Spellsinger

lizard's neck and belly, the extra ties necessary because of the animal's

peculiar twisting, side-to-side method of travel. It gave a snakelike appearance

to the motion. The long tail was curled up in a spiral and fastened to the

reptilian rear with a decorative silver scroll. Blunt claws appeared to have

been trimmed close to the quick.

As he watched them vanish down the street, he thought that the rider must be

getting a smoother ride than any horse could provide, since all the movement was

from side to side instead of up and down.

That inspired him to inspect their own team. Shifting around on the wood and

trying to avoid kicking the terribly still forms beneath the gray blanket, he

peered ahead beneath the raised wagon seat.

The pair of creatures pulling the wagon were also reptilian, but as different

from the rabbit's mount as he was from Mudge. Harnessed in tandem to the wagon,

they were shorter and bulkier than the single mount he'd just seen. They had

blunt muzzles and less intelligent appearances, though that evaluation was

probably due more to his unfamiliarity with the local reptilian life than to any

actual physiologic difference.

They trudged more slowly over the cobblestones. Their stride was deliberate and

straightforward instead of the unusual twisting, side-to-side movement of the

other. Stumpy legs also covered less ground, and leathery stomach folds almost

scraped the pavement. Obviously they were intended for pulling heavy loads

rather than for comfort or speed.

Despite their bovine expressions they were intelligent enough to respond to

Talea's occasional tugs on the reins. He studied the process of steering with

interest, for there was no telling when such knowledge might prove useful. He

was a good observer, one of the hallmarks of both lawyer and musician, and

despite his discouragement about his surroundings he instinctively continued to

soak up local information.

The reins, for example, were not attached to bits set in the lizard's mouths.

Those thick jaws could have bitten through steel. Instead, they were joined to

rings punched through each nostril. Gentle tugs at these sensitive areas were

sufficient to guide the course of the lumbering dray.

His attention shifted to a much closer and more intriguing figure. From his

slouched position he could see only flaming curls and the silver-threaded shape

of her blouse and pants, the latter curving deli-ciously over the back edge of

the wooden seat.

Whether she felt his eyes or not he couldn't tell, but once she glanced sharply

back down at him. Instead of turning embarrassedly away he met her stare. For a

moment they were eye to eye. That was all. No insults this time. When he stepped

further with a slight smile, more from instinct than intent, she simply turned

away. She had not smiled back, but neither had that acid tongue heaped further

abuse on him.

He settled back against the wooden side of the wagon, trying to rest. She was

under a lot of pressure, he told himself. Enough to make anyone edgy and

impolite. No doubt in less dangerous surroundings she was considerably less

antagonistic.

He wondered whether that was likely or if he was simply rationalizing away

behavior that upset him. It was admittedly difficult to attribute such

bellicosity to such a beautiful lady. Not to mention the fact that it was bad

for a delicate male ego.

Shut up, he told himself. You've got more important things to worry about. Think

with your head instead of your gonads. What are you going to tell Clothahump

when you see him again? It might be best to...

He wondered how old she actually was. Her diminutive size was the norm among

local humans and hinted at nothing. He already knew her age to be close to his

own because she hadn't contradicted his earlier comment about it. She seemed

quite mature, but that could be a normal consequence of a life clearly somewhat

tougher than his own. He also wondered what she would look like naked, and had

reason to question his own maturity.

Think of your surroundings, Meriweather. You're trapped, tired, alone, and in

real danger.

Alone... well, he would try his best to be friends with her, if she'd permit it.

It was absurd to deny he found her attractive, though every time she opened her

mouth she succeeded in stifling any serious thoughts he might be developing

about extending that hoped-for friendship.

They had to become friends. She was human, and that in itself was enough to make

him homesick and desperate. Maybe when they'd deposited the bodies at whatever

location they were rolling toward she would relax a little.

That prompted him to wonder and worry about just where they were taking their

injured cargo, and what was going to be done with it when they got there.

A moan came from beneath the blanket behind him, light and hesitant. He thought

it came from the squirrelquette, though he couldn't be certain.

"There's a doctor out on the edge of town," Talea said in response to his

expression of concern.

"Glad to hear it." So there was at least a shred of soul to complement the

beauty. Good. He watched in silence as a delicately wrought two-wheeled buggy

clop-clopped past their wagon. The two moon-eyed wallabies in the cab were far

too engrossed in each other to so much as glance at the occupants of the wagon,

much less at the lumpy cargo it carried.

Half conscious now, the little squirrel was beginning to kick and roll in

counterpoint to her low moans. If she reawakened fully, things would become

awkward. He resolved that in spite of his desire to make friends with Talea, he

would bolt from the wagon rather than help her inflict any more harm. But after

several minutes the movement subsided, and the unfortunate victim relapsed into

silence.

They'd been traveling for half an hour and were still among buildings. Despite

their plodding pace, it hinted that Lynchbany was a good-sized community. In

fact, it might be even larger than he supposed, since he didn't know if they'd

started from the city center or its outskirts.

A two-story thatched-roof structure of stone and crisscrossed wooden support

beams loomed off to their left. It leaned as if for support up against a much

larger brooding stone building. Several smaller structures that had to be

individual homes stretched off into the distance. A few showed lamps over their

doorways, but most slept peacefully in the clinging mist.

No light showed in the two thick windows of the thatched building as Talea edged

their wagon over close to it and brought it to a halt. The street was quite

empty. The only movement was from the mouths and nostrils of lizards and

passengers, where the increasing chill turned their exhalations to momentarily

thicker, tired fog. He wondered again at the reptiles. Maybe they were hybrids

with warm blood; if not, they were being extremely active for cold-blooded

creatures on such a cold night.

He climbed out of the back of the wagon and looked at the doorway close by. An

engraved sign hung from two hooks over the portal. Letters painted in white

declaimed:

NILANTHOS-PHYSICIAN AND APOTHECARY

A smaller sign in the near window listed the ailments that could be treated by

the doctor. Some of them were unfamiliar to Jon-Tom, who knew a little of common

disease but nothing whatsoever of veterinary medicine.

Mudge and Talea were both whispering urgently at him. He moved out of the street

and joined them by the door.

It was recessed into the building, roofed over and concealed from the street.

They were hidden from casual view as Talea knocked onee, twice, and then harder

a third time on the milky bubble-glass set into the upper part of the door. She

ignored the louder bellpull.

They waited nervously but no one answered. At least no one passed them in the

street, but an occasional distinct groan was now issuing from the back of the

wagon.

" 'E's not in, 'e ain't." Mudge looked worried. "I know a Doctor Paleetha. 'E's

clear across town, though, and I can't say 'ow trustworthy 'e be, but if we've

no one else t' turn t'..."

There were sounds of movement inside and a low complaining voice coming closer.

It was at that point that Jon-Tom became really scared for the first time since

he'd materialized in this world. His first reactions had been more disbelief and

confusion than fear, and later ones were tied to homesickness and terror of the

unknown.

But now, standing in an alien darkened street, accomplice to assault and battery

and so utterly, totally alone, he started to shake. It was the kind of real,

gut-chilling fear that doesn't frighten as much as it numbs all reality. The

whole soul and body just turn stone cold--cold as the water at the bottom of a

country well--and thoughts are fixated on a single, simple, all-consuming

thought.

I'm never going to get out of this alive.

I'm going to die here.

I want to go HOME!

Oddly enough, it was a more distant fear that finally began to return him to

normal. The assault of paranoia began to fade as he considered his surroundings.

A dark street not unlike many others, pavement, mist chill inside his nose; no

fear in any of those. And what of his companions? A scintillating if irascible

redhead and an oversized but intelligent otter, both of whom were allies and not

enemies. Better to worry about Clothahump's tale of coming evil than his own

miserable but hardly deadly situation.

"What's the matter, mate?" Mudge stared at him with genuine coneern. "You're not

goin' t' faint on me again, are you?"

"Just queasy," said Talea sharply, though not nearly as sharply as before. "It's

a nasty business, this."

"No." Jon-Tom shook away the last clinging rags of fear. They vanished into the

night. "It's not that. I'm fine, thanks." His true thoughts he kept to himself.

She looked at him uncertainly a moment longer, then turned back to the door as

Mudge said, "I 'ear somethin'."

Footsteps sounded faintly from just inside. There was a rattling at the

doorknob. Inside, someone cursed a faulty lock.

Their attention directed away from him, Jon-Tom dissected the fragment of

Clothahump's warning whose import had just occurred to him.

If something could bring a great evil from his own world into this one, an evil

which none here including Clothahump could understand, why could not that same

maleficent force reverse the channel one day and thrust some similar

unmentionable horror on his own unsuspecting world? Preoccupied as it was with

petty politics and intertribal squabbles between nations, could it survive a

powerful assault of incomprehensible and destructive magic from this world? No

one would believe what was happening, just as he hadn't believed his first

encounters with Clothahump's magic.

According to the aged wizard, an evil was abroad in this place and time that

would make the minions of Nazism look like Sunday School kids. Would an evil

like that be content at consuming this world alone, or would it reach out for

further and perhaps simpler conquests?

As a student of history that was one answer he knew. The appetite of evil far

exceeds that of the benign. Success fed rather than sated its appetite for

destruction. That was a truth that had plagued mankind throughout its entire

history. What he had seen around him since coming here did not lead him to think

it would be otherwise with the force Clothahump so feared.

Somewhere in this world a terror beyond his imagining swelled and prepared. He

pictured Clothahump again: the squat, almost comical turtle shape with its

plastron compartments; the hexagonal little glasses; the absentminded way of

speaking; and he forced himself to consider him beyond the mere physical image.

He remembered the glimpses of Clothahump's real power. For all the insults Pog

and Mudge levied at the wizard, they were always tinged with respect.

So on those rounded--indeed, nonexistent--shoulders rested possibly not only the

destiny of one, but of two worlds: this, and his own, the latter dreaming

innocently along in a universe of predictable physics.

He looked down at his watch, no longer ticking, remembered his lighter, which

had flared efficiently one last time before running out of fuel. The laws of

science functioned here as they did at home. Mudge had been unfamiliar with the

"spell," the physics, which had operated his watch and lighter. Research here

had taken a divergent path. Science in his own, magic in this one. The words

were similar, but not the methodology of application.

Would not evil spells as well as benign ones operate to bewildering effect in

his own world?

He took a deep breath. If such was the case, then he no longer had a safe place

to run to.

If that was true, what was he doing here? He ought to be back at the Tree, not

pleading to be sent home but offering what little help he could, if only his

size and strength, to Clothahump. For if the turtle was not senile, if he was

correct about the menace that Jon-Tom now saw threatened him anywhere, then

there was a good chance he would die, and his parents, and his brother in

Seattle, and...

The enormity of it was too much. Jon-Tom was no world-shaker. One thing at a

time, boy, he told himself. You can't save worlds if you're locked up in a

filthy local jail, puking your lunch all over yourself because the local cops

don't play by the rules. As you surely will if you don't listen to Mudge and

help this lovely lady.

"I'm all right now," he muttered softly. "We'll take things easy, pursue the

internal logic. Just like researching a test case for class."

"Wot's that, mate?"

"Nothing." The otter eyed him a moment longer, then turned back to the door.

Life is a series of tests, Jon-Tom reminded himself. Where had read that? Not in

the laws of ancient Peru, or in Basic Torts or California Contracts. But he was

ready for it now, for whatever sudden turns and twists life might throw at him.

Feeling considerably more at peace with himself and the universe, he stood

facing the entrance and waited to be told what to do next.

The stubborn knob finally turned. A shape stood inside, staring back at them.

Once it had been massively proportioned, but the flesh had sagged with age. The

arms were nearly as long as the otter's whole body. One held a lantern high

enough to shower light down even on Jon-Tom's head.

The old orangutan's whiskers shaded from russet to gray. His glasses were round

and familiar, with golden metal rims. Jon-Tom decided that either wizardly

spells for improving eyesight were unknown or else local magic had not

progressed that far.

A flowing nightgown of silk and lace and a decidedly feminine cast clad that

simian shape. Jon-Tom was careful not to snicker. Nothing surprised him anymore.

"Weel, what ees eet at thees howar?" He had a voice like a rusty lawnmower. Then

he was squinting over the top rims of the glasses at Talea. "You. Don't I know

you?"

"You should," she replied quickly. "Talea of the High Winds and Moonflame. I did

a favor for you once."

Nilanthos continued to stare at her, then nodded slowly. "Ah yes, I reemeember

you now. Taleea off thee poleece records and thee dubeeous reeputation,'" he

said with a mocking smile.

Talea was not upset. "Then along with my reputation you'll recall those six

vials of drugs I got for you. The ones whose possession is frowned upon by the

sorceral societies, an exclusion extended even to," she coughed delicately,

"physicians."

"Yees, yees, off course I reemeember." He sighed resignedly. "A deebt ees a

deebt. What ees your probleem that you must call mee op from sleep so late?"

"We have two problems, actually." She started for the wagon. "Keep the door

open."

Jon-Tom and Mudge joined her. Hastily they threw aside the blanket and wrestled

out the two unlucky victims of Talea's nighttime activities. The muskrat was now

snoring noisily and healthily, much to Jon-Tom's relief.

Nilanthos stood aside, holding the lamp aloft while the grisly delivery was

hauled inside. He peered anxiously out into the street.

"Surgeree ees een back."

"I... remember." Talea grunted under her half of squirrel-quette burden. Blood

dripped occasionally onto the tiled floor. "You offered me a free 'examination,'

remember?"

The doctor closed and locked the door, made nervous quieting motions. "Sssh,

pleese. If you wakeen thee wife, I weel not bee able to canceel my half off thee

deebt. And no talk off exameenations."

"Quit trembling. I just like to see you sweat a little, that's all."

Nilanthos followed them, his attention now on the limp form slung over Jon-Tom's

shoulders. "Eef eether off theese pair are dead, wee weel all sweat a leetle."

Then his eyes widened as he apparently recognized the blubbering muskrat.

"Good God, eet's Counceelman Avelleeum! Couldn't you have peeked a leess

dangerous veecteem? He could have us all drawn and quarteered."

"He won't," she insisted. "I'm depending on you to see to that."

"You and your good nature." Nilanthos closed the door behind them, moved to

spark the oil lamps lining the surgery. "You might have been beetter off leeting

theem die."

"And what if they hadn't? What if they'd lived and remembered who attacked them?

It was dark, but I can't be sure they'd never recognize me again."

"Yees, yees, I see what you mean," he said thoughtfully. He stood at a nearby

sink and was washing long-fingered hands carefully.

"Weel then, what story should I geeve theem wheen they are brought around?" He

was pulling on gloves and returning to the large central table on which the two

patients had been deposited.

Jon-Tom leaned back against a wall and watched with interest. Mudge paced the

surgery and looked bored. Actually, he was keeping one eye on Nilanthos while

searching for anything he might be able to swipe undetected.

With a more personal interest in the welfare of the two victims, Talea stood

close to the table as Nilanthos commenced his preliminary examination.

"Tell them they had an accident," she instructed him.

"What kind off acceedent?"

"They ran into something." He looked over at her skeptically and she shrugged.

"My fist. And the iron chain I had wrapped around it. And maybe a wall. Look,

you're a doctor. Think of something reasonable, convince them. Some passersby

found them and brought them to you."

He shook his head dolefully. "Why a primate as attracteeve as yourseelf would

eendulge een such neefarious doings ees more than I can fathom, Taleea."

She moved back from the table. "You fix them up, and let me take care of me."

Several minutes passed and the examination continued. "Thee Counceelman weel bee

fine. Hee has onlee a mild concussion and minor cuts and bruises. I know. I weel

make arrangements to have heem deeposited on hees front doorstep by a couple off

rats I know who weel do that sort off work weethout letting cureeosity get een

their way." He turned his gaze on the squirrelquette, long fingers moving

carefully through her hair.

"Theese one ees not as good. There ees a chance off a skull fracture." He looked

up at Talea. "That means posseeble eenternal een-juries." The subject of the

examination moaned softly.

"She seems lively enough," Talea commented.

"Appeerances can deeceive, eespecially weeth head eenjuriees." He was applying

disinfectant and then bandaging to the wound. The bandage promptly began to show

a dark stain. "I'll just have to watch her carefullee. Do you by any chance know

her?" Talea shook her head.

"Neither do I. The Counceelman's lady for thee evening. Probably lady off thee

eevening, too. Shee'll bee angry when shee regains consciousness, but no

dangeer. I'll see to that, too."

"Good." Talea started for the exit, hesitated, put a hand on the orang's broad

shoulder. "Thanks, Nilanthos. You've more than canceled out our debt. Now I owe

you. Call on me if you need my services."

The physician replied with a wide simian leer.

"Professionally, I mean." The leer broadened. "You are impossible, Nilanthos!"

She feigned a swing at him.

"Do not strike thee doctor while hee ees een thee process off performing hees

heeling duties."

"That's a laugh! But I still owe you."

"Honor among theeves, ees that eet?" He looked seriously down at the

squirrelquette and the now badly stained bandage wrapped around her skull.

"Veree weel. For now eet's best eef you all geet out off heer." He said it while

staring at Mudge.

The otter nodded, moved away from the slipcatch-latched drug-and-narcotics case

where he'd been idling the past several minutes.

"What's the hurry?" Jon-Tom wanted to know.

Mudge put a hand on his arm, pulled him along. "Be you daft, mate? We've got t'

get out o' town."

"But I don't... I thought..." He barely remembered to duck as they exited the

surgery. "If Doctor Nilanthos is going to take care of things as he said, why do

we have to run?"

"Cor, he can take away the worries as far as those two in there be concerned,

but someone else might 'ave seen us. They might even now be reportin' us t' the

police. Your size makes us too conspicuous, lad. We 'ave t' leave, especially

after that fight in the Pearl Possum."

"But I still don't see..."

"Not now, mate." Mudge was insistent. They were out in the dark street again.

"Come on, Jon-Tom," said Talea. "Don't make trouble."

He halted, stared open-mouthed at her. "Me make trouble? I've been the innocent

victim of trouble ever since I set foot in this stinking, lousy excuse for a

world."

"Easy now, mate." Mudge looked sideways at him. "Don't be sayin' somethin' you

may be sorry for later."

Jon-Tom's carefully constructed calm had lasted about ten minutes. His voice

rose unreasonably, echoing in the mist. "I don't regret anything I have to say!"

Talea was looking back toward town, clearly upset. "I want to see some of the

goodness, the kindness that this world should have."

"Should 'ave?" Mudge looked confused. "By who's determination?"

"By the..." His voice trailed off. What could he say? By the rights of legend.

What legend? By logic? Mudge was right.

"Oh, never mind." The anger and frustration which had flared inside faded

quickly. "So we're fugitives. So I make us conspicuous. That's the way it is."

He nodded at nothing in particular. "Let's get going, then."

He vaulted into the back of the wagon. Mudge climbed into the front seat, caught

Talea's questioning glance, and could only shrug blankly. She hefted the reins

and let out a vibrant whistle. The somnolent lizards came awake, leaned forward

into their reins. The wagon resumed its steady forward motion, the thick feet of

its team sounding like sacks of flour landing on the damp pavement.

Jon-Tom noted that they were headed out of town, as Mudge had insisted they

must. Houses decorated with little gardens slipped past. No lights showed in

their windows at this stygian hour.

