to see, to perceive, to

provide a view of the world arould this not-quite-

corpse? I do.

Someone was staring down at him, a fuzzy moon

of a face. It wore an anxious expression. There was a

black nose; a lot of brown fur; bright concerned

eyes; and whiskers that twitched.

"Madge," he mumbled. Someone had filled his

mouth with glue.

The face broke out in a scintillating smile and

looked away from him. "Now, ain't that interestin'. 'E

thinks I'm 'is friend."

A calming, reassuring, confident voice. Only prob-

lem was, it didn't belong to Mudge. It was too

high-pitched. \

Jon-Tom put a hand to one ear, deU|

was able to do so, and did some plumt

fed that he

"Take it easy, man," the voice ^tt^ "V

so good." "<1

in't look

"That's appropriate," he mumbled. Str^ftgth was

flowing back into him along with consciousness. "I

don't feel so good either."

The otter leaning over him was definitely not

Mudge. In place of the familiar green felt cap and

feather, this stranger wore a leather beret decorated

with glass buttons- The face was slimmer than Mudge's,

1|a, features more delicate. Instead of a simple vest it

^^^a comptex assortment of straps and metal rings.

iJO'^^fean that he cottldn't see. Changing his line of

sight.y^yeL ha^ meapt raising himself up on his

elbowg^^life^tin^eel he was ready for that yet.

"Hi/^ic^^^ler^.'Me name's Quorly. You're

cute. Mu8it&-(Sd me you were cute, but not very

"•» '-_ •» '

THE MOMBJTT OF THK MAOSCWI

199

bright. I thought a spellsmger was supposed to be

bright."

Maybe it was the curled eyelashes, Jon-Tom told

himself. Or the streaks of paint above the eyes

themselves. Makeup? Or war paint? He couldn't decide.

Another otterish face hove into view and smiled

hesitantly down at him. Still not Mudge. This one

was too wide, almost pudgy. Somehow the idea of a

fat otter seemed like a contradiction in terms, but

there was no denying the new arrival's species, or

corpulence. He wore a wide, floppy chapeau that

drooped over his eyes. ^

"This is Norgil," said Quorly. s.

"Hiyal" The new arrival frowned over atthe female.

Female. Quorly was a she, Jon-Tom Decided. So

the face paint was makeup, then..0r tpaybe it was

makeup and war paint. With 'otters, according to

what Mudge had told him, you <3^uld never be sure.

"Think 'e can 'ear us?" NorgUFAsked*

"I can..." Jon-Tom was startlftd b^'the croaking

sound that issued from his throaJS H^ JEried again. "I

can... hear you. Who are you?" ^ |k }

"See?" Quorly beamed down at Sy^ as she spoke

to her companion. "He's alive. ThatJtfUdge chap was

right. He's just a little slow." She, s^^ tb Jon-Tom.

"I just told you. I'm Quorly, and vyi^^ Norgil." She

looked to her left and gestured, "^gtos^'you feel up

to it I'll introduce you to MemaWj^p^ph, Frangel,

Sasswize, Drortch, Knorckle, VVi.ipp.j^^iiLzasaraiig-

elik... but you can call him V^^Sfi'S1

The names all ran together ii?^^-im's brain.

He'd have to try and sort them <^|^^f'-

At the moment, all his energies ^^fe^ncentrated

on the difficult task of sitting up. \

that, he settled for turning over on Ins left side. This

operation he accomplished with some success, save

for throwing up effusively and compelling his two

Alafi Dean Foster

200

attendants to jump clear. Despite his bulk, Norgil

proved himself as agile as any otter, moving with a

kind of high-speed waddle.

*"E's alive, all right," said Norgil disgustedly.

They were on an island, Jon-Tom knew. He could

tell it was an island because he could see the water of

the Wrounipai off in the distance. Of the Plated Folk

there was no sign-

He glanced past his feel and was rewarded with a

view of lean-tos, more elaborate temporary shelters,

and a couple of crackling fires. Two unfamiliar,

outrageously attired otters were broiling several huge

fish on a long spit over the larger of the two blazes.

Several others were sliding spitted, cleaned fish on

long poles and setting them out to dry in the sun.

"We're a 'unting party," Quorly informed him.

" Tis a lot easier to make a good 'aul when there's a

bunch o* you all workin' together. 'Tis also more fun.

