Spellsinger

time, but it moved no nearer.

"I would know the new magic that gives so much confidence to the Plated Folk of

the Greendowns as they ready their next war against my peoples!" Clothahump's

most sonorous sorceral tone sounded tinny beside the world-shaking whisper of

the horse.

"THAT IS OF NO CONSEQUENCE TO ME."

"I know," said Clothahump with unbelievable brashness, "but it is of consequence

to me. You have been summoned to answer, not to question."

"WHO DARES...!" Then the anger of the stallion spirit faded slightly. "YOU HAVE

SPOKEN THE WORDS, MASTER OF A HUMBLE KNOWLEDGE. YOU HAVE DONE THE CALLING, AND I

MUST REPLY." The spirit seemed almost to smile. "BEWARE, LEADER OF AN IGNORANT

SLIME, FOR THOUGH THEY KNOW IT NOT THEMSELVES, I FORESEE THEM DESTROYING YOU

WITH MIRRORS OF WHAT IS IN YOUR OWN TINY MIND."

"I don't understand," said Clothahump with a frown.

Again the whinny that frightened planets. "AND WHY SHOULD YOU, FOR YOU HAVE

NOTHING TO UNDERSTAND WITH. THE DANGER TO YOU IS NOTHING TO ME, AND YOU CANNOT

IMAGINE IT."

"When will this take place?"

"THEY ARE UNCERTAIN, AS I MUST BE UNCERTAIN, AS IS EVER THE FUTURE UNCERTAIN.

LET ME GO NOW."

Suddenly the flaming hooves were another ten feet above the surface. Yet it was

not M'nemaxa who had moved, but the earth, which had pulled away in fear at the

spirit's rising fury. "Stay!" Clothahump threw up his hands. "I am not

finished."

"THEN BE QUICK, LITTLE CREATURE, OR, WORDS OR NOT, I WILL MAKE OF THIS WORLD

WHITE ASHES."

"I still do not understand the Plated Folk's new magic. If you cannot describe

it to me any better, at least tell me how to counter it. Then I will let you

go."

"I WILL GO ANYWAY, FOR WORDS CAN HOLD ME BUT SO LONG AND NO LONGER. I CAN TELL

YOU NO MORE. I CHOSE NOT TO ARBITRATE THE FATE OF THIS WORLD, FOR I HAVE MY OWN

JOURNEY TO MAKE AND YOU CANNOT STOP ME." There was a vast, roaring chuckle. "IF

YOU WOULD KNOW MORE, ASK YOUR ENEMY YOURSELF!"

A violent concussion shook Jon-Tom loose from the tree root. Bark came away in

his bloody fingertips. But he was blown only a few feet downslope when the wind

began to fade from hurricane to mere gale force.

The thermonuclear stallion spirit vanished in an expanding ellipse of brilliant

light. As the light faded, it left behind a three-dimensional residue. He saw a

wavy image of some huge, sinister chamber. It was decorated with red gems, blue

metal... and white bone.

Within the bower stood an insect shape ten feet tall. Chains of jewels and cloth

and small skulls of horribly familiar design draped the chitin. The nightmare

stood next to a throne with a high curving back decorated with larger jewels and

skulls. Some of the skulls still had flesh on them.

It was talking to someone out of their view. Then something made it turn, and it

saw them. A high, vibrating shriek filled the glade, and made Jon-Tom shiver. No

dentist's drill could have made a more excruciating sound.

A far smaller flash, an echo of M'nemaxa's blinding passing, obliterated the

awful sight.

And then there was no longer anything within the glade save one very tired

wizard, wind, and grass.

The gale had become a breeze. As if confused by its presence, the wind-cloud

vortex that had hung above the glade simply dispersed. Silver phosphorescence

shimmied down trunks and branches to run like water back into the soil.

A light rain began to fall. Hesitantly, the moon peeked through the intermittent

clouds, filling the glade with healthy light.

By the time the panting Jon-Tom and the others had reached the center of the

glade the ellipses and suns and arcane symbols and formulae no longer glowed

against the ground. Though he sought Clothahump, Jon-Tom's mind still saw the

face of the towering praying mantis, heard once more the grating scream that had

issued from it just before it vanished.

Pog was hovering nervously above them. The rain was steadily washing the powders

and rare essences back into the soil from which they'd been extracted. This

corner of the web of the world had held.

They found Clothahump sitting on the grass, his glasses askew on his horned

beak.

"Are you all right, sir?" Jon-Tom spoke with a mixture of anxiety and respeet.

"Who, me? Yes, my boy, I believe I am."

"You ought not to have tried it, good wizard." Talea studied the empty ellipse

warily. "There are extremes of magic which should not be touched."

He shook a finger at her. "Don't try to tell me my business, young lady. Pog,

give me a wing up." The bat dipped lower, helped the wizard to his feet.

"I have learned part of what I wished to know, my friends. Though I must confess

I did not expect the spirit M'nemaxa to speak in riddles."

"Actually, I don't see that we've learned that much," said Flor.

"We have something to work with, my dear, even if it is only couched as a riddle

or metaphor. That is a great deal more than we had before." He sounded pleased.

"And if naught else, we have given a scare to the Empress Skrritch that may make

her hesitate or delay her attack, for she it was whom we saw in that final

moment.

"We can continue our journey, secure now in the knowledge that this will be a

full-scale war led by the Empress of all the Plated Folk herself. That should

win over some of muddleheads in Polastrindu!"

"I hope we don't have to go through this many more times," Flor muttered. "Santa

Cecilia may not have many more blessings left for me."

"Not to worry, child," he assured her. "I will not attempt it again. Such a

conjuration cannot be made more than once in a lifetime, and tonight I have used

mine. I employed incantations I will never employ again, spoke words I may not

safely speak henceforth.

"From now on, each day on earth will be one twenty-two thousandth of a day

shorter than previously, for in order to draw the immortal from the far depths

of his journey I had to utilize the soul-strength of the earth itself."

Jon-Tom walked out into the inner ellipse. Every blade of grass within the

marked shape had been vaporized. So had the soil. All that remained was a

perfect ellipsoidal shape of melted stone. The white granite had been twisted

like taffy.

"You spoke of its journey, sir, and so did it. I... I heard it."

"Did you see how furiously it soared, how steadily it galloped, though it did

not move beyond my confinement?" Jon-Tom nodded.

"It was at once here with us and holding its place in its journey." He cheeked

to make certain his plastron compartments were still tightly closed. "If the

legends of wizards and the admonitions of necromants are correct, the spirit

M'nemaxa has traveled approximately a thirtieth of its journey. The journey

began at the beginning of the first life, life which in making its journey

M'nemaxa strews across the worlds behind it.

"It is galloping around the circumference of the Universe. It is said that when

it meets itself coming it will annihilate purpose. Then it can finally rest.

'Tis no surprise it was irritated at our interruption. With a journey of several

trillion years still to make, even a little pause is unwelcome.

"Yet despite all that, the formulae worked. The ellipse held." He glowed a

little bit himself, with pride. "It was contained, and It answered when It was

called." He blinked and slowly sat down on the grass again. "I'm a little tired,

all of a sudden."

"I think we're all a little tired," said Jon-Tom knowingly.

"Aye, I'll not argue that, mate." The afterimage of the enormous winged

flame-horse still lingered on the otter's outraged retinas. "I think we could

all do with a bit o' sleep 'ere."

Everyone agreed. After a brief mutual examination to insure that no injuries had

been sustained, they began to make camp. Sleep finally came to all, but fiery

images alternated with visions of a tall green-black horror to provoke less than

benign dreams.

Far above and away a distant pinprick of light flared briefly across the cosmos.

The tiny burst faded quickly. It came from the vicinity of NGC 187, where

M'nemaxa angrily kicked aside a star or two as he raced back to where he'd left

off his eternal race around the infinite bowl of existence....

XIV

There was panic in Cugluch Keep.

Word of the troubles seeped down from servitors to attendants to workers and

even to the lowly apprentice workers who toiled in the deepest burrows and

worked endlessly to keep the omnipresent ooze from flooding the undertunnels.

Rumors abounded. Workers whispered of a flaming rain that had fallen from the

sky and destroyed hundreds of brood platforms. Or they told of tons of carefully

hoarded foodstuffs invaded and ruined by spore rot. Or that the sun had appeared

for three consecutive days, or that several of the Royal Court had been

discovered feeding on the corpse of a mere worker and had been summarily

dismissed.

The truth was far worse than the rumors. Those who knew hid in fear and went

about their daily business always looking over their shoulders (those who could

look over their shoulders, for some had no necks... and some no shoulders).

Hunter packs took every opportunity to get away from the capital city, on the

pretext of adding still further to the enormous stocks of supplies. Official

auditors bent low over their tallies. All were affected by the panic, a panic

that reached beyond sense, beyond normal fears of mortality, to affect even

quivering grubs within their incubation cocoons.

The Empress Skrritch was on a rampage. Blood and bits of loose flesh trailed in

her wake as she stormed through the rooms and chambers of the labyrinthine

central palace.

Safe from her wrath, endless legions of mandibled, facet-eyed troops drilled

mechanically on the mossy plains outside the city. As if fearful of reaching the

ground, the rays of the sun penetrated the dun-colored sky only feebly.

Guards and servants, scurrying messengers and bureaucrats alike felt the

Empress' temper. Eventually the rage spent itself and she settled herself down

in one of the lesser audience chambers.

Her thoughts were on her own fear. Idly she nibbled the headless corpse of a

still twitching blue beetle chamberlain who'd been too slow to get out of her

way. Chitin crunched beneath immensely powerful jaws.

It was some time before Kesylict the Minister dared to stick fluttery antennae

around the arched doorway into the chamber. Sensing only simmering anger and the

absence of blind fury he poked first his head and then the rest of his antlike

body into the room.

A glance revealed a ruby the size of a man's head and redder than his blood. In

the top facet Kesylict saw the reflection of the Empress. She was squatting on

four legs. The body of the unfortunate chamberlain dangled loosely from one hand

while the beautifully symmetrical porcelain-inlaid face of the Empress stared

out without seeming to see him.

Though not as lavishly decorated as the main audience chamber or the sinister

den of death designated as the royal bedroom, this chamber was still lush with

gems and precious metals. The Greendowns were rich in such natural wealth, as

though the earth had compensated the land for its noisome, malodorous surface

and eternal cloud cover.

They were much appreciated by the hard-shelled denizens of those lands. In the

absence of the sun, their sparkle and color provided much beauty. All the

varieties of corundum were mined in great quantities: beryl, sapphire, ruby.

Rarer diamond framed the windows in the chamber, and thousands of lesser gems,

from topaz to chryso-beryl, studded furniture and sculpture and the ceiling

itself.

But Kesylict had not kept his head by mooning like a bemused grub at commonplace

baubles. He waited and was ready when the triangular emerald green skull jerked

around and huge multifaceted eyes dotted with false black pupils glared down at

him.

Kesylict debated whether it might not be prudent to retire and wait a while

longer before attending his Empress. However, cowardice could cause him to go

the way of the chamberlain. That former servitor was now only an empty husk that

had been neatly scraped clean by the voracious Empress.

"Why do you cower in the doorway, Kesylict? Yes, I recognize you." Her voice was

thick and raspy, like sandpapered oil. Useless wings twitched beneath a long

flowing cape of pure silk inlaid with ten thousand amethysts and morions shaped

by the empire's finest gem-cutters and polishers, and attached to the cape by a

dozen royal seamstresses.

"Pardon, Your Majesty," said the hopeful Kesylict, "but I do not cower. I only

hesitate because while I have hoped to talk with you for the past several hours,

your mood recently has not been conducive to conversation." He gestured at the

corpse-shell of the chamberlain. "Mutual conversation is difficult when one of

the participants is forced to function minus his head."

That glowering, fixed skeleton shape could not twist her mouth parts into a

smile, and such an expression would have been foreign to her anyway.

Nonetheless, Kesylict felt some of the tension depart the room.

"A sense of humor when one's own possible demise is at stake is a finer

recommendation of courage than the most dry and somber brilliance, my Kesylict."

She tossed the empty shell of the chamberlain into a far corner, where it

shattered like an old dish. A couple of legs fell away and rolled up against a

far door. The corner was rounded, as were all in the room. The inhabitants of

the Greendowns disliked sharp angles.

She turned away from the window. "Anyway, I am full, and tired. But there is

more than that." Both knife-edged arms crossed in front of the green thorax, and

the decorated head rested on the crux they formed, producing a frozen image of

an insectoid odalisque.

"I am worried."

"Worried, Your Majesty?" Kesylict scuttled into the chamber, though taking care

to try and remain unobtrusively out of her reach. One could not escape the

lightning-swift grasp of the mantis unless one remained beyond its range. So

Kesylict approached no closer than protocol demanded. None could tell when the

mercurial desires of the Empress might change from a request for advice to a

craving for dessert.

"What could possibly be enough to worry Your Majesty? The preparations?" He

waved toward the far window. Outside and below were the busy streets of Cugluch,

capital of the Empire of the Chosen, their most powerful city. Teeming thousands

of dedicated citizens dutifully slaved for the glory of their Empress and their

society. Their own lives were filled with the shared glory of their race, and

each lowly worker was ready to share in the coming conquests. Preparations were

proceeding with the usual efficiency.

"We ready ourselves better than ever before in the history of the Empire, and

this time we cannot fail, Majesty."

"There has been no trouble with the stores?"

"None, Majesty." Kesylict sounded genuinely concerned. Though fearful for his

personal safety, he was nevertheless a loyal and devoted servant of his Empress,

and she did indeed seem worried.

"The training and mobilization also proceeds smoothly. Every day more grubs shed

their larval skin and develop arms and the desire to bear weapons. Never has our

army been as powerful, never has the desire of its troops been greater. Not one

but three great armies stand ready and anxious for the ultimate assault on the

lands to the west. Victory is within our grasp. Or so generals Mordeesha and

Evaloc have been saying for over a year now. The whole Empire pulses with desire

and readiness for battle.

"Yet by wisdom we wait, grow stronger still, so that we can now overwhelm the

hated soft ones with but a third of our strength."

She sighed, a low hiss. "Still, we have many thousands of years of failure

behind us to show the folly of brave words. I will not give the order to move

unless I am certain of success, Kesylict." Her head twitched to one side and she

used an arm to clean a bulging eye.

"No trouble then with the Manifestation?"

"Why, no, Majesty." Kesylict was appalled at the thought. For all his talk of

strength and desire, he knew that the Empress and general staff were pinning

their ultimate hopes on the Manifestation.