They passed the last street lamp. Here the road turned from cobblestone to

gravel. Even that gave way to a muddy track only a little while later. All light

had vanished behind them.

It was deep night of early morning now. The mist continued to dog them, keeping

them wet and chilled. Never is the winter so cloying as at night.

Among the occupants of the wagon only Jon-Tom had a lingering concern for the

greater night that threatened to do more to the world than chill it. Talea and

Mudge are creatures of the moment, he thought. They cannot grasp the

significance of Clothahump's visions. He huddled deeper under the gray blanket,

ignoring the persistent aroma of the squirrelquette's perfume. It clashed with

the smell of dried blood.

Thunder crossed the sky overhead, oral signatory to the last distant vestiges of

the night storm. It helped them bid farewell to Lynchbany. He was not sorry to

leave.

Soon they were in the woods. Oaks and elms showed familiar silhouettes against

the more melodious boles of belltree and coronet vine. The latter generated an

oboesque sob as if pleading for the advent of day and the refreshing heat of the

sun.

For hours they plodded steadily on. The road wound like a stream around the

hills, taking advantage of the lowest route, never cresting more than an

occasional rise. Small lakes and ponds sometimes flanked the trail. They were

inhabited by a vast assortment of aquatic lizards who meeped and gibbered in

place of frogs. Each glowed a different color, some green, others red or pink,

still others a rich azure. Each bubble of sound was accompanied by an increase

in light. The ponds were full of chirping searchlights that drifted from branch

to bank.

Jon-Tom watched the water and its luminescent reptilians fade behind them. The

ponds became a brook which ran fast and friendly alongside the rutted wagon

track. Unlike the other travelers it was indifferent to who might overhear its

conversation, and it gurgled merrily while teasing their wheels.

Resignation gave way once more to his natural curiosity.

"Well, we're long out of town." He spoke to Talea. "Where are we going?" Rising

to his knees he reached out a hand to steady himself in the jouncing wagon. It

gave an unexpected lurch to the right, and he caught her side instead of the

back of the seat. Hastily he moved his fingers, but she had neither moved away

nor protested.

"Somewhere where we can't be trapped," she replied. "For God knows even a

blithering Lynchbany cop could piss and track the ruts of this wagon at the same

time. Like any other creature we retreat to a lair and we don't fight unless

we're cornered. And where we're going not even the police will dare come."

"I ain't sure I'd agree to that." Mudge sounded more hopeful than assured. "Tis

more of an uneasy truce."

"Nonetheless," she countered, "we're far more likely to be safe there than

anyplace else." Jon-Tom still gazed questioningly at her.

"We're going to the local branch of the intracounty association of disadvantaged

self-employed artisans and underachievers," she explained.

"Thieves' Hall," Mudge grunted....

VIII

They spent the rest of the night curled beneath the thick blanket in the back of

the wagon. Mudge and Talea were soon as motionless as her former victims, but

Jon-Tom was too keyed up to sleep. Talea was silent as a stone, but a steady

snoring in the form of a high-pitched whistle came from the gray-clad lump that

was Mudge.

Jon-Tom lay on his back and studied the night sky, framed by the overhanging

branches of the trees. Some of the constellations overhead were familiar, though

out of place. Location as well as season was different here. It was a great

comfort, however, to see the easily recognizable shape of Orion standing

stalwart as ever against the interstellar vastness.

Once something with ghostly gray fluorescent wings passed between him and the

moon, a delicate crinoid shape that might have been a reptile, or bird, or

something unimaginable. It trailed thin yellow streamers behind it, and for an

instant it glittered in the sky.

Then it was gone behind the trees. A low hiccoughing came from some concealed

arboreal thing.

Tiny feet sounded like twigs on the road. Their owner paused to sniff at the

wagon wheels before skittering onward. Sycamores and gingkos conversed in low

philosophical woodtones. They lulled him finally into a deep, dreamless

sleep....

He awoke to a welcome sun filtering down through the leaves and a weight on his

left shoulder. Turning his head, he saw Talea snuggled up against him. She was

sleeping on her side, resting on his shoulder, one arm thrown limply across his

chest. He had mixed feelings about disturbing the sculpture.

However... they had a destination. He moved a little. Her eyes fluttered, body

stirred. She blinked, simultaneously taking note of both him and proximity. As

she pulled away, she rubbed sleep from her eyes.

"Easy night," she murmured thickly, "though I've had softer beds."

"Me too." To his surprise he saw that Mudge was already wide awake. He had no

idea how long the otter had lain there watching them.

"Best we be on about our business," the otter said brightly. "The Lynchbany

lockups ain't particularly persistent, but if it was a slow night a few

ambitious types might've elected to come follow." He stood up, gestured back

down the road.

"Personally I think we're well clear of 'em, but you never can be sure."

"Right." She was climbing into the driver's seat. "Best never to take chances

with a skunk."

Shortly they were trundling once more down a road that had become hardly more

than a trail. They'd turned off, he noted, on a branch that was almost devoid of

wagon ruts. Their absence was compensated for by large rocks that did nothing to

help his kidneys.

They paused later for a Spartan breakfast of bread, jerky, and a kind of dried

fruit that resembled lime but tasted much better. Then off again.

It was noon when Talea indicated they'd arrived. Jon-Tom peered ahead between

her and the otter. "I don't see anything."

"What did you think?" she asked archly. "That a place like the local branch of

the intracounty... a place like Thieves' Hall would announce itself with flying

banners and a brass band?"

They turned down a still narrower path and penetrated as deeply into the dense

woods as trees would allow. After a half-mile walk they came to a crude corral

filled with an astonishing assortment of reptilian mounts. Several hundred yards

off to the right of this open-air stable Talea located a metal doorway. It lay

half hidden beneath the roots of several massive oaks and was set directly into

the rock face of a low-browed cliff.

She rapped hard on the metal three times with her open palm, waited, then

repeated the knock.

Presently a small window opened in the top of the door. No face showed itself.

It was easy enough for whoever was within to see outside without placing an eye

invitingly near a possible knife thrust.

"Succor and surcease, comfort and respite to those who know how to live," said a

voice from within.

"T' practice usury without interference," Mudge responded promptly. "T' get

one's fair share. T' never givin' a sucker an even break."

There was a pause and then the door swung outward on rusty hinges. Talea entered

first, followed by Mudge. Jon-Tom had to bend almost double to clear the

ceiling.

Inside they confronted a muscular otter a couple of niches taller than Mudge. He

inspected them cautiously, reserving particular attention for Jon-Tom.

"That one I don't know."

" 'E's a friend." Mudge smiled as he spoke. "An acquaintance from a far

province, wot?" He did not elaborate on that, nor did he mention Clothahump.

The other otter blew his nose on the floor and turned perfunctorily away. They

followed. Before long they passed a series of interlocking tunnels. These all

seemed to devolve into a much larger central cavern. It was filled with a noisy,

raunchy, squalling crowd that made the patrons of the Pearl Possum look like

nursery schoolers their first day away from home.

There was enough sharpened steel in that one room to fight a small war. A fair

amount of dried blood on the stone floor showed that those instruments were

frequently in use. In the enclosed area the noise was close to deafening. Not to

mention the odor. He'd almost come to ignore the animal smells, but in that

tight, poorly ventilated chamber, populated as it was by a less than usually

hygienic assembly, it was overpowering.

"What do we do now?"

"First we find the president of the local chapter," Talea explained, "and pay

our protection money. That allows us to stay here. Then we find a piece of

unoccupied tunnel. There are hundreds of them honeycombing this hillside. We set

up temporary housekeeping and lie low until the councilman has a chance to

forget what happened to him.

"Of course, he may buy Nilanthos' explanation, but I wouldn't put it past his

type to check out any citizen's reports for that night. That's where we could

have trouble, remember. We'll wait here a couple of weeks until it all turns to

memory-mush. Then we can safely leave."

At his look of distress, Mudge said, "Don't look so ill, mate. Crikey, 'tis only

for a couple o' weeks." He grinned. "Lynchbany cops 'ave mem'ries as brief as

their courage. But it do behoove us t' stay out o' sight o' casual travelers for

a while. None save the completely daft are likely t' come within leagues o' this

spot."

Jon-Tom focused on well-used swords and knives. "I can't imagine why not," he

said drily, trying to hold his breath.

As it turned out they did not utilize Thieves' Hall for two weeks. It was less

than a day before Jon-Tom made his mistake. It didn't seem like a mistake at the

time, and afterward he was too confused to be sorry.

There was a game. It was common in Lynchbany and well known among those who

preyed upon the townsfolk. It involved the use of triangular dice and a circle.

There were no hidden complexities.

A good student like Jon-Tom had no trouble picking it up, after a few hours of

careful study. He was still a mite hesitant about actually participating, but

Talea was off somewhere chatting with friends and Mudge had simply disappeared.

Left on his own and mentally exhausted, he was both bored and irritable. A

little game playing would be good for him.

Clothahump's purse still contained a few tiny copperpieces, the remnants of the

Mudge-directed spending spree that had enriched several of Lynchbany's

merchants. Cutting an impressive figure in his flashing green cape, Jon-Tom

leaned on his club-staff and studied one of the several continuous games before

finally deciding to join.

The particular game he'd selected seemed to be the largest. With the greater

number of participants he would have more opportunities between throws to study

the play. No one objeeted to or commented on his joining. It was simply a matter

of taking the place of a distraught lynx when the latter ran out of money and

dropped out.

Through no particular skill (the fickleness of dice being everywhere constant)

he did quite well. Dutifully, he concentrated on doing still better. So intent

on the game did he become that he failed to notice that he was drawing something

of a crowd of onlookers.

Players angrily left and were replaced by eager newcomers, full of fresh spirit

and fresh cash. There were always nine or ten throwers seated or squatting

around the circle.

The rock was cold against his backside, even through the leather pants. Not

quite as chilled were the well-traveled coins beginning to stack up in front of

him. For the first time in a long while he was not only relaxed but enjoying

himself.

Much to the delight of the crowd, which always pulls for a big winner, he hit

two nines in a row. Mutterings of magic came from a few of the other players.

They remained mere mutterings. An aged bat named Swal hung himself from the

overhead lamps. From there he could watch all the players. His opinion was well

respected, Jon-Tom could tell, and his knowledge of magic extensive though he

was no wizard himself. Very poor basketball players can make very fine coaches.

Swal had a detailed knowledge of magic though he couldn't work any himself.

Nevertheless, one of the other players tried to turn the tide in his own favor,

attempting to magic the dice before his turn to throw came up. Neither Jon-Tom

nor any of the other players or onlookers caught the unnatural vibration, but

the outraged Swal noticed it immediately.

"He muttered it softly, but I tasted the end of it," Swal explained to the

crowd.

At that point Jon-Tom had a sampling of thieves' justice in a world where normal

justice was not known for its temperance. A group of angry spectators hauled the

screaming, protesting gopher out of sight. This was followed by a brief pause,

then a single nerve-twisting screech. Wiping their paws and looking grimly

satisfied, the vigilantes soon returned.

Another member of the game was throwing, and Jon-Tom had time to turn and ask an

onlooker what had happened.

The tall rabbit leaned low on his shoulder. "Swal say that one mutter it softly.

You no cheat in Thieves' Hall. Like cheat you brother, you know? I expect they

make punishment fit the crime." Jon-Tom continued to stare questioningly up at

the other.

The rabbit shrugged. "Since he whisper the formula, others probably cut out his

tongue. If he done divinations with his hands, they would have cut them off.

Same for eye, and so on."

"Isn't that kind of extreme? It's only a friendly game."

Oddly milky pink eyes looked down at him. "This an extreme business we all in,

man. You know that. Difficult enough to get by without having to cope with

cheating courts and sly lawyers. We can't stand backstabbingers among own

family. Fair punishments like that," and he jerked a thumb back toward the

region of the scream, "make sure fairness good sense. You stay healthy, hear;

that one was lucky. What line you in?"

"Sorry... my dice," Jon-Tom said quickly.

The game continued. Sometimes he lost, more often he won. Now the continued

absence of Talea and Mudge was making him nervous. He wondered if he dare take

his winnings and drop out. Might not one of the game's big losers have a friend

or associate in the crowd, ready to stick a small knife in Jon-Tom's back or

accuse him of magic in order to protect his friend or boss?

But the tall rabbit remained close by, reassuring and urging him on. That was

only natural, since he was betting along with Jon-Tom's rolls. Yet Jon-Tom's

thoughts kept returning to that horrible scream, kept imagining the knife coming

down, the blood spurting....

Swal the bat kept his post. Occasionally he would shift his perch on the hanging

lamps or tug at the green-feathered cap secured by a strap to his head. His eyes

roved steadily over the players.

There were no more cries of cheating. The pile of coins in front of Jon-Tom

continued its steady growth.

Then there was an unexpected pause in the action. A very sleek, lupine figure

stumbled into the playing circle. The players scrambled to protect their coins

from uncertain feet. She seemed outraged and embarrassed, a condition not helped

by the catcalls and hoots from the male and female spectators. The bitch replied

to the insinuations with a rustle of petticoats and some choice execrations of

her own.

Jon-Tom looked to his rabbit friend for an explanation.

"Sorry, man. I wasn't paying attention. But I think I see what's going on. See

that fox over there?" He pointed to a tired but well-dressed thrower seated

across the circle. Only two or three small silver coins lay on the stone in

front of him.

"He out of money I see, but he want to stay in. You know the type. So he bet the

girl."

Jon-Tom frowned. "Is she a slave?"

That prompted a mildly angry response. "What you think we are here, barbarians?

Only the Plated Folk keep slaves. No, most likely he gotten her to agree to

temporary contract." The rabbit winked. "Most likely a couple of nights or so."

"She doesn't look very willing," said Jon-Tom critically.

"Hard to say. Maybe she is, maybe not."

"Then why is she doing it?"

"Because she in love. Can't you see that?" The rabbit sounded surprised at

Jon-Tom's evident naivete.

"Hey... I can't play this round."

"Why not, man?" Suddenly the rabbit sounded considerably less friendly.

"I just think I've had enough." He was starting to gather up his winnings,

looking for pockets in pants and shirt to shove handfuls of coins into. The

other players looked upset and there were some movements in his direction.

But there was honor among thieves here, too. For every angry grumbling from the

players there were cries from the onlookers of, "He won fair.... The man can

pull out any time!... Let him leave if he wants.... You can't stop him...." and

so forth. But some of the comments were accompanied by eager looks at the pile

of coins in front of him. It occurred to Jon-Tom that winning the money was no

assurance he'd leave with it. Of course, no one would think of making an

outright attack on an honest winner. But Thieves' Hall was full of tunnels and

dark cul-de-sacs.

He looked helplessly up at the rabbit, whispered, "What should I do?"

The other's attitude softened, turned friendly once again.

"Well first thing, pay attention to you own clothing." He laughed and reached

for Jon-Tom's throat. Jon-Tom instinctively started to pull away, but the rabbit

only paused and grinned hugely at him. "With you permission?"

Jon-Tom hesitated, then nodded. There was no reason to assume the animal had

turned suddenly hostile.

Unclipping the cape while the rest of the players waited impatiently, the rabbit

spread it out on the floor. "Ah, I thought right so. Good tailor you got," and

he pointed out the hidden stitching and buttons lining the bottom hem of the

cape.

This he carefully unsnapped. With Jon-Tom's help, he filled the hidden

compartment with handfuls of coins. When it was full to the snaps they sealed it

tight again. Jon-Tom clipped it back around his neck. The weight was a tolerable

drag.

"There," said the rabbit with satisfaction, "that be more better. No one think

to pickpocket a cape. Only these few here, and I see no skilled one among them.

Others who see will think only rocks in there."

"Why would I fill my cape with rocks?"

"To keep it from blow over you head and blind you in a fight, or while riding in

a storm. Also to use in a fight. You may look weaponless, but what you got now

is five-foot flexible club to complement long staff." He turned his gaze

skyward. "That how I like to go, though. Beaten to death with somebody's money.

Or perhaps..." He looked back over at Jon-Tom. "It no matter my problems."

"Maybe it does." Jon-Tom reached into the still sizable pile of coins in front

of him and selected three large gold circles. "These are for your problems. And

for your good advice and counsel."

The rabbit took them gratefully, slipped them in a vest pocket, and sealed it.

"That kind of you, man. I take because I need the money. Under better

circumstances I refuse. More advice: don't go passing around gold too much like

this. You attract attention of some not so noble as I.

"Now as to what you should do, you pull out now if you really want. But you in

middle of round. It be better if you finish this one go-round. Then no one can

say shit to you."

"But what about the girl?" The bitch was tapping feet clad in pastel blue ballet

slippers and looking quite put out.

"Well, I tell you man," and he winked significantly, "you finish out this round.

I have three goldpieces you know. You have place in circle to finish. If you

win, I give you back gold circle for her." He eyed the muscular, tawny form of

the she-wolf. "Maybe two."

"Oh, all right." He looked a last time at the ring of spectators. Still no sign

of Mudge or Talea.

The dice were passed as the watchers nudged one another, muttered, made side

bets, or simply stared curiously. A ferret on the far side rolled a seven,

moaned. Next to him was a mole wearing immensely thick dark glasses and a peaked

derby. He dumped an eight, then a six, then a seven, and finally a losing three.

The dice came around to Jon-Tom. He tossed them into the circle. Two fours and a

two. Then a ten. The dice went to the fisher on his right. He rolled a ten.

Cries went up from the crowd, which pushed and shoved discourteously at the

circle of players. Jon-Tom rolled a six. Back to the fisher, who looked

confident. Over went the three dice, came up showing a one, a two, and a three.

The fisher kicked dirt into the circle. The shouts were ear-shaking.

Jon-Tom had won again.

He spoke as he turned. "There you go, friend. It's time to..." He stopped. There

was no sign of the rabbit.

Only a smartly dressed howler monkey nearby had noted the disappearance of

Jon-Tom's advisor. "The tall fella? White with gray patches?" Jon-Tom nodded,

and the simian gestured vaguely back down a main passage.

"He went off that way a while ago. So little golden ground squirrel came up to

him... delicate little bit of fluff she was... and he went off with her."

"But I can't..."

A hand touched his shoulder. He turned, found himself staring across into

aluminum-like eyes, glistening and penetrating. "I have not done it with many

humans, man. I understand some of you are fond of strange practices." The voice

was low, husky, and not altogether uninterested. "Is that true also with you?"

"Listen, I don't think you understand."

"Try me."

"No, no... that's not what I meant. I mean..." He was more flustered than at any

tune since they'd entered the hall. "It's just that I can't, I don't want you.

Go back there." He waved across the circle. "Go back to him."

"Just what the hell are you implying, man?" Her eyes flashed and she stepped

back.

The fox was suddenly standing next to her, angry at something other than his

losing. "Something wrong with Wurreel? Do you think I need your charity?"

"No, it's not that at all." He slowly climbed to his feet, kept a firm grip on

the staff. Around him the crowd was murmuring in an unfriendly manner. The looks

he was receiving were no longer benign.

"Please," he told the bitch, "just go back to your master here, or friend, or

whatever."

The fox moved nearer, jabbed a clawed finger in Jon-Tom's stomach. "Just what

kind of fellow are you? Do you think I don't pay my debts? Do you think I'd

renege on my obligations?"

"Screw your obligations, Mossul," said the wolf haughtily, "What about my

honor?" Her tone and gaze were now anything but interested. "See how he looks at

me, with disgust. I am insulted."