We do right well. Usually don't come this far north,

but 'tis been a long time since anyone tried to tap this

district, so we thought we'd give 'er a looksee. Lucky

damn good thing for your arse that we did."

Another shape was approaching- Norgil moved

aside to give the newcomer room. And at last, a

familiar face and voice.

"Top o* the mornin' to you, mate!" Mudge pushed

his cap back on his forehead, gave Jen-Tom a quick

once-over, and put an affectionate arm around Quoriy's

waist. She leaned back into him, grinning.

No wonder Mudge was smiling so broadly, Jon-

Tom mused. It had been a while since he'd been with

any of his own kind. He struggled to smile back.

"Hello, Mudge."

" *0w you feelin', mate?"

"Like a reused tortilla: pounded fiat on both sides "

"Don't know wot that be. but you look beat-up for

sure. 'Ad a bad moment or two down there" He

THE MOMENT OF THE MAGICIAN 201

nodded to his right- "Couldn't find you nowheres.

Old Memaw spotted the box they'd stuck you in

slidin' down the side o' the embankment. If she

'adn*t o' seen you when she did, ii'd been too late for

you by ftie time we'd o' found it."

Jon-Tom noddec^ "I believe I'd like to try sitting up

now."

"Think you're up to it, mate?"

"No, but I'm going to try anyway."

Strong, short arms helped support him. For a

minute he thought he was going to throw up again.

His friends looked alarmed and he hastened to reas-

sure them.

"No, I'm belter now, it's okay. It's the aftereffects

of the shit they shot into me. My insides are still on a

roller coaster."

"Wot's that?" Quorly asked.

"See? I told you 'e were a strange one, even for a

'uman," said Mudge-

She looked sideways at Jon-Tom. "Yes, but *e is

cute"

"Don't you go gettin' any funny ideas, luv. Besides,

*e 'as funny ideas 'imself." Mudge nodded at Jon-

Tbm. " 'As a phobia or somethin' about stickin' to 'is

own kind. Don't care much for variety."

"Oh." Quorly looked solemn, then shrugged. "Well,

'is business is 'is business."

Jen-Tom paid little attention to this casual dissec-

tion of his sexual preferences and tried to massage

some feeling back into his cheeks and forehead.

"What happened? How did you get away?"

"Well, mate, after you fell asleep last night, I

stayed awake rackin* me brain and tryin* to think o'

somethin'. Tis easy to think in the darkness, and it

were damn dark down there once the sun went

Awn. Some o' them creepy-crawlies 'ad their own

glow lights, but they didn't come up around our

Alan Dean Poster

202

jail. Don't need much light when you're used to

gettin' around by feelin' the vibrations in the water.

"Anyways, I was fresh out of clever notions when

our delivery bug with the 'airy 'ind legs showed up to

make 'is regular air drop. That's when it 'it me,

mate. The only thing comin' into our cell regular

and unquestioned was air, and the only thing takin'

its own sweet time leavin' was the bug that brought

it.

"So I gets this idea in me noggin, see, and I kind

of roll over toward the exit like I'm movin' in me

sleep. The next time delivery bug comes back and

dumps 'is air I'm restin' quiet as an undertaker right

close to the water, and I just sort o' rolls out behind

'im when 'e leaves. Didn't even try to swim, just let

meself float up behind 'im so as not to upset our

'ammer-'anded guard with any undue movements.

'E never even turned to 'ave a look, I'm 'appy to say-

The big 'ard-shelled ugly bastard.

"Delivery bug never even knew I was 'auntin' 'is

'eels. Too busy with *is bloody job, I expect. Anyways,

I went up like a bubble, not movin', until we got near

the surface. Then 1 just let meself drift along like an

old log. After I'd floated for a while, I started

swimmin* real slow-like, ready to break all records

for the ten-leaguer if anythin' showed up behind me.

Nothin' did. Got away clean. Didn't really start movin'

till I was sure I was away safe and unnoticed. Then,

well, you never saw anythin* move through the water

that fast, mate."

"I was thrilled you escaped, Mudge, but I never

expected you to come back after me."

Mudge looked a little embarrassed, didn't look a(

his friend directly. "Well now, mate, to be perfectly

practical about it, I found meself thinkin' that there

weren't a whole lot I could 'ave done for you all by

meself, so I kind of bid you a tearful 'ail and farewell

THE MOMBNT OF THE MAGICIAN

203

and it were nice knowin' you and struck off back

northward in a big curve. 'Adn't gone too far when I

got 'ungry and found a deep pool full o' Fish. After

that little swim I was more than a mite starved.