"What could be wrong with it?"

She shook a cautionary claw at him. "Where magic is involved, anything is

possible. This development is so different it frightens even Eejakrat, who is

responsible for it. The greatest care must be exercised to insure its safety and

surroundings."

"So it has been, Majesty. Any unauthorized who have come within a hundred

zequets of it have been killed, their bodies buried without even the meat being

consumed. Greater security has never been exercised in the whole history of the

Empire." He peered hard at her.

"Even still, my Majesty worries?"

"Even still." She made as if to rise from her squat. Kesylict took a nervous

step backward. She gestured casually, slowly, with an armored arm.

"Be at ease, my valued servant. I am sated physically. It is my mind that

hungers for surcease, and your counsel that I require. Not your meat."

"Gladly will I offer my poor advice to Your Majesty."

"This is not for you alone, Kesylict. Summon High General Mordeesha and the

sorcerer Eejakrat. I have need of their thoughts as well."

"It will be done, Your Majesty." The Minister turned, his cushioned shoes

scraping on the extruded stone floor. He was grateful for the respite but at the

same time concerned for the health of his Empress.

Everything was going so well. What could possibly have happened to upset her to

the point where she was worried about the outcome of the Great Enterprise?

Later, squatting with the others, Kesylict felt by far the most vulnerable, to

both physical abuse and criticism.

To his left rested the heavily armored and aged beetle shape of High General

Mordeesha. Battle armor drooped from his soft under-body. Insignia of rank and

the less symmetrical wounds of war were cut into his thick dorsal wing covers.

Sharp curving horns made of metal protruded from the helmet that fit over his

own horny skull. Sweeping metal flanges shielded his eyes.

From his neck hung tiny skulls and teeth taken from the corpses of those the

General had personally vanquished. They clanked hollowly against his metal

thorax plate as he shifted his position.

Nearby was the Grand Sorcerer Eejakrat, a thin, delicate insect-specter. Pure

white enamel decorated his wing cases and chitin. Strings of long white and

silver beads dangled fringelike from both sides of his maxilla. An artificial

white and silver crest ran from his forehead down between the dark compound eyes

to disappear in the middle of his back. It included his insignia of office, of

wisdom and knowledge, and marked him as the manipulator of magic most exalted.

Alongside the General, whose great physical skills could crush him easily, and

Eejakrat, whose arcane abilities could turn him back into a grub, the Minister

felt very inadequate indeed. Yet he squatted in the audience chamber amid the

glittering gems and thousand shafts of light they threw back from the dozens of

candles and the crystal candelabra overhead, as an equal with the others. For

Kesylict possessed an extraordinary reservoir of common sense, an ability most

Plated Folk lacked. It was for this that the Empress valued him so much, as a

counterweight to the blind drive of the General and the intricate machinations

of the Sorcerer.

"We've heard about your distress, Majesty," said the General tactfully. "Is it

so important that you must summon us to council now? The critical time nears.

Drill and redrill are required more than ever."

"I wish, though," responded Eejakrat in a voice that was almost a whisper

between his mandibles, "I could persuade you to wait at least another year,

General. I am not yet confident enough master over the Manifestation."

"Wait and wait," grumbled the General, skulls tinkling against his thorax.

"We've waited more than a year already. Always building, always preparing,

always strengthening our reserves. But there comes a time, good brother, much as

I respeet your learning, when even a soldier as unthinkingly devoted as those of

the Empire grows over-drilled and loses that keen edge for slaughter his officer

has worked so long and hard to instill in him. The army cannot retain itself at

fever-ready forever.

"Probably we will overwhelm the soft ones by sheer weight of numbers this time,

and will have no need of your obscure learning. You can then relax in your old

age and toy with this wonder you have conjured up. The final victory shall be

ours no matter what."

The General's voice trembled at the thought of the Great Conquest awaiting him,

a conquest that would alter forever the history of the world.

"Even so," said the Sorcerer softly, "you are glad to have both my old age and

my wonder in reserve, since in twenty thousand years we have shown ourselves

unable to defeat the soft ones, despite all our preparations and boastings."

As always, the General was ready to reply. Skrritch waved a knife-studded green

arm. The movement was slow to her, awesomely fast to her attendants. They

quieted, waited respectfully for what she might say.

"I have not called you here to discuss timing or tactics, but to listen to a

memory of a dream." She gazed at Mordeesha. "In dreams, General, it is Eejakrat

who is master. But I may want your opinion nonetheless." Obediently the General

bowed low.

"I am no jealous fool, Majesty. Now, of all times, we must put aside petty

rivalries to work for the greater glory of Cugluch. I will give my opinion if it

is asked for, and I will defer to my colleague's ancient wisdom." He nodded to

Eejakrat.

"A wise one knows his own limitations," observed a satisfied Eejakrat. "Describe

the dream, Majesty."

"I was resting in the bedchamber," she began slowly, "half asleep from the orgy

of mating and conversing with my most recent mate preparatory to his ritual

dispatching, when I felt a great unease. It was as if many hidden eyes were

spying upon me. They were alien eyes, and they burned. Hot and horribly moist

they felt. I believed they were seeing into my very insides.

"I gave a violent start, or so my attending mate later said, and struck

violently, instinctively, at the empty air. The cushions and pillows of my

boudoir are flayed like the underbellies of a dozen slaves because I struggled

so fiercely against nothingness.

"For an instant I seemed to see my tormentors. They had shape and yet no shape,

form without substance. I screamed aloud and they vanished. Awake, I flew into a

frustrated rage from which I have only just recovered." She looked anxiously at

Eejakrat.

"Sorcerer, what does this portend?"

Eejakrat located a clean place amid the royal droppings and rested on his hind

legs. The tip of his abdomen barely touched the floor. Minims, foot-long

subservitors, busied themselves cleaning his chitin.

"Your Majesty worries overmuch on nothing." He shrugged and waved a thin hand.

"It may only have been a bad hallucination. You have so much on your mind these

days that such upsets are surprising only in that you have not experienced many

before this. In the afterdaze of postcoital subsidence such imaginings are only

to be expected."

Skrritch nodded and began to clean her other eye, shooing away the distraught

minims. "Always the soft ones have managed to defeat us in battle." General

Mordeesha shifted uncomfortably.

"They are fast and strong. Most of all, they are clever. We lose not because our

troops lack strength or courage but because we lack imagination in war. Perhaps

my imagining is, after all, a good sign. Do not look so uncomfortable, General.

You are about to receive the word you have waited for for so long.

"I believe the time has come to move." Mordeesha looked excited. "Yes, General.

You may inform the rest of the staff to begin final preparations."

"Majesty," put in Eejakrat, "I would very much like another six months to study

the ramifications of the Manifestation. I do not understand it well enough yet."

"You will have some time yet, my good advisor," she told him, "because it will

take a while to get so vast an enterprise in motion. But General Mordeesha's

words concerning the morale and readiness of the troops must be acknowledged.

Without that, all your magic will do us no good."

"I will give you all the time I can, wizard," said Mordeesha. "I wish your

support." His eyes glittered in the candlelight as he rose to a walking

position. He bowed once more.

"By your leave, Majesty, I will retire now and initiate preparations. There is a

great deal to do."

"Stay a moment, General." She turned her attention to the sorcerer. "Eejakrat, I

like not rushing the wise ones among us who serve with you in this great

undertaking. We have been defeated in the past because we acted without patience

or stealth. But I feel the time is right, and Mordeesha concurs. I want you to

understand I am not favoring his advice over yours." She looked at Kesylict.

"I am neither general nor wizard, Majesty," the Minister told her, "but my

instincts say, 'act now.' It is the mood of the workers as well."

Eejakrat sighed. "Let it be so, then. As to the dream-hallucination, Majesty...

there are many masters of magic among the soft ones. We can despise them for

their bodies but not for their minds. Perhaps I am paranoid with our plans so

near fruition, but it is not inconceivable that the shapes you think were

watching you were knowledgeable ones among the soft folk. Though," he admitted,

"I know of no wizardry power strong enough to reach all the way from the

warm-lands to Cugluch and then penetrate the Veils of Confusion and Conflict I

have drawn about the Manifestation. Nevertheless, I shall try to learn more

about what occurred.

"If that happened to be true, however, it means that the sooner we act the surer

we shall be of surprise and victory." He turned to the General. "See, Mordeesha,

how my thoughts give support to your desires against my own hopes. Perhaps it is

for the best. Perhaps I grow overcautious in my old age.

"If you are ready, if the armies are ready, then I will force myself to be ready

also. To the final glory, then?"

"To the final glory," they all recited in unison.

Skrritch turned, pulled a cord. Three servitors appeared. Each carried a freshly

detached, dripping limb from some unfortunate, unseen source. These were

distributed. The four in council sucked out the contents of the arms by way of

mutual congratulations.

They then took their leave, the General to his staff meeting, Eejakrat to his

quarters to ponder a possible impossible mental intrusion into Cugluch, and

Kesylict to arrange the mundane matters of mealtimes and official appointments

for the following day.

The Minister had good reason to ponder the Empress' words concerning the

notorious cleverness of the soft ones. By such similar adroitness had he

retained his head upon his neck, even to agreeing with the others that the time

to move had arrived. Privately he thought Eejakrat should be given all the time

he wished. Kesylict had read the forbidden records, knew the litany of failure

of past battles with the soft ones. So while he was as ignorant of the

complexities of the Manifestation as any of the Royal Council, he knew that in

Eejakrat's manipulation of it lay the Plated Folk's hopes for final victory over

their ancient enemies, and not in General Mordeesha's boasts of superior

military strength.

Alone, Skrritch pulled a second call cord. A servitor appeared with a tall,

narrow-spouted drinking vessel. The Empress washed down the remnants of the

recent toast, then turned and stared once more out the window.

Thickening mist obscured even the ramparts of the Keep. The city of Cugluch and

its milling thousands were blotted out as though they did not exist. Day turned

toward night as the mist and fog grew darker, indicating the down passage of the

sun.

Mordeesha and his fellow generals had been chafing at the bit for several laying

periods. She had held off as long as possible in order to give Eejakrat still

more time to study his Manifestation. But knowing the wizard, such study could

go on forever.

The elastic of patience had been broken now. Soon the word would spread

throughout the Greendowns that the war had begun.

For an instant she thought again of the disturbing dream. Perhaps it had been no

more than a daymare. Even empresses were subjeet to strain. Eejakrat did not

seem overly concerned about it, so there was no reason for it to continue to

trouble her thoughts.

There were promotions and demotions to be bestowed, executions to order,

punishments to decide, and rewards to be handed out. Tomorrow's court schedule,

so ably organized by the prosaic Kesylict, was quite full.

Such everyday activities seemed superfluous, now that the first steps toward

final victory had been initiated. She savored the thought. Of all the emperors

and empresses of the far-flung Empire she would be the first to stride

possessively through the gentle lands of the soft ones, the first to bring back

plunder and thousands of slaves from the other side of the world.

And after that, what might she not accomplish? Even Eejakrat had voiced thoughts

about the possibilities the Manifestation might create. Such possibilities

extended beyond the bounds of a single world.

She turned on her side and leaned back against a hundred glowing red rubies and

crimson cushions. Her ambition was as boundless as the universe, as far-reaching

as Eejakrat's magic. She could hardly wait for the war to begin. Glory would

accrue to her and to Cugluch. With the wizard's assistance why should she not

become Empress of the Universe, supreme ruler of as yet unknown beyonds and

their inhabitants?

Yes, she would have the exquisite pleasure of presiding over destruction and

conquest instead of records and stupid, fawning, peaceful citizens. Cugluch was

on the march, as it should be. Only this tune it would swell and grow instead of

sputtering to an ignominious halt!

The hallucination faded until it was only an amusing and insignificant

memory....

XV

Jon-Tom was split down the middle. Half of him was cool and damp from the early

morning mist. The other side was warm and dry, almost hot with the weight

leaning against it.

He opened his eyes with that first lethargic movement of awakening and saw a

white-and-black-clad form snuggled close against his own. Flor's long black hair

lay draped over his shoulder. Her head was nestled in the crook of his left arm.

Instead of moving and waking her, he used the time to study that perfect, silent

face. She looked so different, so childlike in sleep. Further to his left

slumbered the silent shape of the wizard.

With his head and limbs retracted Clothahump was a boulderish form near a clump

of bushes. Jon-Tom started to look back down at his sleeper when he became aware

of movement just behind him. Startled, he reached automatically for his war

staff.

"Rest easy, Jon-Tom." The voice was less reassuring than the words it spoke.

Talea moved down beside him, staring morosely at the recumbent couple. "If I

murder you, Jon-Tom, it won't ever be in your sleep." She stepped lithely over

them both and trotted over to Clothahump.

She bent and rapped unceremoniously on the shell. "Wake up, wizard!"

A head soon appeared, followed by a pair of arms. One hand held a pair of

spectacles which were promptly secured before the turtle's eyes. Then the legs

appeared. After resting a moment on all fours, the wizard pushed back into a

squat, then stood.

"I am not accustomed," he began huffily, "to being awakened in so brusque a

fashion, young lady. If I were of less understanding a mind..."

"Save it," she said, "for him." She pointed to the unsteady shape of Pog. The

sleepy bat was fluttering awkwardly over to attend to his master's early morning

needs. He'd been sleeping in the branches of the great oak overhead.

"What's da matter?" he asked tiredly. "What's all da uproar? Can't ya let a

person sleep?"

"C'mon," Talea said curtly, "everybody up." She looked back at Jon-Tom, and he

wondered at something he thought he saw in her gaze. "Well," she asked him, "are

you two going to join this little session or aren't you? Or do you intend to

spend the rest of your life practicing to be a pillow?"

"I might," he shot back, challenging her stare and not moving. She looked away.

"What's the trouble, anyway? Why the sudden fanaticism for an early start? I've

never noticed you passing up any chance for a little extra sleep."

"Ordinarily I'd still be asleep, Jon-Tom," she replied, "but what made me wake

up wasn't too much sleep but the lack of something else. Isn't it obvious to any

of you yet?" She spread both hands and turned a half circle. "Where's Mudge?"

Jon-Tom eased Flor off his shoulder. She blinked sleepily and then, becoming

aware of her position, slid to one side. Her cat stretch made it difficult for

him to concentrate on the problem at hand.

"Mudge is gone," he told her as he rose, trying to work the kinks out of

shoulders and legs.

"So da fuzzy little bugger up and split." Pog used the tip of one wing to clean

an ear, grimacing as he did so. "Don't surprise me none. He as much as said he

was gonna do it first chance he got."