That brought a nasty series of cries from the crowd. "Shame, shame! ...down with

him!"

"It's not that. I just... don't want you."

She made an inarticulate growl, hit him in the chest with a fist. "That does

it!" She looked around at the shifting circle of spectators. "Is there a male

here who will defend my reputation? I demand satisfaction... of this kind if not

the other!"

"Your reputation..." Jon-Tom was becoming badly tongue-tied. "I didn't insult...

what about him?" He pointed at the fox. "He was the one selling you."

"Loaning, not selling," countered the fox with dignity. "And it was mutually

agreed upon."

"That's right. I'd do anything for Mossul. Except be insulted, like this, in

public." She put an affectionate arm around the fox's silk-clad shoulders.

"Turn him out, turn him out!" came the rising shouts.

"Wot's 'appening 'ere, mate. I leave you alone for a bit and you manage t' upset

the 'ol 'all." Mudge was at Jon-Tom's back and Talea nearby.

"I don't understand," Jon-Tom protested. "I've been winning all day."

"That's good."

"And I just won that," and he indicated the she-wolf, "for a couple of nights."

"That's very good. So what's your problem, mate?"

"I don't want her. Don't you understand? It's not that she's unattractive or

anything." The subject of that appraisal growled menacingly. "It's just that...

I can't do it, Mudge. I'm not prejudiced. But something inside me just...

can't."

"Easy now, mate. I understand." The otter sounded sympathetic. "Tis part o' your

strange customs, no doubt, and you're the loser for it."

"Well, tell them that. Tell them where I'm from. Explain to them that I'm..."

Mudge put a hand momentarily over Jon-Tom's mouth. "Hush, lad. If they think

that you're from some other land, no matter 'ow alien, you won't longer 'ave

their protection. As it be, they think you're a local footpad like Talea and

meself." His eyes noted the weight dragging down the hem of Jon-Tom's cape. "And

judgin' from wot you've won from some 'ere, they'd be more than 'appy to see you

made fair game. You wouldn't last twenty seconds." He pulled at an arm. "Come on

now. Quiet and confident's the words, while they're still arguin' wot t' do."

They were bumped and even spat upon, but Mudge and Talea managed to hustle their

thoroughly confused friend out of the gambling chamber, through the tunnels, and

back out the iron door that sealed off the hall from the outside world.

It was mid-morning outside. Jon-Tom suddenly realized how exhausted he was. He

must have played through the night. That explained why he hadn't seen Talea or

Mudge. They'd been sleeping. But it was time-deceptive inside Thieves' Hall,

where the lamps burned round the clock, much in keeping with the activities of

the members.

"Why didn't you go with her?" Talea sounded bitter. "Now look at us! Forced out

of the one refuge where we'd be impregnable." She stalked on ahead, searching

the nearby corral for their team and wagon.

"I suppose I should have lost." He and Mudge had to hurry to keep pace with her.

"That would have made you happy, wouldn't it?"

"It would be better than this," she snapped back. "Where do we go now? When

you're turned out of Thieves' Hall, there's no place else to run to, and we

haven't been in hiding near long enough. We'll still be fresh in the minds of

citizens and police, if anyone noticed us. Damn it all!" She jumped the fence,

kicked at the flank of an innocent riding lizard. It hissed and scuttled out of

her way.

"It's too bad you weren't around, Mudge. You could have played that last round

for me."

"It don't work that way, mate. You 'ad t' play it out yourself, from what I

'eard. 'Tis a pity your peculiar customs forced you t' insult that lovely lady's

honor. You refused 'er. I couldn't 'ave substituted meself for you thatawise,

much willin' as I would've been."

Jon-Tom stared morosely at the ground, "I can't believe she was trading herself

willingly like that."

"Blimey lad, 'tis bloody ignorant you be about women. She did it for love of 'er

fox-chap. Couldn't you see that? And so when you refused 'er, you insulted 'im

as well. You don't know much about the leanin's o' ladies, do you?"

"That's ridiculous. Of course I..." He looked away. "No. No, not a great deal,

Mudge. My energies have been pretty much focused on intellectual pursuits.

That's one reason why I wanted to be a musician so badly. Musicians don't seem

to have to worry about women."

"There not be much pleasure in ignorance, mate. You're a damn-sight better off

understandin' the whys and wherefores o' what's goin' on." He nodded ahead.

"Now 'ave a look at dear Talea there. Don't tell me you don't find 'er

attractive."

"I'd by lying if I said otherwise."

"Well then? Close enough quarters we've been living in these past few days and I

'aven't seen you so much as lean close t' 'er. Me she knows and won't let near,

but you're a new factor."

"You've got to be kidding." He watched that mane of red hair bob and weave its

way among the herd. "If I so much as touched her she'd split me from brain to

belly."

"Don't be so sure, mate. You've already confessed your ignorance, you know."

"And you're the expert, I suppose?"

"I get by on experience, yes. Not much time for that now. But think on what I've

said."

"I will. Mudge, what she said about us having no place to go, are we that

desperate?"

" 'Ard to say, mate. Depends on whether anyone reported our late-night doin's in

Lynchbany. But we'd best move on t' somewhere else for a while."

"I know where I want to go." He looked longingly skyward, though he knew that

his world was beyond even the stars that lay hidden behind the sunlight.

Something stung the side of his face. He turned and looked in shock at Mudge.

"A long way to reach with an open palm," the otter said tightly. "Now you listen

well, mate. I've told you before and I don't aim to waste time on it again.

These maudlin sorrowings for yourself 'ave to stop. You're 'ere. We can't get

you back where you belong. Clothahump can't or won't get you back t' where you

belong. That's bloody well it, and the sooner you get used t' it, the better

it'll go for you. Or do you expect me t' wet-nurse you through your next sixty

years?"

Jon-Tom, still stunned, didn't reply. Sixty years... odd how he hadn't thought

of his stay here in terms of years, much less decades. There was always the

thought that he could be going home tomorrow, or the next day.

But if Clothahump's genius was as erratic as Mudge insisted, he might never be

going home. The wizard could die tomorrow. That night in Lynchbany outside Dr.

Nilanthos' he'd reached a temporary accommodation with his situation. Maybe

Mudge was right, and it was time he made that accommodation permanent.

Try to regard it like negative thinking for an exam. That way you're only

satisfied if you fail, happy with a fifty, and ecstatic with a hundred. That's

how you're going to have to start thinking of your life. Right now he was living

a zero. The sooner he got used to it, the less disappointed he'd be if

Clothahump proved unable to send him back. Back to the lazy mental meanderings

of school, the casual tripe mumbled by directionless friends, the day-to-day

humdrum existence he'd been leading that inaccessibility now made so tempting.

Zero, he told himself firmly. Remember the zero.

"Goddam rotten son-of-a-bitch! Shit-holes, all of 'em!"

The cry came from the other side of the corral. He and Mudge hurried through the

packed animals. But Talea was not in danger. Instead she sat tiredly on a smooth

rock while riding lizards of varying size and shape milled nervously around her.

"Stinking sneaky bastards," she rumbled. Jon-Tom started to say something but

turned at a touch on his arm. Mudge put a finger to his whiskers, shook his head

slowly.

They waited while the bile burned itself up. She finally looked up and seemed to

take notice of them. Then she rose and swept an arm around the corral.

"Our wagon's gone. I've been through the whole glade and it's not here.

Neither's our team. Do you know what I went through to steal that team?"

"Mossul's friends might have slipped out and run it off to help him cover 'is

losses. Or it might 'ave been done as punishment for the insult we did the

she-wolf," Mudge said thoughtfully, caressing his whiskers.

"I'll fry the gizzards of whoever's responsible!" She started back toward the

hall. Mudge intercepted her quickly. She pushed at him, tried to dodge around,

but he was as heavy as she and far faster. Eventually she just stood there,

glaring at him.

"Be reasonable, luv. We barely slipped out of there without 'avin' to cut

anyone. We can't go back in. Anger's no substitute for another sword. Even if we

did get back in clear and free we're just guessin' as to who's responsible. We

can't be sure it's Mossul or 'is friends."

The glare softened to a look of resignation. "You're right, otter. As usual."

She slumped down on the mossy earth and leaned back against a fence rail. "So

much, then, for 'honor among thieves.' "

"I'm sorry." Jon-Tom sat down next to her. "It was my fault. If it means

anything, I'll be happy to pay you back for the cart." He jiggled the clinking

hem of his cape meaningfully.

"Don't be ridiculous. I stole it. You needn't worry about paying back what you

don't owe."

They considered their situation. "We could buy someone else's cart," he

suggested.

Mudge looked doubtful. "Good transportation's dearer to a thief than any amount

o' money. We could buy such in town, but not 'ere."

"Well then, why don't we steal some of these?"

"Now that's not a bad idea, mate. You're startin' to adapt. Save for one little

complication." He looked to his right. At first Jon-Tom saw nothing. Then he

noticed the little knot of figures that had appeared outside the Hall entrance.

Puffs of smoke rose from the small crowd, and he could see an occasional glance

in their direction.

"But they don't know which cart or steeds are ours," Jon-Tom protested. "If we

acted like we knew what we were doing, they couldn't tell we were up to

anything."

Mudge smiled slightly. "On the other 'and, we don't know that we might not pick

on one o' their mounts. A single shout could bring the whole o' Thieves' 'All

out on us."

"A pox on this!" said Talea abruptly, springing to her feet. "So we walk, but

we're going back to see this wizard of yours. He's bound to put us up for a few

days. Might even be safer than the Hall. And we can even pay him." She indicated

Jon-Tom's winnings.

"Now 'old on a minim, luv." Mudge looked worried. "If we return there so soon,

I'll 'ave t' admit I've run into some difficulties in educatin' this lad."

"Difficulties!" Jon-Tom laughed aloud. "You've already managed to involve me in

a local tavern brawl, a police matter, and you," he looked at Talea, "in a

mugging and robbery. Two robberies. I suppose I have to count in the cart and

team, now."

"Count it any way you like, Jon-Tom." She gestured to the west. "But we can't go

to town just yet, and we can't use the hall. I'm not about to strike off into

the forest toward somewhere distant like Fife-over or Timswitty. Besides, they

cooperate with the Lynchbany cops."

"Be that as it may," said Mudge, folding his arms, "I'm not goin' back t'

Clothahump's. The old bugger's too unpredictable for my comfort."

"Suit yourself." She looked up at Jon-Tom. "I think you know the way. You afraid

of Clothahump, too?"

"You bet your ass I am," he replied promptly, "but I don't think he's the

vengeful type, and I can't think of anything else to do."

She gestured expansively. "After you, Jon-Tom."

He turned and started out of the corral, heading south and hoping his sense of

direction wasn't too badly distorted by the time they'd spent riding the night.

Mudge hesitated until they were nearly out of sight. Then he dropped a few

choice words to the indifferent lizards and sprinted anxiously after the

retreating humans....

IX

Thieves' Hall was southeast of Lynchbany Towne. They had to cross the local

roads carefully, for according to Talea you never knew when you might encounter

a police patrol out for bandits. They also had to take time to hunt and gather

food.

It was three days of hard walking before some of the forest started to look

familiar to Mudge. They were standing by the side of a muddy, narrow road when

Jon-Tom noticed the large sack that had been caught in the crook of a pair of

boulders. There was the sparkle of sunlight on metal.

"Your eyes are good, Jon-Tom," said Talea admiringly, as they fell on the sack

like three jackals on the half-gnawed carcass of a zebra.

The sack was full of trade goods. Glass beads, some semiprecious gems that might

have been garnets or tourmalines, and some scrolls. Talea threw the latter

angrily aside as they searched the sack for other valuables. There were more

scrolls, some clothing, and several musical instruments. Jon-Tom picked up a set

of pipes attached to a curved gourd, puffed experimentally at the mouth

openings.

"Hell." Talea sat back against the rocks. She picked up the empty sack and threw

it over her shoulder. "Double hell. Even when we find some lucky, it turns out

to be deceptive."

Mudge was inspecting the jewelry. "These might fetch two or three golds from a

fair fence."

"How delightful," Talea said sarcastically. "You just whistle up a fair fence

and we'll have a go at it." The otter let out a long, sharp whistle no human

could duplicate, then shrugged.

"Never know till you try." He tucked the jewelry into the pouch at his waist,

caught Talea eyeing him. "You don't trust me t' share out." He pouted.

"No, but it's not worth fighting over." She was rubbing her left calf. "My feet

hurt."

Jon-Tom had set down the gourd flute and picked up the largest of the three

instruments. This one had six strings running in a curve across a heart-shaped

resonator. Three triangular openings were cut into the box. At the top of the

curved wires were tuning knobs. Near the base of the heartbox resonator was a

set of six smaller metal strings, a miniature of the larger, upper set. Twelve

strings altogether.

He considered the arrangement thoughtfully. Let's see, the smaller set wouldn't

be much good exeept for plucking the more delicate, higher notes. So the larger

sextet is probably strummed. Except for the extra set of tiny strings it looked

something like a plastic guitar left too long in an oven.

Talea had picked up one of the flute-things. She tried to blow a tune, produced

only a few sour notes that faded quickly, and tossed it away. The second was

apparently more to her liking. She finished testing it, slipped it into her

belt, and started off back into the forest. Mudge followed, but Jon-Tom,

absorbed in the peculiar guitar, hung behind.

Eventually she paused, turned to face him, and waited until he caught up with

them. "What's holding you back, larklegs?" He smiled as though he hadn't heard

her, turned his attention back to the instrument. A few notes from the small

strings filled the air.

"That's a duar. Don't tell me you can play that?"

"Actually, the lad 'as made claims to bein' somethin' of a musician." Mudge

studied Jon-Tom's obvious interest hopefully. "You always 'ave said that you

sounded better with instrumental accompaniment, mate."

"I know. I remember." Jon-Tom ran his fingers over the upper-level strings. The

sound was much softer than he was used to. Almost lyrelike, but not very alien.

He plucked once again at the lower strings. They echoed the upper, deeper tones.

The curved arm running out from the heart-shaped box was difficult to cradle.

The instrument had been designed to fit around a much broader chest than his

own. The short strap that ran from the top of the arm to the base of the

resonator helped a little, however. Letting the instrument hang naturally, he

found that by leaning forward he could get at both sets of strings. It hurt his

back a little, but he thought he could get used to it. He used both hands,

trying to strum the upper strings while plucking in counterpoint at the lower.

Talea sighed, turned away, and started off again, Mudge in tandem and Jon-Tom

bringing up the rear. His heart still hurt more than his feet, but the music

helped. Gradually he discovered how to swing his arm in an arc instead of

straight down in order to follow the curve of bar and strings. Soon he was

reproducing familiar chords, then snatches of song. As always the tranquilizing

sounds made him feel better, lifting his spirits as well as his adrenaline

level.

Some of the songs sounded almost right. But though he tuned and retuned until he

was afraid of breaking the strings or the tuning knobs, he couldn't create the

right melodies. It wasn't the delicate instrument, either, but something else.

He still hadn't discovered how to tune it properly.

It was late afternoon when Talea edged closer to him, listening a while longer

to the almost music he was making before inquiring, with none of her usual

bitterness or sarcasm, "Jon-Tom, are you a spellsinger?"

"Hmmm?" He looked up at her. "A what?"

"A spellsinger." She nodded toward the otter, who was walking a few yards ahead

of them. "Mudge says that the wizard Clothahump brought you into our world

because he thought you were a wizard who could help him in sorceral matters."

"That's right. Unfortunately, I'm in prelaw."

She looked doubtful. "Wizards don't make those kinds of mistakes."

"Well, this one sure did."

"Then you're not..." She eyed him strangely. "A spellsinger is a wizard who can

only make magic through music."

"That's a nice thought." He plucked at the lower strings and al-most-notes

danced with dust motes in the fading daylight. "I wish it were true of me." He

grinned, slightly embarrassed. "I've had a few people tell me that despite my

less than mesmerizing tenor, I can make a little music-magic. But not the kind

you're thinking of."

"How do you know you can't? Maybe Clothahump was right all along."

"This is silly, Talea. I'm no more a magician than I am any other kind of

success. Hell, I'm having a hard enough time trying to play this thing and walk

at the same time, what with that long staff strapped to my back. It keeps trying

to slide free and trip me.

"Besides," he ran his fingers indifferently along the upper strings "I can't

even get this to sound right. I can't play something I can't even tune."

"Have you used all the dutips?" When he looked blank, she indicated the tuning

knobs. He nodded. "And what about the dudeeps?" Again the blank gaze, and this

time he had a surprise.

Set into a recess in the bottom of the instrument were two knobs. He hadn't

noticed them before, having been preoccupied with the strings and the "dutips,"

as she'd called them. He fiddled with the pair. Each somehow contracted tiny

metal and wood slats inside the resonator. One adjusted crude treble, the other

lowered everything a couple of octaves and corresponded very roughly to a bass

modulator. He looked closely at them and then looked again. Instead of the usual

"treble" and "bass," they read "tremble" and "mass."

But they definitely improved the quality of the duar's sound.

"Now you should try," she urged him.

"Try what? What kind of song would you like to hear? I've been through this with

Mudge, so if you want to take the risk of listening to me...."

"I'm not afraid," she replied, misunderstanding him. "Try not for the sound. Try

for the magic. It's not like a wizard as great as Clothahump, even if his powers

are failing, to make such a mistake."

Try for the magic, he thought. Huh... try for the sound. That's what the lead

bass player for a very famous group had once told him. The guy had been higher

than the Pope when Jon-Tom had accidentally run into him in a hall before a

concert playing to twenty thousand. Stuttering, hardly able to talk to so

admired a musician, he'd barely been able to mumble the usual fatuous request

for "advice to a struggling young guitarist."

"Hey, man... you got to try for the sound. Hear? Try for the sound."

That hastily uttered parable had been sufficiently unspecific to stick in his

mind. Jon-Tom had been trying for the sound for years, but he hadn't come close

to finding it. Most would-be musicians never did. Maybe finding the sound was

the difference between the pro and the amateur. Or maybe it was only a matter of

getting too stoked to notice the difference.

Whatthehell.

He fiddled a little longer with the pseudo-treble/bass controls. They certainly

improved the music. Why not play something difficult? Stretch yourself, Jon-Tom.

You've nothing to lose. These two critics can't change your career one way or

t'other. There was only one sound he'd ever hoped to reach for, so he reached.

"Purple haze..." he began, and thereafter, as always, he lost himself in the

music, forgetting the watching Talea, forgetting Mudge, forgetting the place and

time of where he was, forgetting everything except reaching for the sound.

He played as hard as he could on that strange curved instrument. It lifted him,

juiced him with the natural high playing always brought him. As he played it

seemed to him that he could hear the friendly prickling music of his own old

electric guitar. His nerves quivered with the pleasure and his ears rang with

the familiarity of it. He was truly happy, cradling and caressing that strange

instrument, forgetting his surroundings, his troubles, his parents.

A long time later (or maybe it was only a couple of minutes) he became aware

that someone was shaking him. He blinked and stopped playing, the last rough

chord dying away, soaked up by the earth and trees. He blinked at Talea, and she

let loose of his arms, backed away from him a little. She was looking at him

strangely.

Mudge also stood nearby, staring.

"What's going on? Was I that bad?" He felt a little dizzy.