"Wot 'appened was I got meself good and tangled

up in this big net. Thought those bleedin' bugs 'ad

some'ow followed me and caught me all over again.

Wasn't so much scared as angry with meself.

"Come to find out when I were dragged into the

daylight again that it weren't our old bulgy-eyed

buddies at all that 'ad caught me, but a swell lot o'

distant cousins." He patted Quorly on the derriere

and she giggled.

An extraordinary sound- Jon-Tom had never heard

an otter giggle before.

"You should 'ave 'eard 'im as we were untanglin'

'im from our net," she told Jon-Tom. " 'Im all tied up

in there with our fish and water reeds and bait and

all. Wot a mouth!"

"I'm just the expressive type is all, luv." He turned

back to Jon-Tbm. "Anyways, findin* meself among

this 'ealthy bunch o' the clan forced me into one 'ell

o* a battle with me conscience, mate. I couldn't decide

wot to do. So I decided to leave it up to them as to

whether to take the risk o' goin' back and tryin' to

spring you from the chitinous jaws o' death, as it

were. And wouldn't you know that every one o' the

bloomin* fools opted to do the dumb thing and go

back?" Mudge shook his head sadly. "You've been

rescued by a lot o' certifiable crazies, mate."

"I am grateful," Jon-Tom said with feeling, "for

your collective stupidity."

Quorly blinked at Mudge. "Wot did 'e say?"

"Don't pay 'im no mind, luv. 'E just talks like that

sometimes- 'E don't mean nothin' by it. See, 'e were

studyin' to be a solicitor and 'e can't 'elp 'imsetf. It's

kind o' like a disease o' the mouth,"

Alan Dean foster

904

She eyed Jon-Tom appraisingly. "I thought you

were a spellsinger."

"That too," Jon-Tom told her.

Mudge leaned close and whispered. "'E's a bit

confused about everything, see?" The otter rapped

the side of his head.

"Oh." Quorly looked properly sympathetic.

Jon-Tom endured everything in silence, partly be-

cause he was used to Mudge and his brand of humor

and partly because he was too happy to be alive and

safe to quibble about being subjected to a little casual

abuse.

"How did you finally get me out of there?" He

rubbed at his forehead. "All I remember is some-

thing dark and wide blotting out the light and then

the dome breaking."

Mudge managed the difficult task of strutting while

standing still. "Me sainted mother always told me

that if I ever found meself in a fight with somebody

bigger than me, to find meself a rock big enough to

make things equal. So the lot o' us did some 'untin'

until we found a really nice 'unk o' stone lyin' loose

on one o' the larger islands 'ereabouts. No easy job

in this muddy slop. it were.

"We wrestled it into the toughest fishin' net they'd

brung with 'em, and then the bunch o' us swam over

with it this mornin' and dropped it square on top o*

their precious dome." He grinned at the memory.

"Busted it all to 'ell"

"It could have crushed me, too," Jon-Tom murmured

thoughtfully.

Mudge shrugged. " 'Ad to take a couple o' chances,

mate. As soon as they saw us comin', which was

mighty late, for which I'm grateful, the Plated Pricks

started organizin* a defense. But the last thing they

expected were an attack, and they didn't make a very

good job o' 'andlin' it. For one thing there ain't the

THE MOMKWT OF THE SSAOJCIAM

205

bug alive that can outswim one o' us otters. Ain't

much o' anythin* that can, especially when we put

our minds to a specific job-

"And if we'd caught you accidentally under our

little gift^ weli, you wouldn't 'ave been any worse off

than if we 'adn't dropped the rock at all."

"True enough," Jon-Tom had to admit.

"We were a little woftried," Quorly told him, "that

it might not be big enough to break your prison."

"Sure made a mess o' it," said Norgil with satisfaction.

"It was fun! We swam circles around 'em, though we

did 'ave that bad time when we couldn't find you

inside."

"The surge of water when the dome collapsed

pushed me over the side," Jon-Tbm explained.

"Right, mate," said Mudge. "Memaw spotted you

and then we lowtailed it out o* there before those

bugs we didn't crack on the 'eads could get their wits

together. Oh, and you remember our charmin* 'ost,

the speaker? I 'ad the distinct pleasure o* seein* 'is

'ead caught under our rock. As 'e were the only one

o' that lot who seemed to 'ave any brains much, I

don*t think they'll be comin' after us anytime soon."