"I thought better of him." Jon-Tom looked disappointedly at the surrounding

woods.

Talea laughed. "Then you're a bigger fool than you seem. Don't you realize, the

only thing that kept him with us this far was wizardry threats." She jabbed a

thumb toward Clothahump.

"I am most upset," said the wizard quietly. "Despite his unfortunate

predilection for illegal activities, I rather liked that otter." Jon-Tom watched

the turtle's expression change. "Well, I cannot bring him back, but I can fix

him, where he is. I'll put a seekstealth on him."

Inquiry revealed that a seekstealth was something of a magical delayed-action

bomb. Possessed of its own ethereal composition, it would drift about the world

invisibly until it finally tracked down its assigned individual. At that point

the substance of the spell would take effect. Jon-Tom shook at how devastating

such a Damoclean conjuration could be. The unfortunate subject could

successfully elude the seekstealth for years, only to wake up one morning having

long since forgotten the original incident to discover that he now had, for

example, the head of a chicken. How could this happen to his friend Mudge? Wait

one hour, he begged the wizard, who reluctantly agreed.

One hour later Clothahump commenced forming the complex spell. He was halfway

through it when a figure appeared out of the forest. Jon-Tom and Flor turned

from preparing breakfast to observe it.

Several small, bright blue lizard shapes dangled from its belt, their heads

scraping the ground. In all other respects it was quite familiar.

Mudge detached the catch from his waist and tossed the limp forms near the

cookfire. Then he frowned curiously at the half circle of gaping onlookers.

" 'Ere now, wot's with all the fish-faces, wot?" He bent over the lizards,

pulled out his knife, and inserted it in one of the bodies. "Take me a moment,

mates, t' gut these pretties and then we can set t' some proper fryin'. Takes a

true gourmet chef, it does, t' prepare limnihop the right way."

Clothahump had ceased his mumbling and gesticulating. He looked quite angry.

"Nice mornin' for huntin'," said the otter conversationally. "Ground's moist

enough t' leave tracks everwhere, so wakin' up early as I did, I thought I'd

'ave a go at supplementin' our larder." He finished the last lizard, began to

skin them. Then he paused, whiskers twitching a touch uncertainly as he noticed

everyone still staring at him.

"Crikey, wot's the bloomin' matter with you all?"

Jon-Tom walked over, patted the otter on the back. "We thought for a moment that

you'd run out on us. I knew you wouldn't do that, Mudge."

"The 'ell I wouldn't," came the fervent reply. Mudge gestured toward Clothahump

with the knife. "But I've no doubt 'Is Brainship 'ere would keep his wizardly

word t' do somethin' rotten t' meself, merely because I might choose t' exercise

me own freedom o' will. Might even do me the dirty o' puttin' a seekstealth on

me."

"Oh, now I don't know that I would go that far," muttered Clotha-hump. Jon-Tom

looked at him sharply.

"Now don't get me wrong, mate," the otter said to Jon-Tom. "I like you, and I

like the two dear ladies, even if they are a bit standoffish, and even old Pog

'ere can be good company when 'e wants to." The bat looked down from his branch

and snorted, then returned to preening himself.

"It's just that I'm not lookin' forward t' the prospect o' possible

dismemberment. But then, I've said all this before, 'aven't I." He smiled

beatifically. " 'Tis the threat that keeps me taggin' along. I know better than

t' try and run off."

"It is not that we believed you had actually done that. Which is to say, we were

not entirely certain that..."

"Stow it, guv'nor. I don't pay it no mind." He set the fillets on the fire,

moved to a mossy log, and pulled off one boot. Furry toes wiggled as he turned

the boot upside down and tapped the heel with a paw. Several small pebbles

tumbled out.

"Some bloody deep muck I 'ad t' slop through t' run that set down. Twas worth

it, I think. They're young enough t' be sweet and old enough t' be meaty. Truth

t' tell, I was gettin' tired o' nuts and berries and jerky." He shoved his foot

back into the boot.

"Come on, now. Surely none o' you seriously thought I'd taken the long hike?

Let's get t' some serious business, right? Breakfast!" He ambled toward the

fire. "I may be ignorant, foul-mouthed, lecherous, and disreputable," he reached

for the proximate curves of Talea's derriere and she jumped out of the way, "but

there be one thing I am that's good. I'm the best camp cook this side or the

Muddletup Moors." He winked at Jon-Tom.

"Comes from 'avin' t' eat on the run all your life."

There was no more talk of desertion. The lizards looked rather more ghastly than

the average hunk of cooked meat. Flor bit into her seetion with obvious gusto,

so Jon-Tom could hardly show queasi-ness. Meat was meat, after all, and he'd

eaten plenty of reptile in the past weeks. It was just that they'd been such

cute little blue things.

"Muy bueno," Flor told Mudge, licking her fingers. "Maybe one of these days I'll

have a chance to make you my quesadillas."

Mudge was repacking his gear. "Maybe one o' these days I'll 'ave a chance to

sample some quintera."

"No,no. 'Quesadilla.' Quintera is my..." She gaped, and then to Jon-Tom's

considerable surprise, she blushed. The flush was very becoming on her dark

skin. He wanted to say something but somehow the idea of admonishing an otter

about a ribald remark upset him. He simply could not visualize the furry joker

as a rival. It was inhuman....

They shouldered their packs and started across the glade. Jon-Tom chatted with

Mudge and Clothahump while Flor engaged the gruff but willing Pog in

conversation. She was curious about the functions of a famulus, and he readily

supplied her with a long list of the mostly unpleasant activities he was

regularly required to perform. He spoke softly, out of the wizard's hearing.

Water occasionally lapped at their boots. The night's rain had littered the

glade with little pools. They avoided the largest without anyone noticing that

several of the depressions were identical in outline: the shape of hooves had

been melted into the rock.

Jon-Tom was not prepared for his first sight of the river. The Tailaroam was

anything but the modest stream he'd expected.

It was broad and wild, with an occasional flash of racing white water showing

where the current ran from east to west. He had no way of knowing its depth, but

it seemed substantial enough to support a very large vessel indeed. It reminded

him of pictures he'd seen of the Ohio in colonial times. Not that he expected to

see anything as technologically advanced as a steamship or sternwheeler.

Possibly it was the contrast that made the river seem so big. This was the first

time he'd seen anything larger than a rivulet or creek, and the Tailaroam was

enormous in comparison. Willow and cypress clustered thickly along the banks.

Here and there, scattered stands of birch thrust thin skeletal fingers toward a

cloud-flecked sky.

They turned eastward and moved steadily upstream. The dense undergrowth that

hugged the river made progress slow. Tangled clumps of moonberry bushes often

forced them to change direction, and brambles stuck to their capes and tried to

work their way to the skin beneath.

Eventually they found what Clothahump had been searching for: a flat peninsula

of sand and gravel that jutted out into the water. Only a few bushes clung

tenaciously to the poor soil. In high-water weather the little spit would be

submerged. For now it formed a natural landing place and a good one, the wizard

explained, from which to hail a passing ship.

Day slid into day, however, without any sign of river travel.

"Commerce is thin this time of year," Clothahump told them apologetically.

"There are more ships in the spring when the river is higher and the upper

rapids more navigable. If we do not espy transport soon, we may be reduced to

constructing our own." He sounded irritated and perhaps a little peeved that

Talea might have been right in suggesting they travel overland.

The next two days offered only hopeful signs. Several boats passed them, but all

were traveling downstream toward the Glittergeist Sea and distant Snarken.

Jon-Tom used the time to practice his duar, working to master the difficult

double-string arrangement. He was careful only to play soft music and not to

sing any songs for fear of accidentally conjuring something distressing. Clouds

of gneechees seemed to swarm about him at such times. He was learning to resist

the constant temptation to spend all his time trying to catch one in his gaze.

Once something like a foot-long glowworm crawled out of the shallows to dance

and writhe near his feet. It did nothing else, and shot back into the water the

instant he stopped playing.

Flor was fascinated by the instrument. Despite Jon-Tom's initial worries she

insisted on trying it herself. She succeeded only in strumming a few basic

chords, and went back to listening to him play.

She was doing so one morning when a cry came from Talea.

"A ship!" She stood on the end of the sandy point and gestured to the west.

"How big?" Clothahump puffed his way over to stand next to her. Jon-Tom slipped

the duar back across his chest, and he and Flor moved to stand behind them.

"Can't tell." Talea squinted, shielded her eyes. The cloud cover now restricted

the sunlight, but the glare from the surface of the river was still strong

enough to water unwary eyes.

Soon the vessel hove into full view. It was stocky and pointed at both ends. Two

square-rigged sails were mounted on separate masts set fore and aft. There was a

central cabin abovedeck and a narrow high poop from which a figure was steering

the ship by means of an enormous oar.

There were also groups of creatures moving from east to west along the sides of

the ship. They shoved at long poles. Jon-Tom thought he could make out at least

a couple of humans among the fur.

"Looks like a cross between a miniature galleon and a keelboat," he murmured

thoughtfully. Wetting a finger, he tested the wind. It was blowing upstream.

That would propel a sailboat against the current, and the ship could then down

sail and take the current back downstream. Except on days such as today. The

breeze was weak, and the keel poles had been brought into play to keep the

vessel moving.

"Are they flying a merchant's pennant?" Clothahump fiddled with his spectacles.

"One of these days I really must try and master that spell for myopia."

"Hard to tell," Talea said. "They're flying something."

"There seem to be an awful lot of people on deck." Jon-Tom frowned. "Not all of

them are pushing on those poles. Some of them seem to be running around the edge

of the ship. Could they be exercising?"

"Are you more than 'alf mad, mate? Anyone not workin' 'is arse off would be

below decks restin' out o' the way."

"They're running nonetheless." Jon-Tom frowned, trying to make some sense out of

the apparently purposeless activity taking place on the ship.

"Pog!"

The bat was instantly at Clothahump's side. "Yes, Master?" He hastily tossed

away the lizard leg he'd been gnawing on.

"Find out who they are, how far upstream they are traveling, and if they will

take us as passengers."

"Yes, Master." The bat soared out over the water, heading for the boat. Jon-Tom

followed the weaving shape.

Pog appeared to circle above the vessel. It was now almost opposite their little

beach, though on the far side of the river. It wasn't long before the famulus

came speeding back.

"Well?" Clothahump demanded as the bat fluttered to a resting stance on the

ground.

"Boss, I don't think dey're much in the mood for talking business." He raised a

wing and showed them the shaft of the arrow protruding from it. Plucking it

free, he threw it into the water and studied the wound. "Shit! Needle and thread

time again."

"Are you certain they were shooting at you?" asked Flor.

Pog made a face, which on a bat can be unbearably gruesome. "Yes, I'm sure dey

were shooting at me!" he said sarcastically, mimicking her voice. "So sorry I

couldn't bring more proof back wid me, but unfortunately I managed ta dodge da

other dozen or so belly-splitters dey shot at me."

He was fumbling in his backpack. Out came a large needle and a spool of some

organic material that Jon-Tom knew could not be catgut. As the bat sewed, he

spoke.

"Dere seemed ta be some kind of riot or fight taking place on da deck. I just

kinda circled overhead trying ta make some sense outta what was going on.

Eventually I gave up and drifted over da poop deck. Tings were quieter dere and

it's where I'd expected ta find da captain. I tink one of 'em was, because he

was better dressed dan any of da odders, but I couldn't be sure, ya know?" He

pushed the needle through the membrane without any sign that it pained him,

stuck it around and in again, and pulled smoothly. The hole was beginning to

close.

"So I shout down at dis joker about us needing some transportation upstream.

First ting he does is call me a black-winged, gargoyle-faced, insect-eating

son-of-a-bitch." He shrugged. "Da conversation went downhill from dere."

"I don't understand such hostility," murmured Clothahump, watching as their

hoped-for transport began to slip out of sight eastward. No telling how long it

might be before another going that way might pass them.

"I just got da impression," continued Pog, "that da captain and his crew were

pretty fucking mad about someting and was in no mood to talk polite to anyone

including dere own sweethearts, if dey got any, which I doubt. Why dey were so

mad I don't know, an' I wasn't about ta hang around an make no pincushion of my

little bod ta find out."

"We might find out anyway." Everyone looked toward Mudge. The otter was staring

out across the river.

"How do you mean?" asked Flor.

"I believe they just threw somebody overboard."

Distant yelling and cursing came from the fading silhouette of the ship. Several

splashes showed clearly now around the ship's side. Even Jon-Tom saw them.

"Somebody's jumped in after the first," said Talea. "I don't think anyone's been

thrown, Mudge. There! The three that just jumped are being pulled back aboard.

The first is swimming this way. Can you make out what it is?"

"No, not yet, luv," replied the otter, "but it's definitely comin' toward us."

They waited curiously while the ship slowly receded from sight, trailing a

philologic wake of insult behind it.

Several long minutes later they watched as a thoroughly drenched figure nearly

as tall as Flor emerged dripping from waist-deep water and slogged toward them.

It was a biped and clad in what when dry would be an immaculate silk dressing

jacket lined with lace at cuffs and neck. A lace shirt protruded wetly from

behind the open jacket, the latter a green brocade inlaid with gold thread. The

white lace was now dim with river muck.

Matching breeches blended into silk knee-length stockings which rose from

enormous black shoes with gold buckles. The shoes, Jon-Tom estimated hastily,

were comparable to a size twenty-two narrow for a human, which the damp arrival

was not.

It stopped, surveyed them with a jaundiced eye, and began wringing water from

its sleeves. A monocle remained attached to the jacket by means of a long gold

chain. After adjusting it in his right eye, the rabbit said with considerable

dignity: "Surely you would not set upon a traveler in distress. I am the victim

of antisocial activities." He gestured tiredly upstream to where the boat had

vanished.

"I cast myself on your mercies, being too exhausted to fight or flee any

farther."

"Take it easy," said Talea. "You play square with us and we'll be square with

you."

"An estimable offer of association, beautiful lady." Bending over, the rabbit

shook his head and ran a clutching paw down each long white and pink ear. Water

dripped from their ends.

A few isolated patches of brown and gray spotted the otherwise white fur. Nose

and ears were partly pink. From a hole in the back of his breeches protruded a

white tail. At the moment it resembled a soggy lump of used cotton.

Mudge had been assisting Pog in trimming and tying off the end of his stitchery.

At first he'd paid the new arrival only cursory attention. Now he left the bat

and moved to join his companions. As he did so he had a better view of the

bedraggled but still unbowed refugee, and he let out an ear-splitting whistle.