" 'Tis a fine chap you are, foolin' your mate like this," said the otter with a

mixture of awe and irritation. "Forgive me, lad. I'd no idea you'd been toyin'

with me all this time. Don't go too harsh on me. I've only done what I thought

best for you and..."

"Stop that, Mudge. What are you blubbering about?"

"The sounds you made... and something else, spellsinger." He gaped at her.

"You're still trying to fool us, aren't you? Just like you fooled Clothahump.

Look at your duar."

His gaze dropped and he jumped slightly. The last vestiges of a powerful violet

luminescence were slowly fading from the edges of the instrument, slower still

from the lambent metal strings.

"I didn't... I haven't done anything." He shoved at the instrument as though it

might suddenly turn and bite him. The strap kept it seeure around his neck and

it swung back to bounce off his ribs. The club-staff rocked uncomfortably on his

back.

"Try again," Talea whispered. "Reach for the magic again."

It seemed to have grown darker much too fast. Hesitantly (it was only an

instrument, after all) he plucked at the lower strings and strummed again a few

bars of "Purple Haze." Each time he struck a string it emitted that rich violet

glow.

There was something else. The music was different. Cold as water from a mountain

tarn, rough as a file's rasp. It set a fire in the head like white lightning and

sent goosebumps down his arms. Bits of thought rattled around like ball bearings

inside his skull.

My oh, but that was a fine sound!

He tried again, more confidently now. Out came the proper chords, with a power

and thunder he hadn't expected. All the time they reverberated and echoed

through the trees, and there was no amplifier in sight. That vast sound was

pouring purple from the duar resting firm on his shoulder and light beneath his

dancing fingers.

Is it the instrument that's transformed, he thought wildly, or something in me?

That was the key line, of course, from another song entirely. But it

rationalized, if not explained, he thought, what was happening there hi the

forest.

"I'm not a spellsinger," he finally told them. "I'm still not sure what that

is." He was surprised at the humbleness in his voice. "But I always thought I

had something in me. Every would-be musician does. There's a line that goes,

'The magic's in the music and the music's in me.' Maybe you're right, Talea.

Maybe Clothahump was more accurate than even he knew.

"I'm going to do what I can, though I can't imagine what that might be. So far

all I know I can do is make this duar shine purple."

"Never mind 'ow you do it, mate." Mudge swelled with pride at his companion's

accomplishment. "Just don't forget 'ow."

"We need to experiment." Talea's mind was working furiously. "You need to focus

your abilities, Jon-Tom. Any wizard..."

"Don't... call me that."

"Any spellsinger, then, has to be able to be speeific with his magic. Unspecific

magic is not only useless, it's dangerous."

"I don't know any of the right words," he protested. "I don't know any songs

with scientific words."

"You've got the music, Jon-Tom. That's magic enough to make the words work." She

looked around the forest. Dusk was settling gently over the treetops. "What do

we need?"

"Money," said Mudge without hesitation.

"Shut up, Mudge. Be serious."

"I'm always serious where money be concerned, luv."

She threw him a sour look. "We can't buy transportation where none exists. Money

won't get us safely and quickly to Clothahump's Tree." She looked expectantly at

Jon-Tom.

"Want to try that?"

"What? Transportation? I don't know what kind..." He broke off, feeling drunk.

Drunk from the after effects of the music. Drunk from what it seemed he'd done

with it. Drunk with the knowledge of an ability he hadn't known he'd possessed,

and completely at a loss as to what to make of it.

Make of it some transportation, dummy. You heard the lady.

But what song to play to do so? Wasn't that always the problem? No matter

whether you're trying to magic spirits or an audience.

Beach Boys... sure, that sounded right. "Little Deuce Coupe." What would Talea

and Mudge make of that! He laughed wildly and drew concerned looks from his

companions.

His hands moved toward the strings... and hesitated. "Little Deuce Coup"? Now as

long as we're about this, Meriweather, why fool around with small stuff? Try for

some real transportation.

He cleared his throat self-consciously, feeling giddy, and started to sing.

"She's real fine, my four-oh-nine."

In his cradling arms the duar began to vibrate and glow mightily. This time the

luminescence spread from the strings to encompass the entire instrument. It was

like a live thing in his hands, struggling to break free. He hung on tight while

awkwardly picking out the notes. Rising chords sprang from his right fingers.

Talea and Mudge stepped back from him, their eyes wide and intent on the open

grass between. A pulsing, yellow ball of light had tumbled from the duar to land

on the earth. It grew and twisted, swollen with the music. Jon-Tom was facing

away from it, preoccupied with his playing.

When Talea's cry finally made him turn the glowing shape had grown considerably.

It was working, he told himself excitedly! The shape was beginning to assume a

roughly cylindrical outline. He hoped the lemon-yellow convertible would

materialize with a full tank of gas (he didn't know any songs about gasoline).

Then they would continue in luxury through the forest in a vehicle the likes of

which this world had never imagined.

He really was a little drunk now. Too much pride can stupefy the brain as

readily as alcohol. He began to improvise stanzas about AM/FM radios, CB's,

racing stripes and mags and slicks. After all, as long as he was conjuring up a

vehicle he might as well do it up right.

Abruptly there was a loud bang, a toy thunderbolt like a thousand capguns all

going off simultaneously. It knocked him back on his butt. The duar flopped

against his stomach.

There was something long and powerful where the contorting yellow cylinder had

been. It did not boast slicks, but of its traction there could be no doubt.

There were no racing stripes and certainly nothing electronic.

The headlights turned to look at him. They were a bright, rich red save for the

black slashes in the centers. A long tongue emerged from the front and flicked

questioningly at his sprawled form.

There was a noise from the "vehicle." He looked frantically over at it, and it

back at him.

In contrast to his evident terror, both Talea and Mudge appeared anything but

cowed. They were inspecting the vehicle casually, admiringly. That gave him the

courage to sit up and take a closer look at his conjuration.

It was sight of the reins that brought understanding. There was no bit in the

enormous snake's mouth. No living thing could control that single mass of muscle

by pulling on its mouth. Instead, the reins were linked to the two ear openings

set just in back of the eyes.

Talea moved around in front of the snake and gathered in the reins. She gave a

short, sharp tug and barked a single word. Twice as thick as Jon-Tom was tall,

the immense reptile turned and docilely dropped its head to the ground. Red eyes

stared blankly straight ahead.

Jon-Tom had climbed to his feet and allowed himself to be pulled along by an

exuberant Mudge. "Come on then, mate. Tis one hellaciously fine wizard you be!

Sorry I am that I made fun o* you."

"Forget it." He shook himself out of his mental stupor, allowed himself to be

led toward the great snake. It was at least forty feet long, though its immense

bulk made it appear shorter. Four saddles were mounted on its back. They were

secured not by straps around the belly as with a horse but by a peculiar suction

arrangement that held the seats tight to the slick scales.

Having calmed down a little, he had to admit that the snake was quite lovely,

clad as it was in alternating bands of red, blue, and bright orange that ran

like tempera around its girth. This then was the "vehicle" his song had ealled

up. The magic had worked, but translated into this world's terms. Apparently his

abilities weren't quite powerful enough for the forces of magic to take his

words literally.

"Is it poisonous?" was the first thing he could think to ask.

Mudge let out his high, chirping otter-laugh, urged Jon-Tom toward one of the

rear saddles. "Cor, you're a funny one, mate." Talea had already taken the lead

position. She was waiting impatiently for her companions to mount up.

" 'Tis a L'borean riding snake, and what pray tell would it need poison for t'

defend itself against? 'Cept one o' its own relatives, and its teeth are plenty

big enough t' 'andle that occasional family chore."

"What the devil does something this size feed on?"

"Oh, other lizards, most. Any o' the large nonintelligent herbivores it can find

in the wild."

"Even so, some of them are tamed for riding?"

Mudge shook his head at the obvious joke. "Now what were you imaginin' these

were for?" He rapped the leather saddle loudly. The stirrups were a bit high for

him, but strong arms pulled him to where he could get his feet into them.

"Climb aboard, then, mate, and ride."

Jon-Tom moved to the last saddle. He got a good grip on the pommel, put his

right boot in the stirrup, and pulled. His left foot dragged against the side of

the creature, which took no notice of the contact. It was like kicking a steel

bar.

He found himself staring past Mudge at the beacon of Talea's hair. She uttered a

low hiss. The snake started forward obediently, and Jon-Tom reached down and

used the curved handle-pommel to steady himself.

The movement was unlike anything he'd ever experienced. Not that he'd ever

ridden any animal other than the ponies who once frequented his hometown, but it

still seemed incredibly gentle. He was put in mind of the stride of the lizards

who had pulled their lost wagon; only having no legs, the snake produced an even

smoother ride. Technically, it had no gait at all.

There was no jouncing or bouncing. The snake glided like oil over bumps and

boulders. After a few minutes of vibration-free ride Jon-Tom felt confident in

letting loose of the handle. He relaxed and enjoyed for a change the passing

sights of the forest. It was amazing how relaxed the mind could become when

one's feet no longer hurt.

He made certain the duar was secured across his belly and his fighting staff was

still tight on his back, then settled back to enjoy the ride.

The only thing difficult to get used to was the feeling of not knowing where

they were headed, since the snake's slithering, rippling method of making

progress was quite deceptive. Eventually he learned to keep a close eye on the

reptile's head. It was more like traveling in a tacking sailboat than on a

horse.

Smooth as the ride was, the constant moving from right to left in order to

proceed forward was making him slightly queasy. This was solved when he directed

his attention sideways instead of trying to stare straight ahead.

"I didn't mean to call this monster up, you know," he said to Mudge. "I was

trying for something completely different."

"And what might that 'ave been?" A curious Mudge looked back over his shoulder,

content to let Talea lead now that he'd given her a heading.

"Actually, I was sort of hoping for a Jeep Wagoneer, or maybe a Landcruiser. But

I didn't know any songs--any spells--for them, so I tried to come as close as I

could with what I had."

"I don't know wot the first might be," replied Mudge, meticulously preening his

whiskers and face, "but a 'landcruiser' be wot we 'ave, if not just precisely

the variety you'd 'oped for."

"I guess." Jon-Tom sounded thoughtful. "I suppose it's a good thing I didn't

know any songs about tanks. No telling what we might have ended up with."

Mudge frowned. "Now that's a peculiar thing t' say. Wot would we 'ave needed

with extra water, wot with streams aboundin' throughout this part o' the

Bellwoods?"

Jon-Tom started to explain, decided instead that this was not the time to launch

into a complicated explanation of otherworldly technologies. Mudge and Talea

appeared quite pleased with the snake. There was no reason for him not to be

equally satisfied. Certainly its ride was far smoother than any meehanized

vehicle's would have been.

Idly he ran his fingers over the small strings of the duar. Delicate harplike

notes sauntered through the forest air. They still possessed the inexplicable if

familiar electronic twang of his old Grundig. Blue sparks shot from beneath his

fingers.

He started to hum a few bars of "Scarborough Fair," then thought better of it.

He didn't want anything to divert them from their intended rendezvous with

Clothahump. Who knew what some casually uttered words might conjure up? Possibly

they might suddenly find themselves confronted with a fair, complete with food,

jugglers and minstrels, and even police.

Play to amuse yourself if you must, he told himself, but keep the words to

yourself. So he kept his mouth shut while he continued to play. His fingers

stayed clear of the longer upper strings because no matter how softly he tried

to strum those, they generated a disconcertingly vast barrage of sound. They

remained linked to some mysterious magickry of amplification that he was

powerless to disengage.

He'd hoped for a four-wheel drive, tried for two-wheel, and had produced a

no-wheel drive that was far more efficient than anything he'd imagined. Now,

what else would add to his feeling of comfort in the forest? An M-16 perhaps, or

considering the size of the riding snake and its as yet unseen but possibly

belligerent relatives, maybe a few Honest John Rockets.

What'd he'd likely get would be a sword or something. Better to rely on his wits

and the war staff bouncing against his spine. Or he might produce the weapon in

the firing stage. He would have to be very, very careful indeed if he tried to

sing up anything else, he decided. Perhaps Clothahump would have some good

advice.

He continued to play as they slithered on through increasing darkness. When

asked about why they were continuing, Talea replied, "We want to make as much

distance as we can tonight."

"Why the sudden rush? We're doing a helluva lot better than we did when we were

walking."

She leaned to her left, looked past him, and pointed downward. "We weren't

leaving this kind of trail, either." Jon-Tom looked back and noted the wake of

crushed brush and grass the snake was producing. "Outriders from Thieves' Hall

will surely pick it up."

"So? Why should they connect that up with us?"

"Probably they won't. But L'borean riding snakes are available only to the

extremely wealthy. They'd follow any such track, especially one not leading

straight for town, hoping to run down a fat prize. Their disappointment in

finding us instead of some rich merchant wouldn't bode well for our futures."

"Bloody well right," agreed Mudge readily. "There's a disconcertin' and

disgustin' tendency toward settlin' discontents without resortin' to words."

"Beg your pardon?" said Jon-Tom with a frown.

"Kill first and ask questions afterward."

He nodded grimly. "We have some of those where I come from, too."

He turned moodily back to the duar. It was barely visible in the intensifying

night. He fiddled with the bottom controls, and the strings fluttered with blue

fire as he played. Carefully he kept his lips closed, forced himself not to

voice the words of the song he was playing. It was hard to remember the melody

without voicing the words. A silver-dollar moon was rising in the east.

Once he caught himself softly singing words and something green was forming

alongside the snake. Damn, this wasn't going to work. He needed to play

something without words in order to be completely safe.

He changed the motion of his fingers on the strings. Better, he thought. Then he

noticed Mudge staring at him.

"Something wrong?"

"Wot the 'ell is goin' on with you, Jon-Tom?"

"It's a Bach fugue," he replied, not understanding. "Quite a well-known piece

where I come from."

" 'Ell with that, mate. I wasn't referrin' t' your music. I was referrin' t'

your company."

His voice was oddly muted, neither alarmed nor relaxed. Jon-Tom looked to his

right... and had to grab the saddle handle to keep from falling out of his

seat....

X

He found himself staring directly at a huge swarm of nothing. That is, it seemed

that there was definitely something present. Hundreds of somethings, in fact.

But when he looked at them, they weren't there.

They had moved to his left. He turned to face them, and as he did so, they moved

somewhere else.

"Above you, mate... I think." Jon-Tom's head snapped back, just in time to espy

the absence of whatever it had been. They'd moved down and to his right, behind

a large gingko tree where he couldn't see them because they'd shifted their

position to his left, where they no longer were and...

He was getting dizzy.

It was as if he were hunting a visual echo. He was left teasing his retinas;

every time he turned there were the shadows of ghosts.

"I don't see a thing. I almost do, but never quite."

"Surely you do." Mudge was grinning now. "Just like meself, we're seeing them

after they aren't there any more."

"But you were looking at them a moment ago," said Jon-Tom, feeling very foolish

now because he knew there was definitely something near them in the forest. "You

told me where to look, where they'd moved to."

"You're 'alf right, mate. I told you where t' look, but not where they were. You

can only see where they've been, not where they are." He scratched one ear as he

stared back over a furry shoulder. "It never works. You never can see 'em, but

those folks who are lucky enough not t' almost see 'em never stop from tryin'.

There!"

He gestured sharply to his right. Jon-Tom's head spun around so fast a nerve

spasmed in his neck and he winced in pain. Visual footprints formed in

afterimage in his brain.

"They're all around us," Mudge told him. "Around you, mostly."

"What are?" His brain was getting as twisted as his optic nerves. It was bad

enough not to be able to see something you knew was present without having to

try and imagine what they were. Or weren't. It was like magnets. You could get

the repelling poles close to each other, but at the last possible instant,

they'd always slide apart.

"Gneechees."

Jon-Tom turned sharply to his left. Again his gaze caught nothing. He was

positive if he shifted his eyes just another quarter inch around he'd have

whatever was there in clear focus. "What the hell are gneechees?"

"Blimey, you mean you don't 'ave 'em where you come from?"

"Where I come from we don't have a lot of the things you're used to, Mudge."

"I always thought..." The otter shrugged. "The gneechees be everywhere around

us. Some times they're more visible than at others, or less invisible 'ud be a

better way o' puttin' it. Millions and millions of 'em."

"Millions? Then why can't I see just one?"

Mudge threw up his paws. "Now that's a fine question, ain't it? I don't know.

Nobody knows. Not even Clothahump, I'd wager. As to wot they be, that's another

nice little mystery. 'Bout the best description I ever 'eard of 'em was that

they're the things you seen when you turn your 'ead and there's nothin' there,

but you're sure there was somethin'. Gneechees are wot you almost see out o' the

corner o' your eye, and when you turn to look at it, it's gone. They're the

almost-wases, the nearly theres, the maybe-couldbes. They're always with us and

never there."

Jon-Tom leaned thoughtfully back in his saddle, fighting the urge to glance

constantly to right or left. "Maybe we do have them. But they seem to be just

slightly more visible, just a touch more substantial here than back home." He

wondered if there were millions of gneechees swarming around the university.

They might be the explanation for a lot of things.

"How can you be so sure they're real, if you can never see one?"

"Oh, they're real enough, mate. You know they're real just as I do, because your

noggin tells you there's somethin' there. It's foolin' your mind and not quite

completely foolin' your eyes. Not that I care much 'bout 'em. My concerns are

more prosaic, they are.

" 'Tis mighty frustratin' t' them who worry about such things, though. See,

they're immune t' magic. There's not the wizard been who could slow down a

gneechee long enough t' figure exactly what one was. Not Clothahump, not

Quelnor, not the legendary sorceress Kasadelma could do it.

"They be 'armless, though. I've never 'eard o' anyone bein' affected by 'em one

way or t'other."

"How could you tell?" Jon-Tom wondered. "You can't see them."

"Cor, but you could sure enough see the victim, if they took a notion to go to

troublin' someone."

"They give me the crawlies." He tried not to look around, and found himself

hunting all the harder. It was one thing to think you were seeing things that

weren't, quite another to learn for a fact that millions and millions of minute

creatures of unknown aspect and intent were occupying the air around you.

"Why are they hanging around me?"

"Who knows, mate. 'Cept that I've 'eard gneechees are attracted t' worried folk.

People who be frettin', or upset. Same goes for magick-ers. Now, you fit both

categories. 'Aven't you ever noticed somethin' around you when you've been like

that?"

"Naturally. You always tend to imagine more when you're upset or stressed."

" 'Cept you're not imaginin' them," Mudge explained. "They're 'angin' about all

right. Tis not their fault. I expect that's just wot they're sensitive to, not

t' mention the fact that your emotions and feelin's are otherworldly in nature."

"Well, I wish they'd go away." He turned and shouted, "Go on, go away! All of

you!" He waved his hands as though it were a flock of flies he could shoo from

his psyche. "Harmless or otherwise, I don't want you around. You're making me

nervous!"

"Now that won't do, Jon-Tom." Talea had twisted around in her lead saddle and

was staring back at him. "The more angry you become the more the gneechees will

cling to your presence."

He continued swatting sideways. "How come I can't hit one? I don't have to see

one to hit one. If there's something there, surely I ought to get in a lucky

swipe sooner or later."