Jon-Tom digested this, nodded. When he finally

stood, the movement prompted waves and shouts of

greeting from the rest of the band. "You really think

we're safe here?"

"Ought to be," Quorly told him. "Besides them

losin* their leader, as Mudge just said, we took a

roundabout ways back to our camp and 'id our

scents well. And we're a long ways from their town."

She shook her head, her words full of disbelief.

. "Plated Folk, right 'ere in the Lakes District. Who

would 'ave thought it possible?"

"Lakes District? Then we're not in the Wrounipai

anymore?"

Alan Dean Foster

206

She gestured northward. "Boundary kind o' wan-

ders about, but we're right on the edge."

"How do you tell where one stops and the, other

starts?"

"Use our noses," she informed him. "When it

smells clean we know we're in the Lakes. When it

starts stinkin' we know we're in the Wrounipai."

Jon-Tom considered this, said almost inaudibly, "1

don't know how we can thank you for what you've

done"

She shrugged. "No big deal. Like Norgil says, it

were kind o' fun. Got to do somethin' once in a while

for excitement or life gets downright borin'."

Jon-Tom shook Norgil's hand, then Mudge's, and

moved to do the same with Quorly. She ignored his

outstretched palm, threw both paws around his neck,

and yanked him down with surprising strength to

plaster a couple of dozen short, sharp kisses on his

face. He fought to pull clear. It was like being

attacked by a wet machine gun.

Mudge thoroughly enjoyed his friend's discomfiture.

"Now, don't go gettin' all flustered, mate. That's just

the way we otters is. Real friendly- and affectionate-

like." He hugged Quorly to him. "Ain't that right,

luv?" She generated that exceptional giggle again

and Jon-Tom eyed her warily lest she ambush him a

second time. He tried to visualize her giggling as she

rammed one of the Plated Folk through the thorax

with her fishing spear.

"Come on then, mate, and meet the rest o' the

gang." Mudge put one arm around jon-Tbm's waist

and guided him toward the camp, kept the other

locked securely around Quorly.

It was more like dumping him into a blender full

of nuts, Jon-Tom mused as he tried to sort out his

mob of new friends. The hyperkinetic fishing party

swarmed over him, prodding, poking, hand-shaking,

THB MOJMBMT OP THB MAoiCLUr

207

kissing, and asking questions at a rate only slightly

this side of supersonic. Over the past months he'd

finally managed to learn how to cope with one otter.

Trying to deal simultaneously on a coherent basis

with eleven of them was beyond the capability of any

sane being. So he finally gave up trying and let their

inexhaustible energy and excitement wash over him

in a flood of fur, faces, and emotion.

Some were taller and thinner than Quorly; none

were as heavyset as Norgil. They were divided evenly

between male and female- Everyone mixed freely,

and while several shared obvious bonds, none were

joined in a formal relationship akin to marriage.

Leader of this anarchistic amalgam was an elderly

silver-tinged female named Memaw. She examined

the resurrected human with a sharp eye.

"Well," she finally declaimed in an elegant tone,

"you are a bit short of fur and long in the leg, but

then, I'm long in years and short of tooth and I get

by." She grinned up at him, her mouth displaying an

alarming absence of the full complement of otterish

orthodontics. Jon-Tom doubted if it slowed her down.

Watching Memaw, he doubted much of anything

would slow her down-

"You're welcome to join us."

"I appreciate your offer, ma'am. Mudge and I.

we..." He broke off, staring past her. Stacked neatly

against the inner wall of one of the lean-tos, dry and

apparently unharmed, were his ramwood staff; his

backpack; and most important of all, his irreplace-

able duar. "You saved our stuff!"

"Naturally, mate," said Mudge. "Or did you think I

went lookin' for you first?" Appreciative laughter rose

from the assembled otters.

"No wonder you get along so well with this bunch,"

Jon-Tom shot back, "they even laugh at your execra-

ble jokes."

Alan Dean Foster

208

"Wot'd 'e say?" Knorckle asked Splitch. He was the

biggest and strongest of the band, barely half a foot

shorter than Jon-Tom. Splitch, on the other-hand,

was the picture of petite furred femininity.