Expecting the worst, the rabbit flinched back, thinking he was now about to be

attacked despite Talea's announcement of assistance. But when he got his first

look at the otter he let out a sharp whistle of his own. Mudge flung himself

into the taller animal's arms and the two spent several minutes apparently

trying to beat each other to death.

"Bugger me for a fag ferret!" Mudge was shouting gleefully. "Imagine seein' you

'ere!" He turned, panting, to find his friends staring dumbfoundedly at him."

'Ere now, you chaps don't know who this be, do you?" He whacked the rabbit on

the back once more. "Introduce yourself, you vagrant winter coat!"

The rabbit removed his monocle carefully and cleaned it with a dry sleeve. "I am

Caspar di Lorca di l'Omollia di los Enansas Giterxos. However," and he slipped

the now sparkling eyepiece back in place, "you may all call me Caz."

He frowned as he examined his silk stockings and pants. "You must please excuse

my dreadful appearance, but circumstances compelled that I exit hastily and by

unexpected aquatic route from my most recent method of conveyance."

"Good riddance ta 'em," snorted Pog, giving the horizon the finger.

"Ah, the aerial disruption that facilitated my departure." The rabbit watched as

Pog tested his repaired wing. "It was because of your arrival that I was able to

take leave so unbloodily, my airborne friend. Though I had little time for

extraneous observation I saw the disgusting manner in which you were treated. It

was rather like my own situation."

Clothahump had little time for individual tales of woe, no matter how nicely

embroidered. "Talea said that we would treat you fairly, stranger. So we shall.

I must tell you immediately that I am a wizard and that," he pointed at Jon-Tom,

"is an otherworldly wizard. With two wizards confronting you, you dare not lie.

Now then, be good enough to tell us exactly why you jumped off that boat and why

several members of its crew chased you into the water themselves?"

"Surely the sad details of my unfortunate situation would only bore you, wizened

sir."

"Try me." Clothahump wagged a warning finger at the rabbit. "And remember what I

said about telling the truth."

Caz looked around. He was cut off from the rest of the shore. Two humans of

enormous size towered expectantly over him. If the turtle was no wizard, he was

clearly convinced he was one.

"Best do as 'Is Smartship says, mate," Mudge told him." 'E's a true wizard as 'e

says. Besides," the otter hunkered down on his haunches against a smooth section

of sand, "I'm curious meself."

"There's not much to relate." Caz moved over to their smoking camp fire and

continued to dry himself. "It was in the nature of a childish dispute over a

game of chance."

"That sounds about right." Talea grinned tightly. "They did throw you overboard,

then?"

The rabbit smiled slightly, turned, and shoved his tail end toward the fire.

"Sadly, they would not have been content with that. I fear they had somewhat

more lethal designs on my person. I was forced to fend them off until your

friend with the wings momentarily distracted them, thus enabling me to enter the

river intact. Though I first tried my best to reason with them."

"Yeah," said Pog from nearby, "I saw how ya was reasoning wid dem." He flapped

experimentally, rose a few feet into the air. "Dey reasoned ya all over da

ship!"

"Ignorant peddlars of trash and quasi-pirates," said Caz huffily. He studied his

sodden lacework in evident distress. "I fear they have caused me to ruin my

attire."

"What did they catch you cheating at," asked Flor casually, "cards?"

"I beg your pardon, vision of heaven, but that is an accusation so vile I cannot

believe it fell from the lips of one so magnificent as to constitute a monument

to every standard of beauty in the universe."

"It fell," she told him.

"I never cheat at cards. I have no need to, being something of an expert at

their manipulation."

"Which means they caught you cheating at dice," Talea said assuredly.

"I fear so. My expertise with the bones does not match my skill at cards."

Talea laughed. "Meaning it's a damnsight harder to hide a die up your sleeve

than a card. No wonder your shirt boasts so much lace."

The rabbit looked hurt, ran fingers through the fur on his forehead and then up

one ear. "I had hoped to find refuge. Instead I am subject to constant

ridicule."

"Truth, you mean."

Caz readied another reply, but Flor interrupted him. "Never you mind. We're all

busy showing each other how tough we can be. We'll just have to make sure not to

gamble with you."

"Where such loveliness is present, I never gamble," he informed her. Flor looked

nonplussed.

"Well, you're well out o' it, mate," observed Mudge. "From the look o' you,

squelchy as a fish or not, you've done right well since the last we met."

"I recall that encounter clearly." Now the rabbit was cleaning his buckled

shoes. "If I remember correctly, that was also an occasion that demanded a hasty

departure."

High otter-laugh whistled over the water. "I'll never forget it, guv. The look

on that poor banker clerk's face when 'e found out 'ow 'e'd been duked!" Their

voices blended as they reminisced.

Talea listened for a few minutes, then walked to the water's edge. Flor was

sitting there, watching the two furry friends converse.

"Otherworlder," Talea began, "that Caz had a certain look in his eye when he was

talking to you. I know his type. Fast talk, fast action, fast departure. You

watch yourself."

Flor looked up, then stood. She shaded the comparatively diminutive Talea.

"Thanks for the advice, but I'm a big girl now. I can take care of myself.

Comprende?"

"Size and wise don't necessarily go together," the redhead said. "I was just

giving you fair warning."

"Thanks for your concern."

"Just remember one thing about him." Talea nodded toward the chattering Caz.

"He'll probably screw anything that walks and likely a few things that don't.

Old Mudge is a talker, but this one's a doer. You can tell."

"I'm sure I can rely on your experienced judgment," replied Flor evenly. She

moved away before Talea could ask exactly what the last comment meant.

"That is my recent history," the rabbit was saying. He examined the otter's

companions. "What then are you bound to, old friend? This does not appear to me

to be a typical robber band, though if such is their wont I daresay they would

be efficient at it. Those are two of the biggest humans I've ever seen. And the

turtle called the man an 'otherworldly' wizard."

"I don't wonder at your wonderin', mate," said Mudge. " 'Tis all part o' the

strangest tale ever a 'alf-senile wizard wove. I'd give me left incisor if I'd

never o' become involved with this bunch." His voice had dropped to a whisper.

"Now don't you go botherin' yourself about it. You can't 'elp me. You get on

your way afore 'is 'ard-shelled and 'ard-'eaded wizardship there conscripts you

also. 'E's a no-nonsense sorcerer 'e is, and 'e's dragged us all off on some

bloody crusade to save the world. Don't think o' doubtin' 'is magic, for 'e's

the real article, 'e is, not some carnival fakir. The tall 'uman man with the

slightly stupid expression, 'im I still ain't figured out. 'E seems as naive

sometimes as a squallin' cub, but I've seen with me own eyes the magic 'e can

work. 'E's a spellsinger."

"What about the tall human woman. Is she a sorceress?"

"Not that she's shown so far," said Mudge thoughtfully. "I don't think she is.

Sure is built, though."

"Ah, my friend, you have no appreciation for the arts of higher learning. Even

in our brief exchange I could tell that she is of a noble order of initiates on

whom high intellectual honors are bestowed."

"Like I said," reiterated the otter, "she sure is built."

Caz shook his head dolefully. "Will you never lift your thoughts from the

gutter, friend Mudge?"

"I like it in the gutter," was the response. " 'Tis warm and friendly down

there, and you meet up with all manner o' interestin' folk. What's 'appened t'

me since I made the mistake o' temporarily comin' out o' the gutter is that I

was stuck as wet-nurse t' the lad, and now I've got meself sort o' swept along a

course I can't change or swim out of. As I've said afore, mate, the company is

nice but the situation sucks. Shssh, be quiet, an' watch your words. 'Ere 'e

comes now."

Clothahump had waddled over to them. Now he looked sorrow-ingly down at Mudge.

"My dear otter," he said, peering over his spectacles, "do you never stop to

consider that one who is capable of calling up elemental forces from halfway

across the universe is also quite able to hear what is being said only a few

yards behind him?"

Mudge looked startled. "You 'eard everythin', then?"

"Most everything. Oh, don't look like a frightened infant. I'm not going to

punish you for expressing in private an opinion you've made no secret of in

public." The otter relaxed slightly.

"I didn't imagine you might 'ave a 'earin' spell set on yourself, Your

Niceness."

"I didn't," explained the wizard. "I simply have very good hearing. A

compensation perhaps for my weak eyesight." He regarded the watchful Caz. "You,

sir, you have heard what our mutual friend thinks. Allow me to explain further,

and then see if you think our 'crusade' is so insane."

He proceeded to give the rabbit a rundown on both their purpose and progress.

When he'd finished, Caz looked genuinely concerned. "But of course if what you

say is imminent, then I must join your company."

"Wot?" Mudge looked stunned, and his whiskers twitched uncontrollably.

"That's damn decent of you," said Jon-Tom. "We can use all the help we can get."

"It simply seems to me," said the rabbit slowly, "that if the sorcerer here is

correct, and I have no reason to doubt him, then the world as we know it will be

destroyed unless we do our best to help prevent the coming catastrophe. That

strikes me as quite an excellent cause to commit oneself to. Yes, I shall be

honored to join your little expedition and give what assistance I may."

"You're daft!" Mudge shook his head in despair. "Downright balmy. The water's

seeped into your brain."

"Idiot," was all Pog said, confirming Mudge's assessment of Caz's action. But

there were congratulations and thanks from Clothahump and the two otherworldly

humans.

Even Talea ventured a grudging kind of admiration. "Not many people around

who'll do the honorable thing these days."

"That's true of at least one other world, too," added Flor tentatively.

"It is sad, but honor is a dying attribute." Caz put a paw over his heart. "I

can but do my slight best to help restore it."

"We're certainly glad to have you with us." Clothahump was clearly overwhelmed

by this first voluntary offer to help. "Do you have a sword or something?"

"Alas," said the rabbit, spreading his paws, "I have nothing but what you see.

If I can procure a weapon I will naturally carry it, though I have found that my

most efficient methods of disarming an opponent involve the employment of facile

words and not sharp points."

"We need sword arms, not big mouths," grumbled Talea.

"There are times, head and heart of fire, when a large mouth can smother the

best attack an antagonist can mount. Do not be so quick to disparage that which

you do not possess."

"Now look here, are you calling me dumb, you fuzz-faced son of... !"

Clothahump stepped between them. "I will not tolerate fighting among allies.

Save your fury for the Plated Folk, who will absorb all you can muster." He

suddenly looked very tired.

"Please, no more insult-mongering. Not direct," and he glared at Talea, "or

veiled," and he gianced over his shell at Caz.

"I shall endeavor to control an acid tongue," said the rabbit dutifully.

"I'll keep my mouth shut if he does the same," Talea muttered.

"Good. Now I suggest we all relax and enjoy the midday meal. Have you eaten

recently, sir?"

The rabbit shook his head. "I fear I had to depart before lunch. This has not

been my day for timing."

"Then we will eat, and wait...."

XVI

But no other vessel appeared while they ate. Nor all the rest of that day or the

morning of the next.

"In truth, we passed much commerce moving downstream toward the Glittergeist,"

Caz informed them, "but practically none save ourselves moving in the other

direction. The winds are capricious this time of year. Not many shipowners are

willing to pay the expense of poling a cargo all the way up the Tailaroam. Good

polers are too expensive. They make profit most uncertain.

"We shall be fortunate to see another ship moving upstream, and even if we

should, there's no guarantee they'd have room aboard for so many passengers. My

vessel was quite crowded and I was the only noncrewmember aboard." He spat

delicately at the sand. "A distinction I should have avoided."

Clothahump sighed. He struggled to his feet and trundled to the water's edge.

After a long stare at the surface, he nodded and told them, "This part of the

Tailaroam is wide and deep. It should be full of docile but fast-swimming

salamanders. They will be safer and cheaper than any ship." He cleared his

throat. "I will call several from the deeps to carry us."

He raised short arms over the gently lapping water, opened his mouth, and looked

very confused. "At least, I believe I will. That spell..." He began searching

the drawers in his plastron. "Salamanders... salamanders... Pog!"

The bat appeared, hovered in front of him. "Don't ask me, boss. I don't know

where ya put it, either. I don't tink I ever remember hearin' about it. When was

da last time ya had ta use it? Maybe ya can goose me memory if not your own."

The wizard looked thoughtful. "Let me see... oh yes, it was about a hundred

years ago, I think."

Pog shook his head. "Sorry, Master. I wasn't around."

"Damn it," Clothahump muttered in frustration, still sorting through his shell,

"it has to be in here someplace."

Jon-Tom turned his attention to the water. Everyone's attention was on the

wizard. He swung the duar around from his back, experimented with the strings.

Notes floated like Christmas ornaments over the surface.

"Allow me, sir," he said importantly, watching out of the corner of an eye to

see if Flor was paying attention.

"What, again?"

He waded ankle-deep out into the water. It swirled expectantly about his boots.

"Why not? Didn't I do well the last tune we needed transportation?" Yes, Flor

was definitely watching him now.

"You did well indeed, boy, but by accident."

"Not entirely accident. We needed transportation, I called for it, we got it.

The outlines were a little different, that's all. I should have more control

over it this time."

"Well... if you think you're ready." Clothahump sounded uncertain.

"Ready as I can be."

"Then you know a proper salamander song?"

"Uh... not exactly. Maybe if you'd describe one."

"We should need six of them," the turtle began. "Pog has his own transportation.

Salamanders are about twelve feet long, including tail. They have shiny gray

bodies tending to white on their bellies, and their backs and sides are covered

with red and yellow splotches. They have small but sharp teeth, long claws on

webbed feet, and are dangerous only when threatened. If you can induce them up,

I can put a control spell on them that will allow us to manage them all the way

to Polastrindu." He added under his breath, "Know that stupid thing's around

here somewhere."

"Twelve feet long, gray to white with red and yellow spots, claws and teeth but

dangerous only when threatened," Jon-Tom muttered. He was stalling for time,

aware of everyone's eyes on him. "Let's see... something by Simon and Garfunkle

maybe? No, that's not right. Zepplin, Queen, Boston... damn. There was a song by

the Moody Blues... no, that's not right."

Flor leaned close to Talea. "What's he doing?"

"Preparing the proper spellsong, I suppose."

"He sounds confused to me."

"Wizards often sound confused. It's necessary to the making of magic."

Flor looked doubtful. "If you say so."

Eventually Jon-Tom reached the conclusion that he'd have to play something or

admit defeat. That he would not do, not with Flor watching him. He fiddled with

the mass and tremble controls, ran fingers over both sets of strings, strumming

the larger and plucking at the smaller. No doubt he'd have been better off

asking Clothahump for help, but the fear of self-failure pushed him to try.