Mudge let out a sigh. "Crikey, lad, sometimes I think whoever set you out on the

tightrope o' life forgot t' give you your balancin' pole. If the gneechees be

too fast for us t' see, 'ow do you expect t' fool one with somethin' as slow as

the back o' your 'and? I expect we must seem t' be swimmin' through a vat o'

blackstrap molasses from their point o' view. Maybe we don't seem t' be movin'

at all they just consider us parts o' the landscape. 'Cept we're the parts that

generate the emotions or forces or wotever it is that occasionally attracts 'em

in big numbers. Just thank wotever sign you were born under that they are

'armless."

"I don't believe in astrology." Maybe it was time to change the subject.

Continued talk of gneechees was frustrating as well as fruitless.

"Now who said anything about astrology?" The otter eyed him in puzzlement. "Now

meself was born beneath a cobbler's sign in the riverbank community o'

Rush-the-Rock. 'Ow about you?"

"I don't know... oh heck, I guess I was born under the sign of L.A. County

General."

"Military family, wot?"

"Never mind." His tone was resigned, and he was a little worn out from his

experiments with his newfound abilities, not to mention the discovery that

millions of not quite physical creatures found him attractive. In order to get

rid of them it seemed he was going to have to cease worrying so much, relax, and

stop being strange.

He would work on the first two, but he didn't know if he could do anything about

the third.

He spent an uneasy night. Mudge and Talea slept quietly, save for a single

incident involving a muffled curse followed by the sound of a fist striking

furry flesh.

No matter how hard he tried he could not go to sleep. Trying not to think of the

gneechees' presence was akin to not thinking of a certain word. What happened

was that one couldn't think of anything except the forbidden word or, in this

case, the gneechees.

His gaze hunted the dark, always aware of minuscule not-quite-luminescent sparks

that darted tantalizingly just out of view. But there are parts of the mind that

make their own demands. Without being aware of it, his eyes slowly grew as tired

as the rest of his body and he fell into a soft, deep sleep serenaded by the

dull cooing of giant walking ferns, night-flying reptiles, and a pool full of

harmonizing water bugs who managed a marvelous imitation of what sounded like

the journey movement from Prokofiev's Lieutenant Kije Suite.

When he woke the next morning, the bright sunlight helped push thoughts of

gneechees from his mind. The reciprocal nature of their existence was instantly

apparent. The more you searched for them the more of them you attracted. In

contrast, the less you cared and the more you accepted their existence as

normal, the less they swarmed. With practice it seemed that the honey could will

away the bees.

Before afternoon the tireless riding snake was slithering uphill. They had

entered a region of familiar hills and low valleys. Off to the east was

something Jon-Tom had not seen on his previous march through this section of the

Bellwoods. He and Mudge had not climbed quite this high.

A distant rampart of mountains ragged and rough as the Grand Tetons lay swathed

in high clouds and haze. It stretched unbroken from north to south.

Mudge had taken a turn at guiding their mount, and Talea had moved in behind

him. She turned as she replied to Jon-Tom's question.

"Those? Zaryt's Teeth." She was gesturing across the treetops as they began to

descend again into concealing forest. "That great massif there just to the north

is Brokenbone Peak, which holds up this part of the world and whose slopes are

littered with the dead bones of would-be climbers."

"What's on the other side?"

There was a tremor in her reply and, startlingly for the redoubtable Talea, a

hint of fear. "The Greendowns, where reside the Plated Folk."

"I've heard of them." Childishly, he pounced on the rare hint of weakness. "You

sound scared of them."

She made a face, brows narrowing, and idly shook aside red hair, ran a hand

through the glowing curls. "Jon-Tom," she said seriously, "you seem to me to be

a brave if occasionally foolish man, but you know nothing of the Plated Folk. Do

not dismiss so lightly that which you are unfamiliar with.

"Your words do not insult me because I am not afraid to confess my fear. Also, I

know that you speak from ignorance, or you would not say such things. So I am

not upset."

"I might say such things even if I knew." He was properly abashed. But now he

stared at her openly.

"Why are you doing that?" Green eyes stared curiously at him.

"Because I want to upset you."

"I don't understand, Jon-Tom."

"Look, you've been taunting me, chiding me, and generally making fun of me ever

since we met. I wanted to strike back at you. Not that I've given you much

reason to think better of me. I've probably given you more ammunition than you

need. The trouble I caused back at Thieves' Hall is a good example. I'm sorry

about things like that, but I can only learn by experience, and if some of those

experiences don't work out very well there's not a whole hell of a lot I can do

about it.

"I mean you no harm, Talea. I'd like to be more than just allies. I want to be

friends. If that's going to come about then I need a little more understanding

and a lot less sarcasm from you. How about it?"

He relaxed in his saddle, more than a little surprised at his lengthy speech.

Talea just stared at him while the snake slid down into a meadow alive with

green and pink glass butterflies and sunflowers blinking their cyclopean amber

eyes.

"I thought we were already friends, Jon-Tom. If I seem to have been brusque with

you it was from frustration and impatience, not from dislike."

"Then you do like me?" He couldn't repress a hopeful grin.

She almost smiled back. "If you prove as quick with your new-found magic as you

are with your words, then we will be safe indeed." She turned away, and as she

did so he caught a glimpse of an expression midway between amusement and genuine

interest. He couldn't be certain it reflected either, for Talea's true feelings

could be as not-there as the gneechees.

So he said nothing further, let the brief exchange pass. It was enough that he

now felt better about their relationship, even if it was no more than an

assurance she was not openly hostile to him. At the same time he discovered a

surefire way for pushing thoughts of the gneechees completely from his mind. All

he had to do was concentrate on the gentle, subtle rolling action of Talea's

derriere on the smoothly undulating snake-saddle....

Another day done. Another day of roots, nuts, berries, and the reptilian meat

which proved considerably tenderer and sweeter than he had any right to expect.

Skillful hunter and braggart that Mudge was, they now had lizard venison or

snake fillet at every meal.

Another day done and a familiar glade came into view. The massive, ancient oak

in its center seemed not to have shed a singie leaf since last he saw it.

They dismounted tiredly. Talea secured the riding snake so that it could move

around in a modest circle. It would not do, she explained, simply to turn it out

to hunt, since without constant attention a L'borean riding snake could revert

rapidly to the wild.

"Shit, you back again?" griped the black-winged shape that opened the Tree door.

"You're either not very bright, man, or else just downright dumb." He looked

appreciatively past Mudge and Jon-Tom. "Now who's dat? Nice lookin' dame."

"My name is Talea. And that's enough for you, slave."

"Slave? Who's a slave? I'll show ya who's a slave!"

"Easy now, Pog old chap." Mudge had moved forward to block the bat's egress by

waving short arms. "She's a friend, even if her tongue be a bit tart at times.

Just tell Clothahump that we're back." He cast a cautioning glance at Jon-Tom.

"We've 'ad some bad luck, we 'ave, that's necessitated us returnin' a mite

early."

"Bet you did," said the bat expectantly, "or ya wouldn't be here now. I bet ya

fouled up real good. It gonna be interesting ta see the old bugger turn ya into

a human." His gaze dropped. "You'll make a funnier lookin' one than normal, wid

dose legs."

"Now is that any way t' greet a friend, Pog? Don't say such 'orrible things or

you'll 'ave me befoulin' me pants and embarrassin' meself in front o' the lady.

We did nothin' we couldn't avoid. Isn't that the truth, lad?" He looked

concernedly back at Jon-Tom.

It took a moment of internal wrestling to go along with the statement. Maybe

Mudge was something less than the most altruistic of teachers, but he'd tried.

The otter was the closest time he had in this world to a real friend, barring

development of his relationship with Talea. Though he had to admit honestly to

himself that if things ever got really tough he was not sure he could depend on

the otter, and certainly not on Talea.

However, there was no point in detailing any of those feelings to Pog. "Yeah. We

had a rough time of it in Lynchbany. And we have other reasons for coming back

to see His Wizardness."

"Well, all right. Come on in. Damn fools... I suppose your presence will make

more work for me again." He flapped on ahead, grumbling steadily in his usual

broken-engine tone.

Jon-Tom stayed a step back of Mudge and the bat. "Be careful about what you say,

Talea. This Clothahump's the one who brought me here, remember. He's a very

powerful wizard and although I found him to be concerned and even kindly, he's

obsessed with this crisis he dreams about, and I've seen him come near to frying

that bat."

"Don't worry," she replied with a tight smile. "I know who he is, and what he

is. He's a borderline senile who ought to have enough sense to retract into his

shell and stay there. Do you think I'm an ignorant country sodder? I follow

current rumors and talemongerings. I know who's in power and who's doing what,

and to whom. That's how I know he's responsible for the mess he's made of your

life, Jon-Tom." She frowned at him.

"You're the weirdest sorcerer I've ever encountered or heard tell of, except

maybe for this Clothahump. In that respect it's a good match, and I can see how

in his searching he seized on you." The comparison startled Jon-Tom. He hadn't

considered that he and the turtle might have personal affinities, or that they

might be responsible for his presence here.

"That's okay," he replied readily. "You're the most interesting mugger I've ever

run into."

"Better not do it on a dark street or you're liable to find out just how

interesting I am," she said warningly.

"Really? I've never done it on a dark street, and I would like to find out how

interesting you are."

She started to snap out a reply, looked uncertain, and then accelerated. "Oh,

come on." There was exasperation in her voice and just possibly something else.

"You're a funny one, Jon-Tom. I'm never quite sure about you."

And you, he thought as he watched her hurry on ahead of him, are maybe not as

hopeless as I once thought.

It was quite astonishing, he thought as he followed her, how the sight of a

beautiful figure teasingly wrapped in snug clothes could shove aside all worries

about such picayune matters as survival. Base animal nature, he mused.

But if he was going to survive in this world, he would have to revert to basics.

Wasn't that just what Clothahump and, in different ways, Mudge had both told

him? Maybe by keeping his thoughts focused on those basics he could keep a

firmer grip on his sanity.

All assuming that Talea didn't change her mind as fast as she seemed able to and

didn't decide to shove a sword through his belly. That thought cooled his ardor,

if not his long-term interest.

Slowing, he found himself standing close to her in the central chamber of the

tree. Her perfume was in his nose, her presence a constant comfort in alien

surroundings. Yes, they would have to remain friends, if naught else. She was

too familiar, too human for him to abandon that.

Pog directed them out of the central room and into a work area he and Mudge

hadn't visited before. The bat hovered nearby while all four watched in silence

as the wizard Clothahump fumbled awkwardly among bottles and vials.

Thoroughly engrossed in his work, the wizard failed to notice his visitors.

After a proper pause, Pog fluttered forward and said deferentially, "Pardon da

intrusion, Master, but dey have returned."

"Um... what? Who's returned?" He looked around and his gaze fell on Jon-Tom. "Oh

yes, you. I remember you, boy."

"Not too well, it seems." It was something less than the exuberant welcome he'd

hoped for.

"I have a lot on my mind, boy." He slid off the low bench and sought out the

gray figure of Mudge, who was partly hidden behind Jon-Tom. "Back early, I see.

Well, you lazy, foul-mouthed, slanderous mammal, what have you to say for

yourself? Or is this merely a courteous visit and I should assume you've

encountered no troubles?" The last sentence was spoken with false sweetness.

" 'Tis not like you're thinkin' at all, Your Worshipfulness," the otter

insisted. "I was showin' the lad the ways o' Lynchbany and we ran into some

unforeseen problems, we did. They weren't no more my fault than they was 'is,"

and he jerked a short thumb in Jon-Tom's direction.

Clothahump looked up at the tall young man. "Is what he says true, boy? That's

he's done his best and taken good care of you? Or is he the outright liar he

looks?"

"Wot a thing to say," muttered Mudge, but not too loudly.

"It's hard to lay responsibility for what we've been through lately at anyone's

feet, sir." He was aware of black otter eyes hard on his back. "On the one hand,

it certainly seems as though I... as though we've been the victims of a really

unlikely sequence of unfortunate happenings. On the other...."

"No, mate," interrupted Mudge hurriedly, "there be no need t' go into such

silliness now." He looked back to the wizard. "I did me best for the lad, Your

Highestness. Why, I venture t' say nary a stranger's 'ad quite such fullness o'

experience o' local customs as 'e 'as in these past several days."

Jon-Tom kept his expression carefully neutral. "I certainly can't argue with

that, sir."

Clothahump considered while he inspected Jon-Tom. "At least the laggard has

clothed you properly." He took note of the war staff and the duar. Then his

attention shifted to the third member of the little group.

"And who might you be, young lady?"

She stepped proudly forward. "I am Talea of Wuver County, of the Brightberries

that mature at Night, third on my mother's side, first of red hair and green

eyes, and I am afraid of neither man, woman, beast... nor wizard."

"Hmph." Clothahump turned away from her, then suddenly seemed to slump in on

himself. Sitting back down on the workbench he leaned his shell against the

table. Fingers rubbed tiredly at his forehead as he smiled almost apologetically

at his visitors.

"Pardon my tone, my friends. You especially, Jon-Tom. I forget common courtesy

myself these days, as I forget many other things too easily. Responsible as I am

for your inconveniencing, I owe you more than a curt interrogation concerning

your recent activities. If I seemed brusque it was only out of worry for your

welfare. But you see, things are growing worse and not better."

"The coming crisis you told us about?" Jon-Tom wondered sympathetically.

The turtle nodded. "It turns my sleep into a cauldron of black distress. I dream

of nothing save darkness and death. Of an ocean of putrification about to drown

the worlds."

"Ahhh, I don't see why ya worry yourself so much," said Pog from a nearby

rafter. "You knockin' yourself out fer noddin', boss. Everybody else scoffs at

ya, taunts ya behind your shell. Ya know some of da names dey call ya? 'Senile'

is da best o' them."

"I am aware of the local opinion." Clothahump grinned slightly. "In order for

one to be affected by insults, one must have some respect for their source. I've

told you that before, Pog. The comments of the rabble are of no import, even if

they are the rabble one is trying to save. You'll never make a decent peregrine

unless you change your attitude in such matters. Hawks and falcons are a haughty

folk. You need to cultivate more mental and social independence."

"Yeah, tell me about it," the bat muttered.

Jon-Tom was fascinated by the still unspecified threat, despite his own personal

problems. "So you haven't learned anything new about this evil since we left? Or

about its source, or when it will come?"

The wizard shook his head dolefully. "It remains as nebulous in nature, as

tenuous of touch as before, boy. Nor am I any nearer concocting a methodology to

combat it with."

Jon-Tom tried to cheer the despondent turtle. "I've a surprise for you,

Clothahump. It was a surprise to me, also."

"What are you riddling me with, boy?"

"I think I may be able to help after all." Clothahump looked up at him

curiously.

"Aye, 'tis true, Your Geniusness," said Mudge excitedly. "Why, 'twas meself who

first suggested that..." He broke off, thinking better of the incipient lie.

"No. No, dammit, I cannot take any o' the credit. The lad did it all on 'is

own."

"Did what on his own?" asked the exasperated wizard.

"We'd been tryin' 'ard t' discover some useful skill for 'im, Your Mastership.

'Is range o' experience matches 'is youthfulness, so wasn't much in the way o'

things 'e was practiced at. 'E 'as 'is natural size and reach, and some agility.

At first I thought 'e might make a good mercenary. But 'e kept insistin' 'e

wanted t' be either a lawyer or a musician." Jon-Tom nodded in confirmation.

"Well, Your Lordship can imagine wot I thought o' the first suggestion.

Concernin' 'tother, while the lad's voice is o' considerable volume, it leaves

somethin' t' be desired as far as carryin' the tune, if you follow me meaning.

But 'is musicianship was another matter, sor. 'E 'as real enthusiasm for

music... and as it turned out, somethin' more.

"We stumbled, literally stumbled we did, across that fine duar you see 'angin'

about 'is neck. And when he got to strummin' on it, well, the most unbelievable

things started a-happenin'! You would not believe it 'ad not you been there

yourself. All purple and 'azy it started to shine, and its shape a shakin', and

the sounds, sor." The otter put his hands melodramatically to his ears.

"The sounds this lad can coax out o' that little musicbox. 'E calls it music

like 'e's used to playin', but 'tis of a size I never 'eard in me short but full

little life."

"I don't know what happened or why, sir." Jon-Tom ran his fingers over the duar.

"It vibrates a little when I play it. I think it's trying to become the kind of

instrument I'm used to, and can't. As to the magic"--he shrugged--"I'm afraid

I'm not very good at it. I only seem to have the vaguest kind of control over

what I call up."

"He's too modest, sir," said Talea. "He's a true spellsinger.

"We were tired and worn from our long march through the woods when he started a

strange song about some kind of transportation." She looked sideways at Jon-Tom.

"I cannot imagine what it was he was singing about, but what he produced was a

L'borean riding snake. I do not think it was specified by his song."

"Not hardly," agreed Jon-Tom.

"Nevertheless, that is what he materialized, and a fine ride it provided us,

too."

"Nor be that all, sor," said Mudge. "Soon afterward, as we glide through the

forest night, 'e's a-strummin' those strings and then... why sor, the like's o'

so many gneechees was never seen in this country! I swear by me piece they were

about us like fleas on a fox followin' a four-day drunk. You never saw the

almost-likes o' it."

Clothahump was silent for long moments. Then, "So it seems you've some

spellsinging abilities." He scratched at a loose drawer in his plastron.

"It looks that way, sir. I've heard about hidden talent, but I never expected to

find any in myself."

"All most interesting." The wizard rose from the bench, put both hands as far

behind his back as they'd reach, and scratched at his shell. "It would help to

explain so many things. It would explain why in casting I settled upon you and

passed over others." There was a touch of resurgent pride in his voice. "So it

may be I am not as senile as some say. I thought there was more to this than

mere confusion on my part. The talent I sought has been present all along."

"Not exactly, sir. As Talea explained, I can call for something, but I get

something quite different. I don't have control over my, uh, magic. Couldn't

that be awfully dangerous?"

"My boy, all wizardry is dangerous. So you think you might be able to help now?

Well, if we can settle on something for you to help me against, your services

will be most welcome."

Jon-Tom shuffled his feet nervously. "Actually, sir, I didn't mean I'd be able

to help in that way. Wouldn't you still prefer a real magician, a real

'engineer' from my world to assist you?"

"I expect I would." Clothahump adjusted his spectacles.

"Then send me back and exchange me for another."

"I told you before, boy, that the energies required, the preparations involved

need time to..." He stopped, squinted upward. "Ah, I believe I follow your

meaning now, Jon-Tom spellsinger."

"That's it, sir." He could no longer restrain his excitement. "If we both

concentrate, both devote our energies to it, maybe the combination will be

powerful enough to work the switch. It's not like you're shoving me back home

all by yourself, or pulling a replacement here alone. We'd be complementing each

other's talents, and making an exchange all at once. Only a single conjuration

would be involved instead of two."

Clothahump looked seriously at his workbench. "It might be possible. There are

certain shortcuts...." He glanced back at Jon-Tom. "It involves definite risks,

boy. You might find yourself stuck halfway between this world and your own.

There's no future in limbo. Only eternity, and I can't think of a duller way to

spend existence."

"I'll take that chance. I'll take any chances neeessary."

"Good for you, but what about whoever you're going to be trading places with?"

"How do you mean?" He looked uncertain.

"This eng'neer that we locate with our thoughts, Jon-Tom, will be as thrown from

his familiar time and place as you were. He will likely also be trapped here for

considerably longer than yourself, since I will not have the power to try and

return him to his normal life for some time. He might not adapt here as well as

you have, might not ever be sent home.