"I don't know. Mudge says he was studying to be a

solicitor."

"Oh," Knorckle grunted, as though that explained

everything.

Mudge stepped in Jon-Tom's path. "'Old on a

minim, guv, let's not practice any singin' now, wot? We

just made friends 'ere. Don't want to go drivin* 'em

off already, do we?"

Memaw wagged a warning Finger under Mudge's

nose. "Now, you be nice to your human friend, even

if he is a bit slow at times! He's had a more difficult

time of it than you have, he has, having nearly been

killed by those dreadful Plated Folk." She turned and

smiled maternally up at Jon-Tom. "Don't you worry

none, young one. I'll see that this other youngster

minds his tongue while he is around me."

"It's all right, Memaw. I'm used to it. It's just

Mudge's manner. Sarcasm's as natural to him as

breathing."

"Humph. Sharp teeth I don't mind, but 1 can't

stand a sharp tongue. Nevertheless, if you don't

mind. then 1 will stay out of it."

"Look, about what you said about us joining your

hunting party, that's real nice of you. and I like

fishing as much as the next guy, but I'm afraid we

can't accept." There were a few moans of disappoint-

ment, none of which came near to matching the

anguished expression that came over Mudge's face.

"Aw, mate, can't we at least stay with 'em for a little

while? It's a pleasant change to be among friends

and safe for a change." He stepped forward, took

Jon-Tom by the arm, and led him away from the

THE MOMXffT Of THE MAOICIAM

200

cluster, making him bend over so he could whisM-r

in his friend's ear.

"There's food 'ere for the askin', guv. We're safe

from the Plated Folk, and there's plenty o' good

companionship, laughter, and song; and besides"—

he lowered his voice to a conspiratorial murmur—

"the three youngest ones—Quorly, Splitch. and

Sasswise—they're as hot as that pool you busted the

Mulmun in. I'm tellin' you, mate, all we 'ave to do

is—"

Jon-Tom rose, stared coldly down at the otter. "I

might have known that your reasons would all derive

from your baser instincts. Mudge. You're acting on

the advice of your glands instead of your brain."

"You bet your arse I am, mate, and if you think

you're gonna drag me away from this crowd o' willin'

lovelies so we can go parley with some ill-dispositioned

magician in a strange city, you're sadly off."

"Maybe they'll come with us, show us the way."

Mudge shook his head violently. "Not a chance.

This is a 'untin' party, remember? They move all

over the country, only go into the smaller towns to

trade. Never make it into the big cities like Quasequa."

"Never?" Jon-Tom turned and strolled back to his

milling, chattering saviors. Mudge trailed along be-

hind him, hurrying to catch up and tugging anxiously

at his friend's sleeve.

"Now, wait a minute, lad, wot be you goin' to say

now? Just that they're friendly-seemin' now don't

mean you can't make enemies o' the lot o' them with

a misplaced word 'ere and there. Listen to me,

mate!"

Jon-Tom ignored him, halted in front of Memaw.

**Your offer is beguiling, but we really -can't go with

you. You see, we are on the final leg of a vitally

important mission."

Mudge put both hands over his face and fell

Aian Dean Foster

210

backward with a groan. "Oh, blimey. 'E's goin' to tell

'em everythin', 'e is... the bleedin' idiot!"

The spellsinger proceeded to do precisely that.

His audience listened raptly until he Finished.

"... And so," he concluded, "that's why I'm afraid

we can't take you up on your offer. We have a job to

do, much as I'd love to exchange it for a few months of

hunting and Fishing."

The otters immediately fell to arguing and discuss-

ing among themselves. The vehemence of their de-

bate tookJon-Tom a bit aback, but all the ear-pulling

and nose-biting and cursing seemed, remarkably

enough, to eventually produce a consensus free of

dissension.

Drortch spoke first, fiddling with her necklace as

she did so. It was fashioned of some heavy, silvery

braid which shone in the sun. "Wot can the two of

you do against the rulers o' Quasequa?'

"Whatever we can. Whatever we must. There may

be no danger at all, no problem to deal with if this

Markus the Ineluctable and I turn out to be on the

same wavelength. If we can communicate with each

other and reach an understanding, then we can do

all the fishing we want."

"I wouldn't count on that," said Frangel slowly.

"Not from wot I've 'eard o' this bloke. Word is this

Markus 'as been 'avin' taxes raised not only in the