Besides, what could go wrong? If he conjured up fish instead of salamanders they

might not be on their way any sooner, but at least they would eat well while

waiting.

Let's see... why should he not modify a song to fit the need of the moment?

Therefore, ergo, and so forth.... "Yellow salamander" didn't scan the same as

"yellow submarine," but it was close enough. "We all live on a yellow

sal'mandee, yellow sal'mandee, yellow sal'mandee...."

At the beginning of the chorus there was a disturbance in the water. It

broadened into a wide whirlpool.

"They're down there, then," murmured Clothahump excitedly, peering at the

surface. He tried to divide his attention between the river and the singer.

"Maybe a little longer on the verbs, my boy. And a little more emphasis on the

subjeets of seeking. Sharply on the key words, now."

"I don't know what the key words are," Jon-Tom protested between verses. "But

I'll try."

What happened was that he sang louder, though his voice was not the kind suited

to shouting. He was best at gentle ballads. Yet as he continued the song became

easier. It was almost as if his brain knew which of the words catalyzed the

strange elements of quasi-science Clothahump called magic. Or was the wizard

right, and science really quasi-magic?

This was no time, he told himself furiously as he tried to concentrate on the

song, for philosophizing. A couple of jetboats might be even more useful....

Careful, remember the riding snake! Ah, but that was a fluke, the natural result

of an uncertain first-time try at a new discipline. Sheer accident. At the time

he'd had no idea of what he'd been doing or how he'd been doing it.

Salamanders Clothahump wanted and salamanders he'd get.

Now the water in the vicinity of the whirlpool was beginning to bubble

furiously.

"There they are!" yelled Talea.

"Blimey but the lad's gone an' done it." Mudge looked pridefully at his wailing

ward.

For his part Jon-Tom continued the song, sending notes and words skipping like

pebbles out across the disturbed river. Water frothed white at the center of the

whirlpool, now bubbling to a respectable height. Occasionally it geysered twenty

feet high, as if something rather more massive than a lowly salamander was

stirring on the river bottom.

Talea and Caz were the first to frown and begin backing away from the shore.

"Jon-Tom," she called to him, "are you sure you know what you're doing?"

Oblivious now to outside comments, he continued to sing. Clothahump had told him

that a good wizard or spellsinger had to always concentrate. Jon-Tom was

concentrating very hard. "

"My boy," said Clothahump slowly, rubbing his lower jaw with one hand, "some of

the words you're using... I know context is important, but I am not sure..."

Bubbles and froth rose three times the height of a man. There was a watery

rumble and it started moving toward shore. If there were any amphibians out

there, it was apparent they now likely numbered more than half a dozen.

The violence finally penetrated Jon-Tom's concentration. It occurred to him that

perhaps he might be better off easing back and trying a new song. But Flor was

watching, and it was the only watery song he knew. So he continued on despite

Clothahump's voiced uncertainty.

At least something was out there.

There was thunder under the water now. Suddenly, a head broke the froth, a head

black as night with eyes of crimson. There was a long narrow snout, slightly

knobbed at the tip and crowded with razor ivories. Bat-wing ears fluttered at

the sides and back of the skull. The head hooked from a thickly muscled, scaly

neek and ran into a massive black chest shot through with lines of iridescent

purple and azure. Red gills ran half the length of the neck.

A forefoot rose up out of the water. It was bigger than Jon-Tom, whose fingers

had frozen on the strings of the duar as completely as the remaining words of

the stanza had petrified in his mouth.

The sun continued to shine. Only a few dark clouds pockmarked the sky, but

around them the day seemed to grow darker. The thick, leathery foot, dripping

moss and water plants from black claws the length of a man's arm, moved forward

to land hi a spray of water. Webbing showed between the digits.

The elegant nightmare opened its mouth. A thin stream of organic napalm emerged

in a spray that turned the water several yards short of the sandy peninsula into

instant cloud.

"Ho!" said a distinct, rumbling voice that made Pog sound positively sweet by

comparison, "who dares to disturb the hibernation of Falameezar-aziz-Sulmonmee?

Who winkles me forth from my home inside the river? Who seeks," and the great

toothy jaws curved lower on the muscular neck-crane, "to join great Falameezar

for lunch?"

Mudge had scuttled backward and was nearing the edge of the forest. The dragon

tilted its head, sighted, and closed one eye. His mouth tightened and he spat. A

tiny fireball landed several feet ahead of Mudge, incinerating some bushes and a

medium-sized birch. Mudge halted instantly.

"You have summoned me... but I have not dismissed you." The head was now almost

drooping directly over Jon-Tom, who was developing a crick in his neck from

looking up at it.

"Know that I am Falameezar-aziz-Sulmonmee, Three Hundred and Forty-Sixth of the

line of Sulmonmeecar, Dragons of all the River, who guard the fast depths of all

the rivers of all the worlds! Who, practitioner of rashness, might you be?"

Jon-Tom tried to smile. "Just a stranger here, just passing through, just

minding my own business. Look now, uh, Falameezar, I'm sorry I disturbed you.

Sometimes I'm not too prudent in certain things. Like, my elocution never seems

able to keep up with my enthusiasm. I was really trying to summon some

salamanders and--"

"There are no salamanders here," thundered the voice from behind the teeth. The

dragon made a reptilian smile. A black gullet showed beyond the teeth. "I have

already eaten all who swam hereabouts. The others have fled to safer waters,

where I must soon follow." The smile did not fade. "You see, I am often hungry,

and must take sustenance where I can find it. To each according to his needs,

isn't that right?"

Clothahump raised his hands.

"Ancestor of the lizard neat,

Troubler of our tired feet,

On your way I bid you go,

Lest we your internal temp'rature low."

The dragon glanced sharply at the turtle. "Cease your mumblings, old fool, or

I'll boil you in your shell. I can do that before you finish that incantation."

Clothahump hesitated, then fell silent. But Jon-Tom could see his mind working

furiously. If someone could give him a little more time...

Without thinking, he took several steps forward until the water was lapping at

the tops of his boots. "We mean you no harm," there was a faint dragon-chuckle

and puffs of smoke drifted from scaly nostrils, "and I'm sorry if we disturbed

you. We're on a mission of great importance to--"

"The missions and goings and comings of the warmlanders are of no interest to

me." The dragon sounded disgusted. "You are all economically and socially

repressive." His head dipped again and he moved closer, a black mountain

emerging from the river. Now Falameezar was close enough to smash the duar

player with one foot.

Somewhere behind him he could hear Flor whispering loudly, "A real dragon! How

wonderful!" Next to her, Talea was muttering sentiments of a different kind.

"You live or become food," said the dragon, "at my whim. That is the way of

dragons who chance upon travelers. As is our way, I will offer you the chance to

win your freedom. You must answer a riddle."

Jon-Tom sloshed water with one foot. "I'm not much at riddles."

"You have no choice. In any case, you need not worry yourself much." Saliva was

trickling from his lower jaw. "Know that not one who has come my way has been

able to answer my riddle."

" 'Ere now, mate," Mudge called to him encouragingly, "don't let 'im intimidate

you. 'E's just tryin' t' frighten you out o' careful consideration o' your

reply."

"He's succeeding," Jon-Tom snapped back at the foolhardy otter. He looked back

up at the mouth waiting to take him in one bite. "Isn't there some other way we

can settle this? It's not polite to eat visitors."

"I did not invite you," growled the dragon. "Do you prefer to end it now by

passing over your right to try and answer?"

"No, no!" He glanced sideways at Clothahump. The wizard was clearly mumbling

some sort of spell soft enough so the dragon could not overhear, but either the

spell was ineffective or else the wizard's capricious memory had chosen this

inopportune moment to turn to mush.

"Go ahead and ask," he said, still stalling. Sweat was making his indigo shirt

stick to his back.

The dragon smelled of mud and water and pungent aquatic things. The thick smell

gave Jon-Tom something to concentrate on besides his fear.

"Then riddle me this," rumbled the dragon. He lolled in the shallow water,

keeping a sharp, fiery eye on the rest of the frightened group.

"What is the fundamental attribute of human nature... and of all similar

natures?" He puffed smoke, hugely enjoying Jon-Tom's obvious confusion.

"Love!" shouted Talea. Jon-Tom was shocked at the redhead's uncharacteristic

response to the question.

"Ambition," suggested Flor.

"Greed." No need to see who'd said that. It could only have come from Mudge.

"A desire to better one's self without harming one's fellows." That was Caz's

graceful offering. At least, it was graceful until he added, "Any more than

necessary."

"Fear," said the stuttering Pog, trying to find a tree to hide behind without

drawing the dragon's attention.

"The wish to gain knowledge and become wise," said Clothahump, momentarily

distracted from his spell weaving.

"No, no, no, no, and no!" snorted the dragon contemptuously, searing the air

with a gout of flame. "You are ignorant as all. All that fools have to recommend

themselves is their taste."

Jon-Tom was thinking heetically about something the dragon had said before.

Yes... his comment about the warmlanders being "economically and socially

repressive." Now the riddle sounded almost familiar. He was sure he recognized

it, but where, and was there more to it that might be the answer? His brain

rumbled and hunted desperately for the distant memory.

Falameezar hissed, and water boiled around Jon-Tom's boots. He could feel the

heat even through the thick leather. He wondered if he would turn red, like a

lobster... or black, like burnt toast.

Perhaps the dragon could read minds as well as he could pose riddles. "I will

now give you another choice. I can have you steamed or broiled. Those who would

prefer to be steamed may step into the river. Those who prefer broiling remain

where you are. It is of no matter to me. Or I can eat you raw. Most meals find

precooking preferable, however."

Come on, meal, he chided himself. This is just another test, but it may be the

last one if you don't...

"Wait. Wait a minute! I know the answer!"

The dragon cocked a bored eye at him. "Hurry up. I'm hungry."

Jon-Tom took a deep breath. "The fundamental attribute of human nature is...

productive labor." For good measure he added casually, "Any fool knows that."

The dragon's head reared back, dominating the sky. Batwing ears fluttered in

confusion, and for a moment he was so startled he choked on his own smoke.

Still menacingly, but uncertain now, he brought his massive jaws so near that

Jon-Tom could have reached out and caressed the shiny black scales. The air was

full of dampness and brimstone.

"And what," he rumbled, "determines the structure of any society?"

Jon-Tom was beginning to relax a little. Unbelievable as it seemed, he felt safe

now. "Its economic means of production."

"And societies evolve... ?"

"Through a series of crises caused by internal contradictions," Jon-Tom finished

for him.

The dragon's eyes flashed and his jaws gaped. Though confident he'd found the

answer, Jon-Tom couldn't help but back away from those gnashing teeth. A pair of

gigantic forefeet rose dripping from the water. Tiny crustaceans scrambled

frantically for cover.

The feet lunged toward Jon-Tom. He felt himself being lifted into the air. From

somewhere behind him Flor was yelling frantically and Mudge was muttering a

dirge.

An enormous forked tongue as startlingly red as the slitted eyes emerged from

the mouth and flicked wetly at Jon-Tom's face.

"Comrade!" the dragon declaimed. Then Jon-Tom was gently deposited back on dry

land.

The dragon was thrashing at the water in ecstasy. "I knew it! I knew that all

the creatures of this world could not exist ignorant of the true way." He was so

happy he blew fire simply from pure joy, though now he carefully directed it

away from his stunned audience.

The otter ran out onto the sand, sidled close to the tall human. "Crikey, mate,

be this more o' your unexpected wizardry?"

"No, Mudge." He wiped dragon spit from his cheeks and neek. It was hot to the

touch. "Just a correct guess. It was sparked by something he'd said to us

earlier. Then it came back to me. What I don't understand is how this bonafide

dragon was transformed into a dedicated Marxist."

"Maziwhich? Wot's that? Some otherworldly magickin', maybe?"

"Some people think so. Others would regard it more as pure superstition. But for

God's sake, don't say anything like that to him or we'll all find ourselves in

the soup, literally."

"Pardon my curiosity," he called to the dragon, "but how did you happen to

stumble on the," he hesitated," 'true way'?"

"It happens on occasion that dragons stumble into interdimensional warps,"

Falameezar told him as he calmed himself down. "We seem prone to such

manifestations. I was suspended in one for days. That is when it was revealed to

me. I have tried to make others see but," he shrugged massive black shoulders,

"what can but one do in a world aswarm with voracious, ravenous capitalists?"

"What indeed?" murmured Jon-Tom.

"Even if one is a dragon. Oh, I try now and then, here on the river. But the

poor abused boatmen simply have no comprehension of the labor theory of value,

and it is quite impossible to engage even the lowliest worker in an honest

socialist dialectic."

"I know the problem," said Jon-Tom sympathetically.

"You do?"

"Yes. As a matter of fact, we're all embarked on a journey right now, we seven

comrades, because this land which you say is filled with capitalists is about to

be invaded and overrun by an entire nation of totalitarian capitalists, who wish

to enslave completely the, uh, local workers to a degree the primitive bosses

hereabouts can't begin to match."

"A terrible prospect!" The dragon's gaze turned to the others. "I apologize. I

had no idea I was confronting fellow crusaders of the proletariat."

"Dead right," said Mudge. "You ought t' be ashamed o' yourself, mate." He began

cautiously moving back toward the sand. Clothahump looked at once intrigued and

puzzled, but for the moment the wizard was quite content to let Jon-Tom do the

talking.

"Now then, comrade." The massive black shape folded its forelegs and squinched

down in the sandy shallows. "What can I do to help?"

"Well, as you would say, from each according to his ability to each according to

his need."

"Just so." The dragon spoke in a tone usually employed for the raising of

saints.

"We need to warn the people against the invasion of the bosses. To do so we must

warn the local inhabitants of the most powerful center of government. If we

could get upstream as quickly as possible--"

"Say no more!" He rose majestically on hind legs. A great surge of water nearly

washed away their packs. As the dragon turned, his thick black and purple tail,

lined with rigid bumps and spinal plates, stretched delicately onto the sand.

"Allow me the honor. I will take you wherever you wish, and far more quickly

than any capitalist pig of a boat master could manage. On one condition." The

tail slipped partway back into the river.

Jon-Tom had been about to start up the tail and now hesitated warily. "What's

that?"

"That during the course of our journey we can engage in a decent philosophical

discussion of the true nature of such matters as labor value, the proper use of

capital, and alienation of the worker from his output. This is for my own use. I

need all the ammunition I can muster for conversing with my fellows. Most

dragons are ignorant of the class struggle." He sounded apologetic. "We tend to

be solipsists by nature."