"Are you willing to accept the responsibility for doing that to someone else?"

"You have to take the same responsibility."

"My entire world is at stake, possibly your own as well. I know where I stand."

The wizard was staring unwinkingly at him.

Jon-Tom forced himself to think back, to remember what his first sight and

feelings were like when he'd materialized in this world. Glass butterflies and

utter disorientation. A five-foot-tall otter and bellwoods.

How might that affect an older man of forty or fifty, who might find it far

harder to cope with the physical hardships of this place, not to mention the

mental ones? A man with a family perhaps. Or a woman who might leave children

behind?

He looked back down at Clothahump. "I'm willing to try the exchange and... if

you're as serious about this crisis as you say, then you don't have any choice.

Not if you want a real engineer."

"That is so," replied the wizard, "but I have far more important reasons for

wanting to make this switch."

"My reasons are important enough to me." He turned away from the others. "I'm

sorry if I don't measure up to your heroic standards."

"I expect no heroic stances from you, Jon-Tom," said Clothahump gently. "You are

only a man. All I ask now is that you make the decision, and you have. That is

enough for me. I will commence preparations." He turned back to his bench,

leaving Jon-Tom feeling expectant, pleased, and slightly anxious.

Self-preservation, he told himself angrily. He would wish whoever was to take

his place the best of luck, and could do no more than that. He'd never know who

was chosen.

Besides, his erratic and possibly dangerous magic could do little to help Talea

and Mudge and Clothahump's world. Probably whoever took his place would be able

to, if Clothahump's perception of the danger threatening them was accurate.

Rationalization or not, that was a comforting thought to cling to.

I didn't ask to be here, he told himself firmly, and if I have a chance to get

home, damned if I'm not going to take it...

XI

The rest of the preparations took all afternoon. They were not ready until

evening.

In the middle of the Tree's central chamber a circle had been painted on the

wood-chip floor. It was filled with cryptographic symbols that might have been

calculus and might have been nonsense. Talea, Pog, and Mudge had been directed

to stay out of the way, an admonition they needed no urging to obey.

Clothahump stood on the opposite side of the circle from Jon-Tom, who tapped

nervously at the wood of the duar.

"What do I do when we begin?"

"You're the spellsinger. Sing."

"Sing about what?"

"About what we're going to try and do. I wish I could help you, my boy, but I

have other things to worry about. I never did have much of a voice."

"Look," said Jon-Tom worriedly, "the riding snake was an accident. I don't know

how I did that. Maybe we should stop and..."

"Not now, boy," the wizard told him curtly. "Do the best you can. Sing naturally

and the magic will follow. That's the way it is with spellsingers. You do that

and I will do my part."

He slipped into a semitrance with startling speed and began to recite formulae

and trace symbols in the air. There was a great deal of mumbling about time

vortices, dimensional nexi, and controlled catastrophe theory.

In contrast Jon-Tom started to pluck hesitantly at the strings of the duar. They

glowed blue as he furiously searched for an appropriate tune. His thoughts were

confused enough without his having to recall the specifics of a song.

Eventually though he settled on one (he had to select something) and began. It

was "California Dreamin'."

He started to feel the rhythm of the song, the deceptive power of the ballad,

and his voice rose higher, the chords becoming richer as he put all his homesick

feelings and desires into it: "I'd be safe and warm, if I was in L.A." It grew

dark in the Tree. Brilliant yellow clouds formed in the eenter of the circle.

They were echoed by a thick emerald fog that coalesced just above the floor.

Yellow drops of swirling energy started to spill from the clouds, while green

rain rose skyward from the lazy fog. Where they met they formed a

whirlpool-globe that began to swell and spin.

Jon-Tom's voice echoed around the chamber, his fingers flying over the strings.

The powerful electronic mimicry thundered off the walls, blending with

Clothahump's sonorous and steady chant. A deep, low ringing like the distant

sound of a huge bell being played two speeds too slowly on a bad tape recorder

began to fill the room. A tingling came over Jon-Tom's entire body, a glittering

heat that radiated through him.

He continued to play, though it felt now as though his fingers were passing

through the strings instead of striking them. Glass bottles shattered on the

workbench and books tumbled from their shelves as the very heart of the Tree

quivered with the sound. For all anyone inside knew, the whole forest was

shaking.

The climax of the song was nearing, the end of the ballad, and he was still

within the Tree. He tried to convey his helplessness to Clothahump, his

uncertainty about what to do next. Perhaps the wizard understood his anxious

stare. Perhaps it was just that their timing was naturally good.

A violent yellow-green explosion obliterated clouds and fog and whirlpool-globe.

A great invisible fist struck Jon-Tom hard in the sternum and sent him stumbling

backward. He bounced off the far wall, staggered a couple of steps, and fell to

his right. Scrolls, fragments of skull, some stuffed heads mounted on the wall,

wood shavings and chips, powders and bits of cloth were raining around him.

Within the circle a whitish haze was beginning to dissipate.

He paid it little attention because he could see it, and he should not have been

able to. Even through the shock of the explosion and his subsequent fall he knew

he oughtn't to be able to see haze or Tree. He should be back home, preferably

in his own room, or in class, or even flat in the middle of Wilshire traffic.

Instead he lay on his butt within the same Tree.

"It didn't work," he murmured aloud. "I didn't go back." He felt like the hero

of a war movie who'd set off the magazine of his own ship and gone down with his

captors.

The last of the haze was fading from the circle. He caught his breath, aware of

something besides his own self-pity now.

A tall young woman just a hair short of six feet was sitting spraddle-legged in

the center of the circle. Her arms were straight behind her, keeping her in a

sitting position as she gazed around with an altogether appropriate air of

bewilderment. Long black hair was tied in a single ponytail.

She was clad in an absurdly brief skirt with matching pantyshorts beneath,

sneakers and high socks, and a long sweater with four large blue letters sewn on

its front. Her face was a stunning cross between that of a Tijuana professional

and a Tintoretto madonna. Jet-black eyes, black as Mudge's, and coffee skin.

Shakily she got to her feet, dusted herself off, and looked around.

With Pog's assistance Clothahump was rolling off his back. Once on all fours he

was able to stand up. He started hunting around for his glasses, which had been

knocked off by the concussion. A curved dent in the Tree wall behind him showed

where he'd struck.

"What happened?" Jon-Tom thought to ask, his eyes still mesmerized by the woman.

"What went wrong?"

"You, obviously, did not go back," said Clothahump prosaically, "but someone

else was drawn to us." He stared at the new arrival, asked solicitously, "Are

you by any chance, my dear, an eng'neer? Or wizard, or sorceress, or witch, as

they would be known hereabouts?"

"Sangre de Christo," husked the girl, taking a cautious step away from the

turtle. Then she stopped. Her confusion and momentary fear were replaced by an

expression of outrage.

"What is this place, huh? Comprende tortuga? Do you understand?" She turned

slowly. "Where the hell am I?"

Her eyes narrowed as they located Jon-Tom. "You... don't I know you from

someplace?"

"Am I correct then in assuming you are not an eng'neer?" asked Clothahump

despondently.

She looked back over a shoulder at him. "Engineer, me? Infierno, no! I'm a

theater-arts student at the University of California in Los Angeles. I was on my

way to cheerleading squad practice when... when I suddenly find myself in a

nightmare. Only... you are not very frightening, tortuga.

"So if this is no nightmare... what is it?" She put a hand to her forehead,

staggered a little. "Madre de dios, have I got a headache."

Clothahump looked across the demolished circle. Jon-Tom was still staring

open-mouthed at the girl, his own failure now forgotten. "You know this young

lady, spellsinger?"

"I'm afraid I do, sir. Her name is Flores Quintera."

At the mention of her name the girl spun back to face him. "I thought I

recognized you." She frowned. "But I still can't place you."

"My name is Jon Meriweather." When she didn't react to that, he added, "We

attend the same school."

"I still can't place you. Have we had a class together, or something?"

"I don't think so," he told her. "I'd remember if we had. I have seen--"

"Wait a minuto... now I know!" She pointed an accusatory finger at him. "I've

seen you working around campus. Sweeping the halls, working the grounds at

practice."

"I do that occasionally," he replied, embarrassed. "I always managed to be out

gardening whenever the cheer squad had practice." He smiled hesitantly.

Loud, high-pitched feminine laughter came from behind him. Everyone turned to

see Talea sitting on the wood-chip floor, holding her sides and roaring

hysterically.

"I don't know you," said Flores Quintera. "What's so funny?"

"Him!" She pointed at Jon-Tom. "He was supposed to be helping Clothahump cast

for an engineer to switch places with. So he was thinking back to his home, to

familiar surroundings. But he couldn't keep his mind on his business. It was

drifting while he was spellsinging, from engineering to something more pleasant,

I think."

"I couldn't help it," Jon-Tom mumbled. "Maybe it was something about the song. I

mean, I don't remember exactly what aspects of home I was concentrating on. I

was too busy singing. Maybe it was the line, 'If I had to tell her....'" He was

more embarrassed than he'd ever been in his life.

"So you're responsible for my being here," said the raven-haired amazon,

"wherever 'here' is?"

"Sort of," he mumbled. "I've kind of admired you from afar and when I should

have been thinking of something else, my thoughts sort of... drifted," he

finished helplessly.

"Sure. That clarifies everything." She fluffed her hair, looked around at man,

woman, otter, turtle, bat. "So since this guy is too tongue-tied to explain,

please would one of you?"

Clothahump sighed and took her by the hand. She didn't resist as he led her to a

low couch and sat her down. "It is somewhat difficult to explain, young lady."

"Try me. When you come from the barrio, nothing surprises you."

So the wizard patiently elucidated while Jon-Tom sat off to one side morose and

at the same time perversely happy. If he was going to be marooned here, as it

seemed he was, there were worse people to be trapped with than the voluptuous

Flores Quintera.

Eventually Clothahump concluded his explanation. His intense listener rose from

the couch and walked over to confront Jon-Tom.

"Then it wasn't entirely your fault. I think I understand. El tortuga was very

enlightening." She turned and waved around the chamber. "Then what are we

waiting here for? We have to help these people as best we can."

"That is most commendable of you," said an admiring Clothahump. "You are a most

adaptable young lady. It is a pity you are not the eng'neer we sought, but you

are bigger and stronger than most. Can you fight?"

She grinned wickedly at him, and something went all weak inside Jon-Tom. "I have

eleven brothers and sisters, Mr. Clothahump, and I'm the second youngest. The

only reason I'm on the cheerleading squad is because they don't let women play

on the football team. Not at the university level, anyhow. I grew up with a

switchblade in my boot."

"I am not familiar with the weapon," replied a pleased Clothahump, "but I

believe we can arm you adequately."

Talea had stifled her amusement and had walked over to gaze appraisingly up at

the new arrival. "You're the biggest woman I've ever seen."

"I'm tall even for back home," said Quintera. "It's been a drawback sometimes,

except in sports." She smiled dazzlingly down at Talea and extended a hand. "Do

you shake hands here?"

"We do." Talea reached out hesitantly.

"Bueno. I'd like for us to be friends."

"I think I'd like that too." The two women shook, each taking the measure of the

other without conceding anything.

"It's just like I've always dreamed," Quintera murmured, eyes shining.

"You mean you're not upset?" Jon-Tom gaped at her.

"Oh, maybe a little."

Pog grumbled steadily as he began cleaning up the debris created by the

explosive collapse of the interdimensional vortex.

"But I've always wanted to be the heroine in shining armor, ever since I was a

little girl," Quintera continued.

"No need to worry, then," said Jon-Tom firmly. "I've learned quite a bit since

I've been here. I'll make sure no harm comes to you."

"Oh, don't worry about me," she replied gaily.

Pog appeared with an armful of old weapons. "Got 'em since ya left," he told the

curious Jon-Tom. "Boss thought it'd be a good idea t'have a few lizard-stickers

around in case his magic really got rusty."

Flores Quintera immediately knelt over the pile of destruction and began sorting

through it with something other than doll-like enthusiasm. "Hoy, but I'm looking

forward to this."

"It could be very dangerous." Jon-Tom had moved to stand protectively close to

her.

"Well, of course it could, from what Clothaheemp... Clothahump tells me... watch

your foot there, that ax is sharp." He took a couple of steps backward. "It

wouldn't be any fun if it didn't have any danger," she informed him, as though

addressing a complete fool.

"Oh, this looks nice," she said brightly, hefting a saw-edged short sword. "Can

I have this one?" It was designed for someone Mudge's size. In her lithe hands

it looked like a long, thick dagger.

She moved as if to put it in her belt, became aware she wasn't wearing one.

"I can't go marching around in this," she muttered.

"Oh God!" Mudge threw up his paws and spun away. "Not again. Please, I can't go

back to Lynchbany and go through this again."

"Never mind." Talea was studying the towering female form. "If the wizard can

conjure up some material, I think the two of us can make you something, Flores."

"Call me Flor, please."

"I don't know about conjuring," said Clothahump carefully, "but there are stores

in the back rooms of the Tree. Pog will show you where."

"O' course he will," snorted the bat under his breath. "Don't he always?"

The two young women vanished with the bat into yet another section of the

seemingly endless interior of the tree.

"I 'ave to 'and it t' you, mate." Mudge smacked Jon-Tom's back with a friendly

whack from one furry paw and leered up at him. "First you make friends with

Talea and now you materialize this black-maned gable o' gorgeousness. Would that

I were up t' such, wot?"

"I'd rather have switched places with an engineer," Jon-Tom mumbled.

He considered Flor Quintera. Her personality somehow did not seem to match his

imagining of same. "This new lady, Flor. I've seen her a lot, Mudge, but I'd

always imagined her to be somewhat more, well, vulnerable."

" 'Er? Vulnerable? Kiss me bum, mate, but she seems as vulnerable as an ocelot

with six arms."

"I know," said Jon-Tom sadly.

Mudge was looking at the doorway through which the women had disappeared. "

'Crikey but I won't mind unvulnerablin' 'er. It'd be like climbin' a bloomin'

mountain. I always did 'ave a 'ankerin' t' go explorin' through the peaks and

valleys of a challengin' range, wot." He moved away from the distraught Jon-Tom,

chuckling lasciviously.

Jon-Tom shuffled across to the workbench. Clothahump sat there, inspecting his

shattered apparatus and trying to locate intact bits and pieces with which to

work.

"I'm really sorry, sir," he said a little dazedly. "I tried my best."

"I know you did, boy. It is not your fault." Clothahump patted Jon-Tom's leg

reassuringly. "Rare is the man, wizard, warrior, or worker, who can always think

with his brains instead of his balls. Not to worry. What is done is done, and we

must make the best of it. At least we have added another dedicated fighter and

believer to our ranks. And we still have you and your unpredictable but

undeniably powerful spellsinger's abilities, and something more."

"I don't suppose we could try again."

The wizard shook his head. "Impossible. Even if I thought I could survive and

control another such conjuration, the last of the necessary powders and material

have been used. It would take months simply to find enough ytterbium to

constitute the necessary pinch the formula requires."

"I hope you're right about my abilities," Jon-Tom mumbled. "I don't seem to be

much good at anything here lately. I hope I can think of the right song when the

time comes." He frowned abruptly. "You said we have my abilities and 'something

more'?"

The wizard nodded, looked pleased with himself. "Sometimes a good shock is more

valuable than any amount of concentration. When I was thrown against the Tree

wall by the force of the trans-dimension dissipation, I had a brief but

ice-clear image. I now know who is behind the growing evil." He gazed

meaningfully up at the staring Jon-Tom.

"Tell me, then. Who and what are--"

But the turtle raised a restraining hand. "Best to wait until everyone has

returned. There is ample threat to all in this, and I shall not begin to play

favorites now."

So they waited while Jon-Tom watched the wizard. Clothahump sat quietly,

contemplating something beyond the ken of the others.

The women returned with Pog muttering irritably behind them. Jon-Tom was a

little shocked at the transformation that had come over the delicate flower of

his postadolescent fantasies.

In place of the familiar cheerleader's sweater and skirt Flor Quintera was clad

in pants and vest of white leatherlike material. The sharply cut vest left her

arms and shoulders bare, and her dark skin stood out startlingly against the

pale cream-colored clothing. A fringed black cape hung from her neck and matched

fringe-topped black boots. The long dagger (or short sword) hung from a black

metal belt and a double-headed mace hung from her right hand.

"What do you think?" She twirled the mace gracefully and thus indicated to

Jon-Tom why she'd selected it. It was not dissimilar to the baton she was so

accustomed to. The major difference was the pair of spiked steel balls at one

end, lethal rather than entertaining.

"Don't you think," he said uneasily, "it's a mite extreme?"

"Look who's talking. What's the matter, not what you'd like to see?" She turned

on her toes and did a mock curtsey. "Is that more ladylike?"

"Yes. No. I mean..."

She turned and walked over to him, laughing, and put a comforting hand on his

shoulder. It burned him right through his indigo shirt and iridescent green

cape.

"Relax, Jon. Or Jon-Tom, as they call you." She smiled, and his initial

irritation at her appearance melted away. "I'm still the same person. You forget

that you really don't know anything about me. Oh, don't feel bad... few people

ever really do. I'm the same person I ever was, and now I've been given the

chance to enjoy one of my own fantasies. I'm sorry if I don't fulfill yours."

"But the disorientation," he sputtered. "When I first arrived here I was so

confused, so puzzled I could hardly think."

"Well," she said, "I guess I've read a little more of the impossible than you,

or dreamed a little deeper. I feel very much at home, compadre mio." She clipped

the double mace to her link belt, pushed back her cape, and sat down on the

floor. Even that simple motion seemed supernaturally graceful.

"I was explaining to Jon-Tom," Clothahump began, "that the shock or the

combination of the shock of the explosion and the magic we were working finally

showed me the source of the evil that threatens to overwhelm this world. Perhaps

yours as well, young lady," he said to Flor, "if it is not stopped here."

Talea and Mudge listened respectfully, Jon-Tom uncertainly, and Flor anxiously.

Jon-Tom divided his attention between the wizard's words and the girl of his

dreams.

At least, she had been the girl of his dreams. Her instant adaptation to this

strange existence made her seem a different person. Moreover, she seemed to

welcome their incredible situation. It left him feeling very inadequate. How

many days had it taken him to arrive at a mature acceptance of his fate?

The insecurity passed, to be replaced by a burst of anger at the unfairness of

it all, and finally by resignation. Actually, as Mudge had indicated, his

situation could have been much worse. If Flor was (as yet, he thought

yearningly) no more than a friend, she was a damn-sight more interesting to have

around than a fifty-year-old male engineer. And he'd made a friend of Talea as

well.

Decidedly, life could be worse. There was ample time for events to progress in a

pleasant and satisfying fashion. He allowed himself a slight inward smile.

After all, Flor's enthusiastic acceptance of the status quo might be momentary

posturing on her part. If what Clothahump believed turned out to be true things

were going to beeome much worse. They would all have to depend on each other. He

would be around when it was Flor's turn to do some depending. He accepted her as

she was and turned his full attention to Clothahump.

"It is the Plated Folk," the wizard was telling them as he paced slowly back and

forth before a tall rack of containers that had not been shattered. "They are

gathering in all their thousands, in their tens of thousands, for a great

invasion of the warmlands. Legions of them swarm through the Greendowns.