"I can understand that," said Jon-Tom. "I'll be happy to supply whatever

arguments and information I can."

The tail slid back onto the sand. Jon-Tom began the climb up the natural ladder

and glanced back at his companions.

"What are you all waiting for? It's safe. Falameezar's a fellow worker, a

comrade."

The dragon positively beamed.

When they had all mounted and found seats and had secured their baggage, the

dragon moved slowly out into the water. In a few minutes they had reached the

center of the river. Falameezar turned upstream and began to swim steadily and

without apparent effort against the considerable current.

"Tell me now," he said by way of opening conversation, "there is a thing I do

not understand."

"There are things none of us understand," said Jon-Tom. "Just now I'm not too

sure I understand myself."

"You are introspeetive as well as socially conscious. That's nice." The dragon

cleared his throat, and smoke drifted back over the riders.

"According to Marx, the capitalists should long since have been swept away and

the world should now exist in a stateless, classless society. Yet nothing could

be further from the truth."

"For one thing," Jon-Tom began, trying not to sound too much like a tutor, "this

world hasn't yet fully emerged from the feudal stage. But more importantly...

surely you've heard of Rosa Luxemburg's Accumulation of Capital?"

"No." A crimson eye blinked curiously back at him. "Please tell me about it."

Jon-Tom proceeded to do so, with caution and at length.

They had no problems. Falameezar could catch more fish in one snap than the

entire party could in a day's trying, and the dragon was quite willing to share

his catch. Also to cook it.

The assured, easy supply of fresh food led Mudge and Caz to grow exceedingly

lazy. Jon-Tom's biggest worry was not occupying Falameezar but that either of

the two dragon-borne lotus-eaters might let something slip in casual

conversation which would tell the dragon that they were no more Marxists than

they were celibate.

At least they were not merchants or traders. Mudge, Caz, and Talea qualified as

free agents, though Jon-Tom couldn't stretch the definition of their erstwhile

professions far enough to consider them craftsmen. Clothahump could be

considered a philosopher, and Pog was his apprentice. With a little coaching

from Jon-Tom, the turtle was able to acquire a semantic handle on such concepts

as dialectical materialism and thus assist with some of the conversational load.

This was necessary because while Jon-Tom had studied Marxism thoroughly it had

been over three years ago. Details returned reluctantly. Each was challenged by

the curious Falameezar, who had evidently committed to memory every word of both

The Communist Manifesto and Das Kapital.

There was no talk of Lenin or Mao, however, for which Jon-Tom was thankful. Any

time the subject of revolution arose the dragon was apt to wonder if maybe they

oughtn't to attack this or that town or cluster of traders. But without much of

a practical base on which to operate he grew confused, and Jon-Tom was able to

steer their debate to less violent aspects of social change.

Fortunately, there were few traders plying the river to stimulate the dragon's

ire, and the moment they spotted the black silhouette of Falameezar they hastily

abandoned both their boats and the water. The dragon protested that he would

like to talk with the crews as much as he would like to cremate the captains,

but sadly admitted he did not seem to have the ability to get close to people.

"They don't understand," he was saying softly one morning. "I merely wish to be

accepted as an equal member of the proletariat. They will not even stop to

listen. Of course, most of them do not have the necessary grasp and overview of

their society's socioeconomic problems. They rant and rave and are generally so

abusive that they give me heartburn."

"I remember what you said about your fellow dragons' independent natures. Can't

you organize them at all?"

Falameezar let out a disgusted snort, sending orange fire across the water's

surface. "They will not even stop to listen. They do not understand that to be

truly happy and successful it is necessary for all to work together, each

helping his comrade as we march onward toward the glorious, classless, socialist

future."

"I didn't know dragons had classes."

"It embarrasses me to admit it, but there are those among us who hold themselves

better than their fellows." He shook his great head dolefully. "It is a sad,

confused world we live in, comrade. Sad and exploitative."

"Too true," agreed Jon-Tom readily.

The dragon brightened. "But that makes the challenge all the greater, does it

not?"

"Absolutely, and this challenge we go to confront now is the most dangerous one

ever to face the world."

"I suppose." Falameezar looked thoughtful. "But one thing puzzles me. Surely

among all these invaders-to-come there must be some workers? They cannot all be

bosses."

Oh, lord, now how, Jon-Tom? "That's the case, I suppose," he replied as quickly

as he could, "but they're all irrevocably imbued with the desire to be bigger

bosses than those they now serve." Falameezar still seemed unsure.

Inspiration served. "And they also believe implicitly that if they can conquer

the rest of the world, the warmlands and the rest, then they will become

capitalist bosses over the workers here, and their old bosses will remain master

over them. So they will give rise, if successful, to the most implacable class

of capitalists the world has ever known, a class of bosses' bosses."

Falameezar's voice echoed like an avalanche across the water. "This must be

stopped!"

"I agree." Jon-Tom's attention for the past hour had been more and more on the

shoreline. Hills had risen in place of low beaches. On the left bank they merged

into sheer rock walls almost a hundred feet high, far too high for even the

powerful Falameezar to negotiate. The dragon was swerving gradually toward his

right.

"Rapids ahead," he explained. "I have never traveled beyond this point. I

dislike walking and would much rather swim, as befits a river dragon. But for

the cause," he said bravely, "I will of course dare anything, so I will walk the

rapids."

"Of course," Jon-Tom murmured.

It was growing dark. "We can camp the first place you can easily climb ashore,

comrade Falameezar." He looked back in distaste. Mudge and Caz were playing at

dice on a flat section of the dragon's back. "For a change maybe our 'hunters'

can find us something to eat besides fish. After all," he murmured with a wicked

grin, "everyone must contribute to the welfare of the whole."

"How very true," said the dragon, adding politely, "not that I mind catching you

fish."

"It's not that." Jon-Tom was enjoying the thought of the two somnolent gamblers

slogging through the muck to find enough meat to feed the voracious dragon.

"It's time some of us did some real work for you. You've sure as hell done

enough for us."

"Well put, comrade," said the dragon. "We must bow to social decorum. I would

enjoy a change from fish."

The hilly shore bordered a land of smaller trees, narrower of bole and widely

scattered amid thick brush. Despite his insistence that he preferred water to

land, the dragon had no trouble smashing his way through the foliage bulwarking

the water's edge.

A small clearing close to the river was soon located. They settled into camp to

the accompaniment of rising moonlight. Ahead was the steady but soothing roar of

the rapids Falameezar would have to negotiate the next day.

Jon-Tom dumped a load of wood by the fire, brushed bark and dirt from his hands,

and asked Caz, "What do ships traveling past this point do about the rapids?"

"Most are constructed and designed so as to make their way safely through them

when traveling down to the Glittergeist," the rabbit explained. "When traveling

upstream it is necessary to portage around. There are places where it can be

done. Logs have been laid across ancient, well-known paths. The ships are then

dragged across this crude cellulose lubrication until quieter water is reached."

He nodded curiously toward the dragon. Falameezar lay contentedly on the far

side of the clearing, his tail curled across his jaws.

"How did you ever manage to talk the monster into conveying us atop his belly

instead of inside it? I understood nothing of his riddle or your reply, nor of

the lengthy talk you have engaged in subsequently."

"Never mind," said Jon-Tom, stirring the fire with a twig. "I'll take care of

the dialectic. You just try to say as little as possible to him."

"No fear of that, my friend. He is not my idea of a scintillating

conversationalist. Nor do I have any desire to become someone's supper through

misapplication of a word or two." He patted Jon-Tom on the back and grinned.

Despite the rabbit's somewhat aloof bearing, Jon-Tom couldn't help liking him.

Caz was inherently likable and had already proven himself a willing and

good-natured companion. Hadn't he volunteered to come on what was likely to be a

dangerous journey? To be quite fair, he was the only true volunteer among them.

Or was there some other motive behind the rabbit's participation that so far

he'd kept well hidden? The thought gave Jon-Tom an unexpected start. He eyed the

retreating ears. Maybe Caz had reasons of his own for wanting to travel

upstream, reasons that had nothing to do with their mission. He might desert

them at the first convenient opportunity.

Now you're thinking like Clothahump, he told himself angrily. There's enough for

you to worry about without trying to analyze your companion's thoughts.

Speaking of companions, where the devil had Mudge got himself to? Caz had

returned a few moments ago with a fat, newtlike creature. It drew deprecatory

comments from Talea, the designated chef for the evening, so they'd given it to

the delighted Falameezar.

But Mudge had been gone a long time now without returning. Jon-Tom didn't think

the mercurial otter would try to split on them in so isolated a place when he'd

already passed up excellent opportunities to do so in far more familiar

surroundings.

He walked around the fire, which was now crackling insistently for fuel, and

voiced his concern to Clothahump. As usual, the wizard sat by himself. His face

shone in the firelight. He was mumbling softly to himself, and Jon-Tom wondered

at what lay behind his quiet talk. There was real magic in the sorcerer's words,

a source of never ending amazement to Jon-Tom.

The wizard's expression was strained, as befitted one on whose shoulders (or

shell) rested the possible resolution of a coming Armageddon.

Clothahump saw him without having to look up. "Good eve to you, my boy.

Something troubles you." Jon-Tom had long since overcome any surprise at the

wizard's sensitivity.

"It's Mudge, sir."

"That miscreant again?" The aged face looked up at him. "What has he done now?"

"It's not what he's done so much as what he hasn't done, sir, which is come

back. I'm worried, sir. Caz returned a while ago, but he didn't go very far into

the forest and he hasn't seen Mudge."

"Still hunting, perhaps." Most of the wizard's mind seemed to be on matters far

off and away.

"I don't think so, sir. He should have returned by now. And I don't think he's

run off."

"No, not here, my boy."

"Could he have tried to catch something that caught him instead? It would be

like Mudge to try and show off with a big catch."

"Not that simpleton coward, boy. But as to something else making a meal of him,

that is always a risk when a lone hunter goes foraging in a strange forest.

Remember, though, that while our otter companion is somewhat slow upstairs,

there is nothing sluggish about his feet. He is lightning fast. It is

conceivable that something might overpower him, but it would first have to

surprise him or run him down. Neither is likely."

"He could have hurt himself," persisted a worried Jon-Tom. "Even the most

skillful hunter can't outrun a broken leg."

Clothahump turned away from him. A touch of impatience crept into his voice.

"Don't belabor it, boy. I have more important things to think upon."

"Maybe I'd better have a look for him." Jon-Tom glanced specula-lively at the

silent ring of thin trees that looked down on the little clearing.

"Maybe you had." The boy means well, Clothahump thought, but he tends not to

think things through and to give in to his emotions. Best to keep a close watch

on him lest he surrender to his fancies. Keep him occupied.

"Yes, that would be a prudent thing to do. You go and find him. We've enough

food for the night." His gaze remained fixed on something beyond the view of

mere mortals.

"I'll be back with him soon." The lanky youth turned and jogged off into the

woods.

Clothahump was fast sinking into his desired trance. As his mind reeled,

something pricked insistently at it. It had to do with this particular section

of Tailaroam-bordered land. It was full night now, and that also was somehow

significant.

Was there something he should have told the boy? Had he sent him off unprepared

for something he should expect to encounter hereabouts? Ah, you self-centered

old fool, he chided himself, and you having just accused him of not thinking

things through.

But he was far too deeply entranced now to slip easily back into reality. The

nagging worries fell behind his probing, seeking mind.

He's a brave youngster, was his fading, weak appraisal. He'll be able to take

care of himself....

Untold leagues away, underneath the infectious mists of the Green-downs in the

castle of Cugluch, the iridescent Empress reclined on her ruby pillows. She

replayed her sorcerer's words mentally, lingering over each syllable with the

pleasure that destruction's anticipation sent through her.

"Madam," he had bowed cautiously over this latest pronouncement, "each day the

Manifestation reveals powers for which even I know no precedent. Now I believe

that we may be able to conquer more thoroughly than we have ever dreamed."

"How is this, Sorcerer?--and you had better be prepared to stand by any promises

you make me." Skrritch eyed his knobby legs appraisingly.

"I will give you a riddle instead of a promise," Eejakrat said with untoward

daring. Skrritch nodded.

"When will we have completed the annihilation of the warm-lands?" he asked her.

"When every warmlander bows to me," she answered without hesitation.

The wizard did not respond.

"When every warmlander has been emptied to a dead husk?"

Still he did not reply.

"Speak, Sorcerer," Skrritch directed testily.

"The warmlands will be ours, my lady, when every warm-blooded slave has been

returned to the soil and in his plaee stands a Plated subject. When the

farmlands, shops, and cities of the west are repopulated with Plated Folk your

empire will know no limit!"

Skrritch looked at him as if he'd gone mad and began to preen her claw tips.

Eejakrat took a prudent step backward, but his words held the Empress in

mid-motion.

"Madam, I assure you, the Manifestation has the power to incinerate entire races

of warmlanders. Its death-power is so pervasive that we shall not only crush

them, we will obliterate their memory from the earth. Your minions will march

into their cities to find the complete welcome of silence."

Now Skrritch smiled her weird, omnivorous smile. The wizard and his queen locked

eyes, and though neither really understood the extent of the destruction at

their disposal, the air reverberated with their insidious obsession to find

out....

It was very dark in the forest. The moon made anemic ghosts of the trees and

turned misshapen boulders to granite gargoyles. Bushes hid legions of tiny

clicking things that watched with interest and talked to one another as the tall

biped went striding past their homes.

Jon-Tom was in fair spirits. The nightly rain had not yet begun. Only the usual

thick mist moistened his face.

He carried a torch made from the oil rushes that lined the river's edge. Despite

the persistent mist the highly combustible reeds readily caught fire when he

applied the tip of the well-spelled sparker Caz had lent to him. The torch lit

readily and burned with a satisfying slowness.

For a moment he had thoughts of swinging round his duar and trying to conjure up

a flashlight or two. Caution decided him against the attempt. The torch would

serve well enough, and his accuracy where conjuration was involved thus far left

something to be desired.

The ground was damp from the mist-caress of late evening, and Mudge's tracks

stood out clearly. Occasionally the boot marks would cross each other several

times in one place, indicating where the otter had rested behind a large boulder

or fallen log.

Once the gap between the prints abruptly lengthened and became intermixed with

tiny polelike marks, evidence that Mudge had given chase to something. The pole

prints soon vanished and the otter marks shortened in stride. Whether the otter

had made a successful kill or not Jon-Tom couldn't tell.

Oblivious to the fact that he was moving steadily deeper into the woods, he

continued to follow the tracks. Unexpectedly the brush gave way to an open space

of hard-packed earth that had been raised several inches above the level of the

surrounding surface. The footprints led up to the platform and disappeared. It

took Jon-Tom long minutes before he could locate traces of them, mostly scuffs

from the otter's boot heels. They indicated he'd turned off to his right along

the artificial construct.

"Come on back, Mudge!" There was no reply, and the forest swallowed any echo.

"Caz brought in something already, and everyone's getting worried, and my feet

are starting to hurt!" He started jogging down the platform.

"Come on out, damn you! Where the hell have--?"

The "you" was never uttered. It was replaced by a yelp of surprise as his feet

went out from under him....

XVII

He found himself sliding down a gentle incline. It was slight enough and rough

enough so that he was able to bring himself to a halt after having tumbled only

a few yards. The torch bumped to a stop nearby. It had nearly gone out. Flames

still flickered feebly at one corner, however. Leaning over, he picked it up and

blew on it until it was once more aflame. Try as he would, though, he couldn't

induce it to provide more than half the illumination it had supplied before.

The reduced light was barely sufficient to show that he'd stumbled into an

obviously artificial tunnel. The floor was flat and cobbled with some dully

reflective stone. Straight walls rose five feet before curving to a slightly

higher ceiling.

Having established that the roof was not about to fall in on him, he took stock

of himself. There were only bruises. The duar was scratched but unbroken. Ahead

lay a blackness far more thorough and intimidating than friendly night. He

wished he hadn't left his staff back in camp. There was nothing but the knife

strapped to his belt.

He stood, and promptly measured the height of the ceiling. Carefully turning

around, he walked awkwardly back toward the circle of moonlight he'd fallen

through. Nothing materialized from the depths of the tunnel to restrain him,

though his neck hairs bristled. It is always easier to turn one's back on a

known enemy than on an unknown one.

He crawled up the slight incline and was soon staring out at the familiar

forest. The lip of the gap was lined with neatly worked stone engraved with

intricate designs and scrollwork. Many twisted in upon themselves and were set

with the same dimly reflective rock used to pave the tunnel.

He started to leave... and hesitated. Mudge's last boot prints had been moving

in this direction. A close search of the rim of the hole showed no such prints,

but the earth there was packed hard as concrete. A steel rod would not have made

much of an impression upon it, much less the boot of an ambling otter.

The paving of the slope and tunnel was of still tougher material, but when he

waved the torch across it the light fell on something even more revealing than a

boot print. It was an arrow of the kind Mudge carried in his hunting quiver.

Crawling back inside, he started down the tunnel. Soon he came across another of

the orphaned shafts. The first had probably fallen from the otter's quiver, but

this one was cleanly broken. He picked it up, brought the torch close. There was

no blood on the tip. It might have been fired at something and missed, to

shatter on the wall or floor.

It was possible, even likely, that Mudge was pursuing some kind of

burrow-dwelling prey that had made its home in the tunnel. In that case

Jon-Tom's worries might prove groundless. The otter might be just ahead, busily

gutting a large carcass so that he'd have to carry only the meat back to camp.

The thought of traveling down into the earth and leaving the friendly exit still

further behind appalled him, but he could hardly go back and say truthfully he'd

been able to track Mudge but had been too afraid to follow the otter the last

few yards.

There was also the possibility that his first assumption might prove correct,

that the creature Mudge had been pursuing had turned on him and injured him. In

that case the otter might he just a little ways down the tunnel, alive but

helpless and bleeding.

In his own somewhat ambivalent fashion Mudge had looked out for him. Jon-Tom

owed him at least some help, with either bulky prey or any injuries he might

have suffered.

With considerable trepidation he started moving down the tunnel. The slope

continued to descend to the same slight degree. From time to time torchlight

revealed inscriptions on the walls. There also were isolated stone tablets

neatly set into recesses. Directions perhaps... or warnings? He wondered what he

would do if he reached a place where the tunnel split into two or more branches.

He was too intent on the blackness to study the revealing frescoes overhead.

He had no desire to become lost in an underground maze, far from surface and

friends. No one knew where he was, and when the night rain began it would

obliterate both Mudge's tracks and his own.

Holding the torch ahead and to one side, he continued downward.

Mmmmmm-m-m-m-m-m...

He stopped instantly. The eerie moaning came clearly to him, distorted by the

acoustics of the tunnel. He knelt, breathing hard, and listened.

Mmmm-lllll-l-l-l-l...

The moan sounded again, slightly louder. What unimaginable monster might even

now be treading a path toward him? His torch still showed only blackness ahead.

Had the creature already devoured the poor otter?

He drew the knife, wishing again for the staff and its foot-long spear point. It

would have been a particularly effective weapon in the narrow tunnel.

There was no point in needlessly sacrificing himself, he thought. He'd about

decided to retreat when the moan unexpectedly dissolved into a flurry of curses

that were as familiar as they were distinct.

"Mmmm-l-l-l-let me go or I'll slice you into stew meat! I'll fillet you neat and

make wheels out o' your 'eads! I'll pop wot little eyeballs you've got out o'

their sockets, you bloody blind-faced buggerin' ghouls!"

A loud thump sounded, was followed by a bellow of pain and renewed cursing from

an unfamiliar source. The source of the first audible imprecations was no longer

in doubt, and if Mudge was cursing so exuberantly it was most likely for the

benefit of an assailant capable of reason and understanding and not blind animal

hatred.

Jon-Tom hurried down the corridor, running as fast as possible with his

hunched-over gait. There were still no lights showing ahead of him, so he had

burst around a bend and was on top of the busy party before he realized it.

Letting out an involuntary yell at the sight, he threw up his arms and fell back

against a wall, waving knife and torch to keep his balance. The effect produced

among Mudge's attackers was unexpected, but highly satisfactory.

"Lo, a monster!... Daemon from the outer world!... Save yourselves!... Every

mole for hisself... !"

Amid much screaming and shrieking he heard the sounds of tiny shoes slapping

stone racing not toward but away from him. This was mixed with the noise of

objects (weapons, perhaps) being thrown away in great haste by their panicky

owners.

It occurred to him that the sight of a gigantic human clad entirely in black and

indigo, flashing a reflective green lizardskin cape and brandishing a flaming

torch and knife, might be something which could truly upset a tunnel dweller.

When the echoes of their flight had finally faded away, he regained control of

his own insides and lowered the torch toward the remaining shape on the floor.

" 'Ad enough, then, you bloomin' arse'oles?" The voice was as blustery as

before, if softer from lack of wind. "Be that you, mate?" A pause while otter

eyes reflected the torchlight. "So 'tis, so 'tis! Untie me then mate, or give me

the knife so's I can cut--"

"If you make a move, outworlder," said a new voice, "I will slit what I presume

to be your friend's throat. I can get to it before you can reach me."

Jon-Tom raised the torch higher. Two figures lay on the floor of the tunnel. One

was Mudge. His feet were bound at the ankles and knees and his arms done up

similarly at wrists and elbows. A carrying pole had been slipped neatly between

the bindings.

Leaning over the otter was a furry creature about four feet tall. His attire was

surprisingly bright. He wore a yellow vest studded with blue cabochons and held

together across the chest with blue laces. Additional lacings held the vest

bottom securely to what looked like lederhosen.

A ringlet much like a thin tiara sat askew on the brown head. It was fastened

under the chin by yellow straps. Broad sandals were laced across its feet. The

sandals were pointed at toe and heel, possibly a matter of design, perhaps to

aid in digging, giving freedom to the long thick claws on each hind foot.

One hand was fitted with a yellow metallic glove. This covered the creature's

face as he squinted sideways through barely spread fingers, though he was trying

hard to look directly at Jon-Tom and his torch.

The other hand held the sickle-shaped weapon that was resting on the otter's

throat. Mudge's own weapons lay scattered on the floor nearby, even to his

secret heel-boot knife. His arrows, sword, and bow shared space with the spears

and wicked-looking halberds abandoned by those who had fled at Jon-Tom's

appearance.

"I say to you again," repeated the determined gopher, his grip tightening on the

sickle-knife, "if you move I'll open this thief's neek and let out his life

among the stones."

"Thief?" Jon-Tom frowned as he looked back down at the tightly trussed otter.

"Ah, you fart-faced worm eater, that's the biggest lie since Esaticus the eagle

claimed to 'ave done it flyin' underwater!"

Jon-Tom settled back against the cool wall and deliberately lowered his knife,

though he didn't go so far as to replace it in its sheath. The gopher watched

him uncertainly.

"What has been going on here, Mudge?" he asked the otter quietly.

"I'm tellin' you, mate! I was out huntin' for our supper when I tripped while

chasin' a fine fat broyht. I fell down into this pit o' 'orrors, where I was

promptly set upon by this 'orde o' rabid cannibals. They're blood-drinkers, lad.

You'd best take care o' this one with your magical powers afore--"

"That's enough, Mudge." He looked up at the gopher. "You can put up your sickle,

or knife, or whatever you call it, sir. That position can't be too comfortable."

He set the torch down on the floor. "I'm sorry if my light hurts your eyes."

The gopher was still wary. "Are you not this one's friend?"

"I'm his associate in travel. I'm also a believer in the truth. I promise not to

attack you while we talk, or make a hostile move of any kind."

"Lad, you don't know wot you're sayin'! The minute you put up your knife 'e's

likely to--"

"Mudge... shut up. And be glad I'm here instead of Clothahump. He'd probably

just leave you." The otter went quiet, muttering under his breath.

"You have my word," Jon-Tom informed the gopher, "as a traveler in your country

and as a," he thought rapidly, "as a wizard who means you no harm. I swear not

to harm you on my, uh, sacred oath as a spellsinger."

The gopher noted the duar. "Wizard it may be, though it was more of a daemonic

effect you had upon my men." Reluctantly the scythe blade moved away from

Mudge's throat.

"I'm Jon-Tom."

"And I am called Abelmar." The gopher moved his hand away from his eyes and

squinted painfully at the man. "It was your light as well as your appearance

which startled my troop. Most of them are moles and the light is far more

hurtful to them than to me, for my kind occasionally make daytime forays when

the city so requires it. Some daytime activity is necesary for the maintenance

of normal commerce, much as we of Pfeiffunmunter prefer to keep to ourselves."

He looked meaningfully down at Mudge.

"Except when we are intruded upon by cutthroats and thieves."

" 'Tis all a bloody lie!" Mudge protested. "When I get out o' these blinkin'

ropes I'll do some intrudin' you'll never forget. Come on now, mate," he said to

Jon-Tom, "untie me."

Jon-Tom ignored the twisting, writhing otter. "I meant no intrusion, Abelmar. My

friend says that you attacked him. You've called him a thief."

"I am in charge of the east-end morning patrol," explained the gopher. He looked

worriedly back down the tunnel. "Citizens will soon be appearing on nightly

business, awakening from the day's sleep. It would be embarrassing for them to

see me this way. Yet I must carry out my duty." He stiffened.

"Your associate is guilty of attempted theft, a sadly common crime we must

continually face when we deal with outlanders. Yet it is not the theft that

troubles us so much as the vandalism."

"Vandalism?" Jon-Tom looked accusingly at Mudge.

"Yes. It is not serious, but if left unchecked could become a serious threat to

our neatly built community. Do you have any idea, Jon-Tom, how taxes go up when

the public thoroughfares are torn to pieces by strangers?"

" 'E's lying through those oversized teeth o' 'is again, mate," Mudge protested,

though with less conviction this time. "Why would I want t' go around rippin' up

'is blinkin' street?"

Abelmar sighed. "I suppose it is our own fault, but we are aesthetes by nature.

We enjoy a bit of brightness in our city, for all that it gives us problems with

ignorant travelers such as this," and he kicked Mudge in the back. "But I see

you still do not understand." He'd grown accustomed enough to Jon-Tom's torch to

look without blinking now.

"Look," and he bent toward Mudge.

"Careful!" Jon-Tom took a step forward and raised his knife.

"Easy move, Jon-Tom stranger," said the gopher. "If you are suspicious of my

movements, then look instead at your own feet. Or can it be in truth you have

not looked closely at our fine streets?"

Jon-Tom knelt cautiously, still keeping an eye on the gopher. Moving the torch,

he stared intently at the closely laid bricks. They gleamed as dully as those

he'd encountered near the tunnel entrance, only with the torch resting directly

on them the glow intensified. They threw back a half-familiar, reddish-yellow

light.

"Common enough below Pfeiffunmunter," said the gopher with a trace of

bitterness, "but not to those who come along and try ripping it out of our

beautiful pathways and boulevards. It makes for pretty paving, don't you think?"

"Surely now that you understand you can excuse me the temptation, mate," said

Mudge defensively. "You wouldn't think these grave diggers would be so greedy

they'd resent a poor visitor a few cobblestones."

"Excuse me." Jon-Tom rose and almost cracked his head again on the low ceiling.

"I apologize to you for any damage, Abelmar."

"It's not too bad. You have to understand," the gopher told him, "that if we let

this sort of thing persist and word of it spread 'round the outworld, before too

long we'd have mobs of sunlifers down here destroying all our public

thoroughfares, our roads, and our very homes. It would be the end of

civilization as we know it."

He paused. Noise was growing behind him, moving up from the depths of the

tunnel. "Travelers out for an evening walk," the gopher surmised, "or else my

men, the cowardly bastards, coming back to see if anything's left of me." He

sighed. "I have my duty, but I can face reality as well. We have something of a

standoff here, friend spellsinger. I must confess I am now more interested in

punishing my men than in your pitiful petty thief of a friend.

"If you will get him out of here and promise not to let him return, and will do

so without disturbing any municipal construction, I won't report this incident

to the Magistrates, or cut your friend's throat. Well though he deserves it!"

"I'd appreciate that, and I agree," said Jon-Tom.

"So do I, guv'nor." Mudge smiled toothily up at the gopher.

Abelmar hesitated, then used the curved blade on the otter's ropes before

slipping it through a catch in his lederhosen straps. Mudge scrambled across the

floor until he was standing next to Jon-Tom. He stretched luxuriously, working

the kinks out of his muscles and joints.

"Now mate, quick now, while there still be time!" He bent and hefted one of the

loose golden bricks. "Cover me with the knife while I slip a few o' those into

me quiver an' pants." He hurried to recover his own weapons. "You're bigger than

'im, and you've got the light."