"I saw in an instant great battle-practice fields being constructed on the

plains outside Cugluch. Burrows for an endless horde are being dug in

anticipation of the arrival and massing of still more troops. I saw thousands of

the soulless, mindless workers putting down their work tools and taking up their

arms. They are preparing such an onslaught as the warmlands have never seen. I

saw--"

"I saw a double-jointed margay once, in a bar in Oglagia Towne," broke in Mudge

with astonishing lack of tact. For several minutes he'd been growing more and

more restless. Now his frustration burst out spontaneously. "No disrespect t'

these ominous foretellin's, Your Omnipotentness, but the Plated Folk 'ave

attacked our lands too many times t' count. Tis expected that they're t' try

again, but wot's the fear of it?" Talea's expression indicated that she agreed

with him. "They've always been stopped in the Troom Pass behind the Jo-Troom

Gate. Always they 'ave the kind o' impressive numbers you be recitin' t' us, but

their strategy sucks, and what bravery they 'ave is the bravery o' the stupid.

All they ever 'ave ended up doin' is fertili-zin' the plants that grow in the

Pass."

"That's true enough," said Talea. "I don't see that we have anything unusual to

fear, so I don't understand your worry."

The wizard stared patiently at her. "Have you ever fought the Plated Folk? Do

you know the cruelties and abominations of which they are capable?"

Talea leaned back in the chair fashioned from the horns of some unknown creature

and waved the question away with one tiny hand.

"Of course I've never fought 'em. Their last attack was sixty-seven years ago."

"The forty-eighth interregnum," said Clothahump. "I remember it."

"And what were the results?" she asked pointedly.

"After considerable fighting and a great loss of life to both sides, the Plated

Folk armies were driven back into the Greendowns. They have not been heard from

since. Until now."

"Meaning we kicked the shit out of 'em," Mudge paraphrased with satisfaction.

"You have the usual confidence of the untested," Clothahump muttered.

"What about the previous battle, and the one before that, and the thirty-fifth

interregnum, which the histories say was such a Plated fiasco, and all the

battles and fighting back to the beginning of the Gate's foundations?"

"All true," Clothahump admitted. "In all that time they have not so much as

topped the Gate. But I fear this time will be far different. Different from

anything a warmlander can imagine."

Talea leaned forward in the chair. "Why?"

"Because a new element has been introduced into the equation, my dear ignorant

youngling. A profound stress presses dangerously on the fabric of fate. The

balance between the Plated Folk and the warmlander has been seriously altered. I

have sensed this, have felt it, for many months now, though I could not connect

my unease directly to the Plated Ones. Now I have done that, and the nature of

the threat at once becomes clear and thrice magnified.

"Hence my desperate casting for one who could divine and perhaps affect this

alteration. You, Jon-Tom, and now you, my dear," and he nodded toward a watchful

Flores Quintera.

She shook black strands from her face, clasped both arms around her knees as she

stared raptly at him.

"Ahhh, I can't believe it, guv'nor," Mudge said with a disdainful sniff. "The

Plated Folk 'ave never made it t' the top o' the Gate as you say. If they did,

why, we'd annihilate 'em there at our leisure."

"The assurance of the young," murmured Clothahump, but he let the otter have his

say.

" 'Tis only because the warmlander fighters o' the past wanted some decent

competition that they sallied out from behind the Gate t' meet the Plated Folk

in the Pass, or there'd o' been even more unequal combat than history tells us

of. I'm surprised they keep a-tryin'."

"Oh, they will keep 'a-tryin', my fuzzy friend, until they are completely

obliterated, or we are."

"And you're so sure this great unknown whateveritis that you know nothin' about

'as given those smelly monstrosities an edge they've never 'ad before?"

"I am afraid that is so," said the wizard solemnly. "Yet I am admittedly no more

clear as to the nature of that fresh evil now than I was before. I know only

that it exists, and that it must be prepared for if not destroyed." He shook a

warning finger at Talea.

"And that, my dear, raises the other important advantage the Plated Folk have,

one which must immediately be countered. We of the warmlands are divided and

independent, while the Plated Folk possess a unity of purpose under their

ultimate leader. They have the strength of central organization, which is not

magical in nature but deadly dangerous nonetheless."

"That still hasn't kept them from a thousand years of getting the shit kicked

out of their common unity," she replied, unperturbed.

"True enough, but this time... this time I fear a terrible disaster. A disaster

made worse by the centuries of complacency you have just demonstrated, my dear.

A disaster that threatens to break the boundaries of time and space and spread

to all continuui.

"I fear if this threat is not contained, we face not a losing fight, my friends.

We face Armageddon."

XII

It was silent within the Tree for a while. Finally Talea asked, "What word then

has come out of the Greendowns to you, honorable magician?" Clothahump's warning

had quieted even her usually irrepressible bravado.

"From what I have sensed," he began solemnly, "Skrritch the Eighteenth, Supreme

Ruler of Cugluch, Cokmetch, Cot-a-Kruln, and of all the far reaches and lands of

the Greendowns, Commander of all Plated Folk and heir to their allegiance, has

called upon that allegiance. They have been building their armies for years.

That and this new evil magic they have acquired has convinced them that this

time they cannot fail to conquer. That self-confidence, that terrible feeling of

surety, is what came through to my mind more powerfully than anything else."

"And you learned nothing more about this new magic," said Jon-Tom.

"Only one thing, my boy. That Eejakrat, master sorcerer among the Plated Ones,

is behind it. That is something we could have naturally guessed, for he has been

behind most of the exceptional awfulness that rumor occasionally carries to us

from out of the Greendowns.

"Do not underestimate these opponents set before us, Jon-Tom." He gestured at

the indifferent Talea and Mudge. "Your friends talk like cubs, through no fault

of their own." He moved closer to the two tall humans.

"Let me tell you, the Plated Folk are not like us. They would as soon cut up one

of us to see what's inside as we would a tree. No, I modify that. We would have

more concern and respect for the tree."

"You don't have to go into details," Jon-Tom told him. "I believe you. But what

can we do from here?" He flicked casual fingers across the duar. "This magic

that seems to be in my music is new to me, and I can't control it very well. I

don't know what my limits may be. If you can't do anything, I don't see how an

ignorant novice like myself could."

"Tut, my boy, your approach is different from mine, the magic words you employ

are new and unique. You may be of some use when least you expect it. Both you

and your companion," he indicated the attentive Flor, "are impressive specimens.

There will be times when I may be required to impress the reluctant or the

doubtful."

"We can fight, too," she said readily, eyes sparkling with uncharacteristic

bloodthirstiness in that sensual but childlike face.

"Restrain yourself, my dear," the wizard advised her with a fatherly smile.

"There will likely be ample opportunity for slaughter. But first... you are

quite right, Jon-Tom, in saying that there is little we can do here. We must

begin to mobilize the warmlanders, to assuage their doubts and disbelief. They

must prepare for the coming attack. A letter or two will not convince. Therefore

we must carry the alarm in person."

"The 'ell you say," Mudge sputtered. "I'm not trippin' off t' the ends o' the

earth on some 'alf-cocked crusade."

"Nor am I." Talea rose and let her left hand drop casually to the dagger at her

hip. "We've our own personal business to attend to and care for."

"Children," Clothahump half whispered. Then, more audibly, "What business might

that be? The business of being chased and hunted by the police of the Twelve

Morgray Counties? The business of thievery and petty con schemes? I offer you

instead the chance to embark upon a far grander and nobler business. One that is

vital to the future of not one but two worlds. One in which all who participate

will assuredly go down in the memories of all those who sing songs, for twice

ten thousand years of legend!"

"Sorry," said Talea. "Not interested."

"Nor me, guv'nor," Mudge added.

"Also," said Clothahump with a tired sigh, "I will make it worth your while."

"Cor, now that be more like it, Your Imponderableness." Mudge's attitude changed

radically. "Exactly 'ow worth our whiles did you 'ave in mind?"

"Sufficiently," said the wizard. "You have my word on it."

"Now I don't know as that's exactly..." Mudge's sentence floundered like a shark

in a salt lake as he detected something new and dangerous and very unsenile in

the wizard's expression. "Wot I mean to say, sor, is that naturally that's good

enough for us. The word o' a great sorcerer like yourself, I mean." He looked

anxiously at Talea. "Ain't it, luv?"

"I suppose so," she said carefully. "But why us? If you're going to need an

honor guard, or body guard, or whatever, why not seek out some more amenable to

your crazy notions?"

Clothahump replied instantly. "Because you two are already here, have already

been exposed to my crazy notions, are familiar with the histories of these two,"

and he indicated Flor and Jon-Tom, "and because I have no more time to waste

with others, if we are to make haste toward distant Polastrindu."

"Now, guv'nor," said Mudge reluctantly, "I've agreed I 'ave, and I'll stick by

me word, but Polastrindu? You want that we should go... do you know 'ow far,

meaning no disrespect, that be, sor?"

"Quite precisely, my good otter."

"It'd take months!" shouted an exasperated Talea.

"Yes it would... if we were to travel overland. But I am not so foolish or so

young as to consider such a cross-country hike. We must make speed, for while I

know what is going to happen I do not know when; consequently I am ignorant of

how much time we may have left to prepare. In such circumstances it is best to

be stingy with what we may not possess.

"We shall not trudge overland but instead will make our way up the River

Tailaroam."

"Up the river?" said Talea, eyebrows raised.

"There are ways of traveling against the current."

"To a certain point, Your Wonderness." Mudge looked skeptical. "But what 'appens

when we reach the rapids o' Duggakurra? And I've 'eard many a tale o' the

dangers the deep parts o' the river possess."

"All obstacles can be surmounted." Clothahump spoke with confidence if not

assurance. "They matter not. Obstacle or no, we must hurry on."

"I think I'd rather go by land after all," said Talea.

"I am sorry, my dear. Tailaroam's secrets might be better concealed, but it will

be the cleaner and faster route."

"Easy for you to say," she grumbled. "You'd be right at home in the water if we

had any trouble."

"I have not spent more than occasional recreational time in the water for some

years, my dear. While I may be physiologically adapted to an aquatic life, my

preferences are for breathing and living in air. As just one example, scrolls do

not hold up well at all beneath the water.

"Furthermore, we have now an excellent means for making our way to the river."

"The L'borean riding snake." Talea nodded thoughtfully. "Why not take it all the

way to Polastrindu?"

"Because the river will be as steady and much faster. Perhaps our young friend

Jon-Tom can conjure up an equally efficient form of water travel."

"Conjure up?" The query came from Flores Quintera, and she looked sideways at

Jon-Tom. "You mean, like magic?"

"Yes, like magic." He endeavored to stand a little straighter as he held out the

duar. "Clothahump was casting about for an otherworldly magician to assist him

with his troubles and he got me. It turns out that my singing, coupled with my

playing of this instrument, coupled with something--I don't know what--gives me

the ability to work magic here."

"That's very impressive," she said in a voice that lit a fire high above his

boots.

"Yes, it would be, except that it's kind of a shotgun effect. I fire off a song

and never manage to hit exactly what I'm aiming at. I was trying for an old

Dodge Charger and instead materialized the grandfather of all pythons. It turned

out to be tamed to riding, though." He smiled at her. "No need to worry about

it."

"I'm not worried," she replied excitedly. "I love snakes. Where is it? It's

really big enough to ride?" She was heading for the door at a respectable jog.

Mudge was whispering to him. "Now you'll 'ave to do better than that, mate.

That's no ordinary maiden you've brought t' yourself. Now if I were you..."

But Jon-Tom didn't hear the rest because he was hurrying after her. Clothahump

watched them, frowning.

"I must make ready. Pog!" the wizard yelled.

"Here, Master." The bat moved tiredly to hover over the workbench, knowing what

would be expected of him. Together they began assembling several large piles of

potions and powders: a traveling sorcerer's work kit.

"Now 'ow did we get ourselves roped into this, luv?"

Talea looked across at the otter. "Don't trouble your furry noggin about it.

We're committed. You agreed yourself."

"Yes, yes," he said softly, looking back to see if Clothahump was paying them

any attention. He was not. "But it were only to keep the old bugger-nut from

puttin' a spell on me. Then I'd never 'ave a chance to slip away when the proper

time comes."

"It's better that we go," she told him. "I've been thinking, Mudge. If a wizard

as great as Clothahump says that the danger is so great, then we must help fight

it if we can."

"I don't think you follow me thoughts, luv. This wizard Clothahump, 'e's a

brilliant one, all right. But 'e 'as lapses, if you know wot I mean." He tapped

his head with one furry fist.

"You're saying he's senile."

"Not all the time, no. But 'e is two 'undred and ought odd years old. Even for a

wizard o' the hard-shell, that's gettin' on a bit, wot? I'm a thinkin' 'e's

overexaggeratin' this 'ere Plated danger."

"Sorry, Mudge, I don't agree with you. I've seen and heard enough to convince me

he's more sane than senile. Besides," she added with a disdainful air, "he was

right in that we have no immediate prospects. In fact, it would do us good to

get out of this area for a while. He'll pay us to do that. So we're doing right

if he's mad and right if he's not."

Mudge looked resigned. "Maybe so, luv. Maybe so. Though I wish 'e'd been a bit

more specific in spellin' out just wot 'e meant by 'worth our while.'"

"What do you mean?"

"Sorcerers 'ave the use o' words that you and I ain't privy to, luv. So it

stands t' reason they could be more subtle when it comes t' the employin' o'

more familiar ones."

"Mudge! Are you saying he lied to us?"

"No. 'E couldn't do that, not and keep 'is wizardry powers. But there be direct

truth and then there be spiral truth, as me sainted mother used t' tell me."

"You had a mother?"

He took a playful swipe at her with a paw and she stepped lithely out of reach.

"I always did think a lot o' you, luv. If you only 'ad a bit more body fur, at

least on your chest, say."

"No thanks." She edged toward the door. "We'd better go see how the others are

making out."

They started down the hallway. "I'm not worried much about the giantess," Mudge

was saying, "but our friend Jon-Tom still displays pangs o' loneliness. I worry

that the appearance o' the girl from 'is 'ome may do him more 'arm than good,

seein' as how besotted 'e is on her."

"Besotted?" Talea studied the walls. "You think so?"

They had almost reached the doorway. " 'Tis in the lad's voice, in 'is manner

and look. I've dodged traps that were better 'idden. But I don't think 'e'll

'ave much luck with this one. She's cheery enough, but I 'ave a 'unch 'er true

love's reserved for 'er new sword. She strikes me a proper mate for a wolverine,

not our Jon-Tom."

"I don't think he's besotted," Talea murmured. "A boyish attraction, certainly."

"And that be somethin' else. 'E may act boyish, but in a fight 'e's all right.

Remember 'is magic, and they also say that those who can draw the gneechees in

the numbers 'e can may 'ave greater powers locked within 'em than even they can

imagine."

"He's already admitted he doesn't know much about his own magical capabilities,"

she replied. "I don't think they're so much greater than what we've seen."

"We're likely to find out on this bug-brained journey."

The riding snake would have carried the extra load with ease, but they had only

four saddles. They were fashioned of the finest hides and specially worked in

far-off Malderpot by the warmland's most skilled leatherworkers.

"Two of us will have to double up," said Clothahump, voicing the obvious as the

last of their baggage was seeured to the snake's lengthy back. "At least Pog

does not present a problem."

"Thank the Design!" agreed the bat, fluttering overhead and adjusting his body

and back pouches. "It going to be hard enough ta slow down ta keep up wid ya."

"Jon-Tom and Flor must have saddles to themselves," the wizard pointed out,

"they being simultaneously the largest and least experienced of us. Perhaps the

two of you... ?" He gestured at Talea and Mudge.

"Oh no." She shook her head negatively. "I'm not riding with him." Mudge looked

hurt.

"In that case," Clothahump bowed as best he could, considering his short legs

and weighty front, "you may join me."

"Fine."

"Cor, now, Talea me luv...."

"Get to your own saddle, you mange-mouthed mucker. D'you honestly think I'd let

you sit that close to me?"

"Talea sweets, you 'ave poor Mudge all wrong."

"Sure I do." She mounted the lead saddle, spoke down to Clothahump. "You can

ride behind me. I trust your hands, and we've a shell between us."

"I can assure you, my dear," said the wizard, sounding slightly offended, "that

I have no intentions in the slightest of..."

"Yeah, that's what they all say." She slipped both boots into her stirrups. "But

come on and get aboard."

Clothahump struggled with the high seat, puffing alarmingly. His short legs and

great weight rendered mounting all but impossible. Jon-Tom moved forward and got

his arms and shoulders beneath the considerable bulk. It was against

Clothahump's principles (not to mention his ego) to use magic to lift himself

into the saddle. With Jon-Tom pushing and Talea pulling he managed to make it

with a minimum of lost pride.

When they were all seated Talea tugged lightly back on the reins. Having slept

all night and morning as was the habit of its kind, the snake came awake slowly.

She let the reins hang loose and the snake started to move forward.

A laugh of surprise and delight came from the third saddle, where Flores

Quintera sat. She was clearly enjoying the new sensation provided by an

extraordinary means of locomotion. Looking back over her shoulder, she flashed a

dazzling smile at Jon-Tom.

"What a wonderful way to travel! Que magnifico! You can see everything without

having your behind battered." She faced forward again and placed both hands on

the pommel of the saddle.

"Giddy up!" Her heels kicked girlishly at the scaly sides. The snake did not

notice the minuscule tapping on its flanks, but paid attention only to the

steering tugs at its sensitive ears.

"Any particular route you'd like me to follow?" Talea inquired of her fellow

saddle-mate.

"The shortest one to the Tailaroam," replied Clothahump. "There we will hire

passage."

"What about building our own raft?"

"Impossible. Tacking upstream against the current would be difficult. At the

Duggakurra rapids it would become impossible. We must engage professionals with

the know-how and muscle to fight such obstacles. I think we should turn slightly

to the left here, my dear."

Talea pulled gently on the reins, and the snake obediently altered its slither.

"That'll take us a day longer, if I remember the land right. It's been a long

time since I've been as far south as the river. Too many nasty types hole out

there."

"I agree it may take us a little longer to reach our goal this way, but by doing

so we will pass a certain glade. It is ringed with very old oaks and is a place

of ancient power. I am going to risk a dangerous conjuration there. It is the

best place for it, and will be our last chance to learn the nature of the

special corruption the warmlands will have to face.

"To do this involves stretching my meager powers to the utmost, so I will

require all the magical support the web of Earthforce can supply me. The web is

anchored at Yul, at Koal-zin-a-Mee, at Rinamundoh, and at the Glade of Triane."

"I've never heard of the others."

"They lie far around the world and meet at the center of the earth. The affairs

of all sentient beings are interwoven in the web, each individual's destiny tied

to its own designated strand. I will stand on one of the four anchors of fate

and make the call that I must."

"Call? Who are you going to call?"

But Clothahump's thoughts seemed to have shifted. "The glade is close enough to

the river so that we may leave our riding snake before we reach it and walk the

rest of the way."

"Why not ride the snake all the way to the river?"

"You do not understand." She could feel his eyes on the back of her neck. "You

will not, until you see the result of what I am to attempt. Such as this," and

he tapped the riding snake's back with a foot, "is but a dumb creature whose

life might not survive even a near confrontation of the sort I have in mind. It

is as strong as it is stupid, and in a panic could be the undoing of all of us.

So we must leave it a day behind when we give it its freedom."

She shrugged. "Whatever you say. But my feet will argue with you." She urged the

snake to a faster pace.

Several days of pleasant travel passed as they journeyed southward. No predator

came near the massive snake, and at night they didn't even bother to set a

watch.

Flores Quintera was a pleasant companion, but what troubled Jon-Tom was not her

dissuasion of his hesitant attempts at intimacy so much as that the excitement

of the trip seemed to make her oblivious to anything else.

"It's everything I ever dreamed of when I was a little girl." She spoke to him

as they sat around the small cookfire. The flames danced in her night-eyes,

prompting thoughts of obsidian spewing from the hearts of volcanoes.

"When I was little I wished I was a boy, Jon-Tom," she told him fervently. "I

wanted to be an astronaut, to fly over the poles with Byrd, to sail the

unexplored South Pacific with Captain Cook. I wanted to be with the English at

Agincourt and with Pizzaro in Peru. Failing a change of gender, I imagined

myself Amelia Earhart or Joan of Arc."

"You can't change your sex," he told her sympathetically, "and you can't go back

in time, but you could have tried for the astronaut training."

She shook her head sadly. "It's not enough to have the ambition, Jon-Tom. You

have to have the wherewithal. Los cerebros. I've got the guts but not the

other." She looked up at him and smiled crookedly. "Then there is the other

thing, the unfortunate drawback, the crippling deformity that I've had to suffer

with all my life."

He stared at her in genuine puzzlement, unable to see the slightest hint of

imperfection.

"I don't follow you, Flor. You look great to me."

"That's the deformity, Jon-Tom, My lack of one. I'm cursed with beauty. Don't

misunderstand me now," she added quickly. "I'm not being facetious or boastful.

It's something I've just had to try and live with."

"We all have our handicaps," he said, not very sympathetically.

She rose, paced catlike behind the fire. Talea was stirring the other one

nearby. Mudge was humming some ribald ditty about the mouse from Cantatrouse who

ran around on her spouse, much to the gruff amusement of Pog. Clothahump was a

silent, brooding lump somewhere off in the darkness.

"You don't understand, do you? How could you imagine what it's like to be a

beautiful animal? Because that's how the world sees me, you know. I did the

cheerleader thing because I was asked to." She paused, stared across the flames

at him. "Do you know what my major is?"

"Theater Arts, right?"

"Acting." She nodded ruefully. "That's what everyone expected of me. Well it's

easy for me, and it lets me concentrate on the harder work involved in my minor.

I didn't have the math for astrophysics or tensor analysis or any of that, so

I'm doing business administration. Between that and the theater arts I'm hoping

I can get in on the public relations end of the space program. That's the only

way I ever thought I'd have a chance of getting close to the frontiers. Even so,

no one takes me seriously."

"I take you seriously," he murmured.

She stared at him sharply. "Do you? I've heard that before. Can you really see

beyond my face and body?"

"Sure." He hoped he sounded sincere. "I don't pretend that I can ignore them."

"Nobody can. Nobody!" She threw up her hands in despair. "Professors, fellow

students: it's hell just trying to get through an ordinary class without having

to offend someone by turning down their incessant requests for a date. And it's

next to impossible to get any kind of a serious answer out of a professor when

he's staring at your tetas instead of concentrating on your question. You can

call it beauty. I call it my special deformity."

"Are you saying you'd rather have been born a hunchback? Maybe with no hair and

one eye set higher than the other?" '

"No." Some of the anger left her. "No, of course not. I just could have done

with a little less of everything physical, I suppose."

"Asi es la vida," he said quietly.

"Si, es verdad." She sat down on the grass again, crossing her legs. "There's

nothing I can do about it. But here"--and she gestured at the dark forest and

the huge serpentine shape coiled nearby--"here things are different. Here my

height and size are helpful and people, furry or human, seem to accept me as a

person instead of a sex object."

"Don't rely on that," he warned her. "For example our otter friend Mudge seems

to have no compunctions whatsoever about crossing interspecies lines. Nor do

very many others, from what I've seen."

"Well, so far they've accepted me as a warrior more than a toy. If that's due to

my size more than my personality, at least it's a start." She lay down and

stretched langorously. The fire seemed to spread from the burning embers to

Jon-Tom's loins.

"Here I have a chance to be more than what heredity seemed to have locked me

into. And it's like my childhood dreams of adventure."

"People get killed here," he warned her. "This is no fairyland. You make a

mistake, you die."

She rolled over. It was a warm winter night and her cape was blanket enough.

"I'll take my chances. It can't be any worse than the barrio. Good night,

Jon-Tom. Remember, when in Rome..."

He kicked dirt over the fire until it subsided and wished he were in Rome, or

any other familiar place. All he said was, "Good night, Flor. Pleasant dreams."

Then he rolled over and sought sleep. The night was pleasant, but his thoughts

were troubled.

The following day found them climbing and descending much hillier terrain. Trees

were still plentiful, but on the higher knolls they tended to be smaller and

with more land between. Occasionally bare granite showed where the ground cover

had thinned, though they were still traveling through forest.

And the gneechees were back. Even when Jon-Tom was not strumming his duar,

swarms of almost-theres were clustering thickly around the little party of

travelers.

He explained to Flor about gneechees. She was delighted at the concept and spent

hours trying to catch one with her eyes. Talea mumbled worriedly about their

inexplicable presence. Clothahump would have none of it.

"There is no room in magic for superstition, young lady," the turtle admonished

her. "If you would learn more about the world you must disabuse yourself of such

primitive notions."

"I've seen primitive notions kill a lot of people," she shot back knowingly. "I

don't mean to question you, but I bet you'd be the last person to say that we

know everything there is to know."

"That is so, child," agreed the wizard. "If the latter were true we would not be

making our way to this glade." He snapped irritably at Pog. The bat was diving

and swooping above their heads.

"You know you'll never catch one, Pog. You can't even see one."

"Yeah. Dey don't even react to my headseek either." He snapped at empty air

where something might have been.

"Then why do you persist?"

"Gives me somethin' ta do, as opposed ta idly dancin' in da air currents. But

dat's a thrill you'll never know, ain't it?"

"Do not be impertinent, Pog." The wizard directed Talea to stop. He dismounted,

looked around. "We walk from now on."

Packages and supplies were doled out, stuffed into backpacks. Then they started

uphill. The rise they were ascending was slight but unvarying. It grew dark, and

for a while they matched strides with the mounting moon. Clouds masked its

mournful silver face.

"We are close, close," Clothahump informed them much later. The moon was around

toward the west now. "I have sensed things."

"Yeah, I just bet ya have, boss," the bat muttered under his breath. He snapped

hungrily at a passing glass moth.

If the wizard had heard, he gave no sign. In fact, he spent the next two hours

in complete silence, staring straight ahead. No conversational gambit could

provoke a response from him.

A subtle tingling like the purr of a kitten began to tickle Jon-Tom's spine.

Tall trees closed tight around them once again, ranks of dark green spears

holding off the threatening heavens. Stars peeked through the clouds, looking

dangerously near.

A glance showed Talea looking around nervously. She reacted to his gaze, nodded.

"I feel it also, Jon-Tom. Clothahump was right. This is an ancient part of the

world we are coming to. It stinks of power."

Clothahump moved nearer to Jon-Tom. Clouds of gneechees now dogged the climbers.

"Can you feel it, my boy? Does it not tease your wizardly senses?"

Jon-Tom looked around uneasily, aware that something was playing his nerves as

he would play the strings of the duar. "I feel something, sir. But whether it's

magical influences or just back trouble I couldn't say."

Clothahump looked disappointed. Somewhere an anxious night hunter was whistling

to its mate. There were rustlings in the brush, and Jon-Tom noted that the

hidden things were moving in the same direction: back the way the climbers had

come.

"You are not fully attuned to the forces, I expect," said the wizard,

unnaturally subdued, "so I suppose I should not expect more of you." He looked

ahead and then gestured pridefully.

"We have arrived. One corner of the subatomic forces that bind the matter of all

creatures of all the world lies here. Look and remember, Jon-Tom. The glade of

Triane."

XIII

They had crested the last rise. Ahead lay an open meadow that at first glance

was not particularly remarkable. But it seemed that the massive oaks and

sycamores that ringed it like the white hair of an old man's balding skull drew

back from that open place, shunning the grass and curves of naked stone that

occasionally thrust toward the sky.

Here the moonlight fell unobstructed upon delicate blue blades. A few darker

boulders poked mushroomlike heads above the uneven lawn.

"Stop here," the wizard ordered them.

They gratefully slid free of packs and weapons, piled them behind a towering

tree that spread protective branches overhead.

"We have one chance to learn the nature of the great new evil the Plated Folk

have acquired. I cannot penetrate all the way to Cugluch with any perceptive

power. No magic I know of can do that.

"But there is another way. Uncertain, dangerous, but worthy of an attempt to

utilize, I think. If naught else it could give us absolute confirmation of the

Plated Folk's intentions, and we may learn something of their time schedule.

That could be equally as valuable.

"You cannot help me. No matter what happens here, no matter what may happen to

me, you must not go beyond this point." No one said anything. He turned, looked

up into the tree. "I need you now, Pog."

"Yes, Master." The bat sounded subdued and quite unlike his usual argumentative

self. He dropped free, hovered expectantly above the wizard's head as the two

conversed.

"What's he going to try?" Talea wondered aloud. Her red hair turned to cinnabar

in the moonlight.

"I don't know." Jon-Tom watched in fascination as Clothahump readied himself.

Flor had the collar of her cape pulled tight up around her neck. Mudge's ears

were cocked forward intently, one paw holding him up against the tree trunk.

From beneath the leaf-shadowed safety of the ancient oak they watched as the

wizard carefully marked out a huge ellipse in the open glade. The fluorescent

white powder he was using seemed to glow with a life of its own.

Employing the last of the powder, he drew a stylized sun at either end of the

ellipse. Red powder was then used to make cryptic markings on the grass. These

connected the two suns and formed a crude larger ellipse outside the first.

"If I didn't know better," Flor whispered to Jon-Tom, "I'd think he was laying

out some complex higher equations."

"He is," Jon-Tom told her. "Magic equations." She started to object and he

hushed her. "I'll explain later."

Now Clothahump and Pog were creating strange, disturbing shapes in the center of

the first ellipse. The shapes were not pleasant to look upon, and they appeared

to move across the grass and stone of their own volition. But the double ellipse

held them in. From time to time the wizard would pause and use a small telescope

to study the cloudy night sky.

It had been a windless night. Now a breeze sprang up and pushed at the huddling

little knot of onlookers. It came from in front of them and mussed Jon-Tom's

hair, ruffled the otter's fur. Despite the warmth of the night the breeze was

cold, as though it came from deep space itself. Branches and leaves and needles

blew outward, no matter where their parent trees were situated. The breeze was

not coming from the east, as Jon-Tom had first thought, but from the center of

the glade. It emerged from the twin ellipses and blew outward in all directions

as if the wind itself were trying to escape. Normal meteorological conditions no

longer existed within the glade.

Clothahump had taken a stance in the center of the near sun drawing. They could

hear his voice for the first time, raised in chant and invocation. His short

arms were above his head, and his fingers made mute magic-talk with the sky.

The wind strengthened with a panicky rush, and the woods were full of

zephyr-gossip. These moans and warnings swirled in confusion around the

watchers, who drew nearer one another without comment.

A black shape rejoined them, fighting the growing gale. Pog's eyes were as wide

as his wing beats were strained.

"You're all ta stay right where ya are," he told them, raising his voice to be

heard over the frightened wind. "Da Master orders it. He works his most

dangerous magic." Selecting a long hanging limb, the famulus attached himself to

it and tucked his wings cloaklike around his body.

"What is he going to do?" Talea asked. "How can he penetrate all the way to

Cugluch through the walls of sorcery this Eejakrat must guard himself with?"

"Da Master makes magic," was all the shivering assistant would say. A wing tip

pointed fretfully toward the open glade.

The wind continued to increase. Flor drew her cape tight around her bare

shoulders while Mudge fought to retain possession of his feathered cap. Large

branches bent outward, and occasional snapping sounds rose above the gale to

hint at limbs bent beyond their strength to resist. Huge oaks groaned in protest

all the way down to their roots.

"But what is he trying to do?" Talea persisted, huddling in the windbreak

provided by the massive oak.

"He summons M'nemaxa," the terrified apprentice told her, "and I don't intend ta

look upon it." He drew his wings still closer about him until his face as well

as his body was concealed by the leathery cocoon.

"M'nemaxa's a legend. It don't exist," Mudge protested.

"He does, he does!" came the whimper from behind the wings. "He exist and da

Master summon him, oh, he call to him even now. I will not look on it."

Jon-Tom put his lips close to Talea in order to be heard over the wind. "Who or

what's this 'Oom-ne-maxa'?"

"Part of a legend, part of the legends of the old world." She leaned hard

against the bark. "According to legend it's the immortal spirit of all combined

in a single creature, a creature that can appear in any guise it chooses. Some

tales say he/she may actually have once existed in real form. Other stories

insist that the spirit is kept alive from moment to moment only by the belief

all wizards and sorceresses and witches have in it.

"To touch it is said to be death, to look upon it without wizardry protection is

said to invite a death slower and more painful. The first death is from burning,

the second from a rotting away of the flesh and organs."

"We'll be safe, we'll be safe," insisted Pog hopefully. "If da Master says so,

we'll be safe." Jon-Tom had never seen the bellicose mammal so cowed.

"But I still won't look on it," Pog continued. "Master says da formulae and

time-space ellipsoids will hold him. If not... if dey fail and it is freed,

Master says we should run or fly and we will be safe. We are not worthy of its

notice, Master say, and it not likely to pursue."

A delicate gray phosphorescence had begun to creep like St. Elmo's fire up the

trunks and branches of the trees ringing the glade. Argent silhouettes now

glowed eerily against the black night. The glade had become a green bowl etched

with silver filigree. Earth shivered beneath it.

"Can this thing tell Clothahump what he wants to know?" Jon-Tom was less

skeptical of the wizard's abilities than was Pog.

"It know all Time and Space," replied the bat. "It can see what da Master wants

to know, but dat don't mean it gonna tell him."

There was a hushed, awed murmur of surprise from the otter. "Cor! Would you 'ave

a look at that."

"I won't, I won't!" mewed Pog, shaking behind his wings.

Clothahump still stood erect within his sun symbol. As he turned a slow circle,

arms still upraised, he was reciting a litany counter-pointed by the chorus of

the ground. Earth answered his words though he talked to the stars.

Dark, boiling storm clouds, thick black mountains, had assembled over the glade

with unnatural haste. They danced above the wind-bent trees and blotted out the

friendly face of the moon. From time to time electric lava jumped from one to

another as they talked the lightning-talk.

Winds born of hurricane and confusion now assaulted the ancient trees. Jon-Tom

lay on the ground and clung to the arched root of the sage-oak. So did Talea and

Mudge, while Pog swayed like a large black leaf above them. Flor nestled close

to Jon-Tom, though neither's attention was on the other. Branches and leaves

shot past them, fleeing from the glade.

None of the swirling debris struck the chanting wizard. The winds roared down

into the double ellipse, then outward, but avoided the sun symbol. Above the

center of the glade the billowing storm clouds jigged round and round each other

in a majestic whirlpool of energy and moisture.

Lightning leapt earthward to blister the ground. No bolt struck near Clothahump,

though two trees were shattered to splinters not far away.

Somehow, above the scream of wind, of too close thunder and the howling vortex

that now dominated the center of the glade, they could still hear the steady

voice of Clothahump. Trying to shield his eyes from flying dirt and debris,

Jon-Tom clung tightly to the tree root and squinted at the turtle.

The wizard was turning easily within his proscribed symbol. He appeared

completely unaffected by the violent storm raging all around him. The sun symbol

was beginning to glow a deep orange.

Clothahump halted. His hands slowly lowered until they were pointing toward the

small heap of powders in the center of the inner ellipse. He recited, slowly and

with great care, a dozen words known only to a very few magicians and perhaps

one or two physicists.

The ancient oak shuddered. Two smaller trees nearby were torn free of the earth

and hurled into the sky. There was a mighty, rumbling crescendo of sound that

culminated in a volcanic rumble from the glade, and a brief flash of light that

fortunately no one looked at directly.

The shape that appeared out of that flash within the inner ellipse took away

what little breath remained to Jon-Tom and his companions. He could not have

moved his knuckles to his mouth to chew on them, nor could his vocal cords give

form to the feelings surging through him.

Soft, eerie moans came from Flor and a slight, labored whistling from Mudge. All

were motionless, paralyzed by the sight of M'nemaxa, whose countenance

transfigures continents and whose hoofbeats can alter the orbits of worlds.

Within the inner ellipse was a ferociously burning shape. The form M'nemaxa had

chosen to appear in was akin to all the horses that had ever been, and yet was

not. He showed himself this time as a stallion with great wings that beat at the

air more than sixty feet from tip to body. Even so the spirit shape could not be

more than partially solid. It was formed of small solar prominences bound

together in the form of a horse. Red-orange flames trailed from tail and mane,

galloping hooves and majestic wings, to trail behind the form and flicker out in

the night.

Actually the constantly shed shards of sunmeat vanished when they reached the

limits imposed by the double ellipse, disappeared harmlessly into a

thermonuclear void only Clothahump could understand. Though wings tore at the

fabric of space and flaming hooves galloped over the plane of existence, the

spirit stallion remained fixed within the boundaries of sorceral art.

There was no hint of fading. For every flaming streamer that fell and curled

from the equine inferno, new fire appeared to keep the shape familiar and

intact, as M'nemaxa continuously renewed his substance. A pair of fiery tusks

descended from the upper jaw of the not quite perfect horse shape, and pointed

teeth burned within jaws of flame.

Among all that immense length of horsehell, a living stallion sun whose breath

would have incinerated Apollo, there were only two things not composed of the

ever regenerating eternal fire-eyes as chillingly cold as the rest was

unimaginably hot.

The eyes of the stallion-spirit M'nemaxa were dragonfly eyes, great black

curving orbs that almost met atop the skull. They were far too large for a

normal horse shape, but that was only natural. Through the still angry cyclone,

Jon-Tom thought he could see within those all-seeing spheres of black tiny

points of light; purple and red, green, blue, and purest white that stood out

even against the perpetual fusion that constituted the body shape.

Though he could not know it, those eyes were fragments of the Final Universe,

the greater one which holds within it our own universe as well as thousands of

others. Galaxies drifted within the eyes of M'nemaxa.

Now a long snake tongue flicked out, a flare frora the surface of a living horse

star. It tasted of dimensions no puny creature of flesh could ever hope to

sample. It arched back its massive flaming head and whinnied. It stunned the

ears and minds of the tiny organic listeners. The earth itself trembled, and

behind the clouds the moon drew another thousand miles away in its orbit. Rarely

was so immense an eminence brought within touch of a mere single world.

"ONE WHO KNOWS THE WORDS HAS SUMMONED!" came the thunder. Great red-orange skull

and galactic eyes looked down upon the squat shape of an old turtle.

But the wizard did not bend or hide his head. He remained safe within his sun

symbol. His shells did not melt and crack, his flesh did not sear, and he looked

upon the horse-star without fear. It dug at existence and its hooves burned