When the otter had finished gathering up his possessions, Jon-Tom said tiredly,

"All right, Mudge. Put down the gold and let's go."

The otter stared at him, both arms now full of gleaming paving-stones. "You gone

daft, mate? I'm 'oldin' a bloody fortune right now. We've got us a chance t'-"

"Put it down, Mudge!" The knife moved threateningly, not at the gopher now. "Or

I swear I'll leave you the way I found you."

"Cor," muttered the otter. Reluctantly he opened his arms.

There was a heavy clattering as the gold bricks dented the pavement. Abelmar was

nodding and looking satisfied. The cries of the approaching patrol were

intelligible now. He peered down the tunnel and thought he could see dim, snouty

shapes approaching. They wore gold earrings, clothing similar to Abelmar's, and

very dark sunglasses. Their newly acquired weapons shone in the faint

torchlight. Jon-Tom idly noted that the gopher's sickle-knife was made of gold.

"You're a man of your word," said the gopher, "which is rare among sunlifers. Go

in peace." He glared at Mudge. "If I ever run across your flea-flecked body

again, sir, I'll see you skinned and thrown to the carrion herds."

Mudge made quick use of the middle digit of his right hand. "Up yours, shit

face!" He turned to Jon-Tom. "Right, then. It's done. You've kept your part o'

the bloody bargain, but you've no guarantee 'is men will keep theirs."

"Let's get going, then." They started back up the tunnel.

"No need to worry," Abelmar shouted to them, "my men will be busily engaged." He

turned to face down the tunnel.

"So, you cowards have come back, have you?"

Angry mutterings sounded from the ranks of armed moles. A few gophers were

scattered among them.

"They're getting away, sir!" shouted one of the moles, pointing up the tunnel.

"When I'm finished with you lot you'll wish you'd gone with them!" roared

Abelmar, letting loose a string of curses that reverberated around the tunnel.

Their echoes followed Jon-Tom and Mudge out.

"Keep going, Mudge." Jon-Tom gave the otter a gentle but insistent shove.

" 'Ere now, mate, let's not panic, shall we? That officer's stopped t' give 'is

troop a thorough bastin'. There's still plenty o' pavin' 'ere-abouts." He

stomped on the bricks with one boot. "It wouldn't 'urt no one if we took a few

minims 'ere and did a nice little bit o' work. There be no way that buck-toothed

flat-faced cop would know we were the ones responsible. Perhaps if I just--"

"Perhaps if I just stick this torch up your ass," Jon-Tom told him firmly.

"All right, all right. It were only a thought, lad."

The moon was bright when they emerged again into the forest. There were no

indications of pursuit, though he had a feeling of movement from behind them. It

was a distant rumbling, the sounds carried through the earth that indicated the

burrow city of Pfeiffunmunter was coming awake for another busy night.

"Just be thankful I got there when I did," he told the otter, "He might've cut

your throat without waiting to present you to the Magistrates."

"Poppycock," snorted Mudge. "I could've made me way loose eventual-like." He

straightened his vest and tugged his cap tight on his head. "All that beautiful

gold!" He shook his head regretfully. "More gold than even wizards can make! An'

those bloody dirt-eaters defile it by usin' it just t' walk upon."

"That's better than the other way around."

"Huh?" Mudge eyed him perplexedly. "Are you wizard riddlin' me, mate?"

"Not at all." They turned off into the woods.

The otter looked bemused. "You be either the sharpest spellsinger that ever came

up the river, mate, or else the biggest fat'ead."

Jon-Tom smiled faintly. "Hardly much thanks for the one who saved your life." He

pushed at the clinging brush.

"Better to die tryin' for wealth than to live on in poverty," the otter

grumbled.

"Okay. Go on back to the entrance, then. I won't try to stop you. See if you can

help yourself to some pavement. I'm sure Abelmar and his troops will be happy to

welcome you. Or do you think him fool enough to trust us to the point of leaving

the gateway unguarded?"

"On the other 'and," Mudge said, without breaking stride, " 'tis a wise chap who

bides 'is time and rates 'is chances. I told you once I ain't no gambler, not

like old Caz. But if you'd come back an' give me a 'and, lad...."

"No way." He shook his head. "I gave my word."

The otter looked crushed, shoved aside a branch, and cursed his foul luck as he

stumbled over a projecting root.

"If you expect to make anythin' o' yourself 'ere, mate, you're goin' to 'ave to

discard these otherworldly ethical notions."

"That sounds funny coming from you, Mudge. If you'll think a moment, you'll

remember that you're embarked on an ethical sort of journey."

"Under duress," Mudge insisted.

Jon-Tom looked back and smiled at him. "You know, I think you use that as an

excuse to keep from having to admit your real feelings." The otter grumbled

softly.

"We'll tell them you had an unsuccessful hunt, which is hardly a lie. That'll do

you better than telling them what a greedy, self-centered little prick you

really are."

"Now that 'urts me to me 'eart, lad," Mudge said in mock pain.

"It would have hurt you a lot more if you'd returned with your arms full of gold

and Falameezar saw you. Or hadn't you stopped to consider that? Considering the

strength of his feelings where personal accumulation of wealth is concerned, I

don't think even I could have argued him out of making otter chips out of you."

Mudge appeared genuinely startled. "You know wot, mate? I truly 'adn't given the

great beastie a thought. 'E is a mite quick-tempered, even for a dragon."

"Not quick-tempered at all," Jon-Tom argued. "He simply believes in his own

ethical notions...."

The beginnings of real distress were stirring through the camp when they finally

walked into the glow of the camp fire. Falameezar was vowing he'd burn down the

entire forest to find Jon-Tom, while Pog had volunteered to lead a night search

party.

It was difficult for Jon-Tom to restrain himself from telling them the truth as

he watched Talea and Flor fawn over the otter.

"Are you all right?" asked Flor, running concerned fingers through the fur of

his forehead.

"What happened out there?" Talea was exhibiting more coneern than she had for

anyone since the journey'd begun.

" 'Twas a chameleon," said Mudge bravely, sitting down on a rock near the fire

with the look of one who'd run far and hard. "You know 'ow dangerous they can

be, Talea Blendin' their colors in with the landscape and waitin' with those

great sticky tongues o' theirs for some unwary travelersby."

"Chameleons?" Flor looked confusedly over at Jon-Tom. He muttered something

about much of the reptilian life growing to the size of buffaloes and why should

chameleons be any exception.

"I just 'ad crept up on 'im and was drawin' back me bow," said Mudge tensely,

warming to his story, "when the brute saw me against a light-barked tree. Turned

on me right there, 'e did, with all three horns a flashin' in the moonlight an

'im so close I could smell 'is fetid breath."

"What happened then?" wondered Flor, leaning close. The exhausted otter rested

the back of his head against the cushion of her bosom and tried with difficulty

to concentrate on his spellbinding invention, while Talea soothingly stroked one

limp arm.

"I 'eard that slick raspy noise they make when they open their jaws just afore

the strike, so I dove right back between two trees. That tongue came after me so

fast you'd o' swore it 'ad wings o' its own. Came right between the trees after

me an' went over me 'ead so near it took off the top o' me cap.

"I started runnin' backward, just to keep 'im in sight. The damn persistent cham

followed 'is tongue right through those trees. I tell you, 'is nose 'orn 'twere

no farther from me 'eart than you are from me now." He patted the cushion

against which he rested.

"Then how did you get away?" asked the rapt Flor, her black hair mixing in his

short fur.

"Well, 'e charged so fast and reckless, so 'ungry was 'e for me flesh, that 'e

gets 'imself pinned between the trunks, 'is top right 'orn pierced 'alfway

through one. For all I know 'e's still there a-tuggin' and a-pullin', tryin' to

free 'imself." Whiskers twitching, the otter wiped a hand across his forehead.

" Twere a near thing, luv."

A disgusted Jon-Tom was angrily tossing twigs into the fire. A warm paw came

down on his shoulder. He looked up to see Caz, the orange firelight sparkling on

his monocle, grinning down at him around a pair of blunt white incisors.

"Something less than the truth to our friend's tale, Jon-Tom?" Another twig

bounced into the flames. "I know, I've heard him spin stories before. What he

lacks in literacy he compensates for with a most fecund imagination. By the time

he finishes he will half believe it actually happened."

"I don't mind him spinning a yarn," Jon-Tom said, "it's the way those two are

lapping it up."

"Don't let it dig at you, my friend," said the aristocratic lepus. "As I said,

it is his enthusiasm that carries his storytelling. Before very long cleverness

instinctively gives way to a natural lack of subtlety coupled with an inability

to let well enough alone."

In confirmation, a startled yelp came from the other side of the fire, followed

by the sound of a hand striking furry flesh. An argument filled the misty night

air. Jon-Tom saw both Flor and Talea stalking angrily away from the recumbent

and protesting otter.

"You see?" Caz sounded disapproving. "Mudge is a good fellow, but at heart he is

crude. No style."

"What about you?" Jon-Tom looked curiously up at his companion. "What's your

style? What do you expect to get out of this journey?"

"My style... is to be myself, friend." It was spoken with dignity. "To be true

to myself, my friends, and forgiving to my enemies."

"Including those who chased you off the boat?"

"Tut! They were justified in their feelings, if not the extremity of their

reaction." He winked with his unglassed eye. "I was doubtless guilty of some

indelicate prestidigitation of the dice. My mistake was that I was found out.

"If they had actually caught and killed me, of course, I would have been

somewhat more upset."

Jon-Tom couldn't help breaking into a grin.

"As to what I expeet to 'get out of this journey,' I have already stated that I

feel assisting this worthy cause is reason and therefore satisfaction enough.

You have been too long in the company of likable but amoral types such as Mudge

and Talea. I believe implicitly everything our currently comatose wizard leader

says.

"I have been studying him closely these past few days. Any idiot can see plainly

that all the woes of the world weigh squarely upon his head. I am no hero,

Jon-Tom, but neither am I such a fool that I cannot see that the destruction of

the world as it currently exists would mean the end of my pleasant manner of

living. I'm quite fond of it.

"So you see, it is in my own best interest to go along with and to help you, as

it would be for any warmlander satisfied with his existence. I will help

Clothahump in any way I can. I am not much for soldiering, but I have some skill

in the use of words. Even he realizes, I think, that he has a tendency to be

impatient with fools. On the other hand I am quite used to dealing with them."

"This group could sure use a diplomat," agreed Jon-Tom. "I've tried my best at

mediating but... I guess I just don't have the experience for it."

"Do not belittle that which you have no control over, which is your youth, my

friend. You strike me as wise for your years. That's more than anyone could ask,

from what I've learned of your unwilling presence here. It strikes me you want

not for ability but for goals.

"Though I have more experience than you, I am always willing to listen to

others. And I could never do what you've done with the dragon. There is

experience and there is experience. You handle him who breathes fire and I will

take care of those who breathe insults and threats. We will complement each

other. Agreed?"

"Fair enough." Man and rabbit shook hands warmly. The sensation no longer

surprised Jon-Tom. It was like shaking hands with someone wearing mittens.

Camp was growing quiet and the nightly rain had hesitantly begun a late fall.

"You see?" Caz pointed to the motionless figure of Clothahump, still seated on

his log. He seemed not to have moved since Jon-Tom left the camp to search for

Mudge. Now he sat glaze-eyed and indifferent to the falling rain.

"Our friend broods on larger matters. Yet often is the greater lost for lack of

attention to the lesser."

"Meaning what?"

"Meaning that we have posted no sentries. This is strange country to all of us."

"In this case I don't think we have to worry. You're forgetting something." He

pointed.

" 'Pon my soul," laughed the rabbit, "so I have." He sounded embarrassed. "It is

not easy to forget a dragon. How quiet he is, though."

"Dreaming sweet dreams of a classless society, no doubt."

Caz removed his monocle, absently polished it with the hem of his beautiful

shirt. "Then it seems we can sleep soundly ourselves. The dragon's presence is

worth more than any hundred sentries. I will enjoy the security of sleeping near

to so powerful an ally."

"Just be careful he doesn't turn in his sleep." Caz waved smilingly back to him,

and Jon-Tom watched the bobbing white tail recede toward the black bulk

shielding their camp.

A gentle voice reached back to him. "Dragons don't toss and turn in their sleep,

my friend. They're not built that way. But I surely hope he does not snore. I

wouldn't enjoy waking up with my pants on fire."

Jon-Tom laughed with him. Pog was asleep, dangling like a dark decoration from

the branch of an overhanging oak. Talea and Flor were chatting quietly beneath

bedrolls on the other side of the fire. He thought of joining them, shrugged,

and spread out his own blanket. He was dead tired, and it would soon be morning.

Right then his body needed comforting more than his ego....

XVIII

Two days of climbing the rapids followed, during which the only danger they had

to cope with was the burning in Jon-Tom's ears as he was compelled to endure

Mudge's reciting and embroidering of the story of his escape from the monstrous

chameleon. When the horned color-changer grew to twice the size of Falameezar,

even Flor threatened to beat the glib otter.

On the fourth day they encountered signs of habitation. Plowed fields, homes

with neatly thatched or slate-tiled roofs, smoking chimneys, and small docks

with boats tied to them began to slip past.

Falameezar would glide deeper in the water, keeping only his eyes, ears, and

passengers above the surface as he breathed through his gills. Anyone on shore

watching would think the several travelers were floating atop a peculiarly low

boat.

On the tenth day Clothahump noted a group of low hills off to their left. Rapids

lay directly ahead, though they were not nearly as swift as those that cut

through the Duggakurra hills close by buried Pfeiffunmunter.

"You may put us ashore here, friend dragon. We are quite close to the city."

"But why?" Falameezar sounded disappointed. "The river is still deep and the

current not too strong." He puffed smoke ahead. "I can pass on easily."

"Yes, but your presence with us might panic the inhabitants."

"I know." The downcast dragon let out a sigh. "I shall put you in to land, then.

What shall I do next?"

Jon-Tom threw Clothahump a look, and the wizard subsided in the youth's favor.

"I'll talk to the commissars of the Polastrindu commune. Perhaps they might

accept you as a member."

"Do you think so? I had no idea so enlightened a community existed." Fiery eyes

stared back down at Jon-Tom hopefully. "That would be wonderful. I'm certainly

willing to do my share of the work."

"You've already done more than that this trip, comrade Falameezar. Clothahump is

right, though, in suggesting you wait here in the river. Even the most educated

comrades can sometimes react thoughtlessly when confronted by the unfamiliar."

He leaned forward, and the dragon bent his neck back and down as Jon-Tom

whispered to him, "There are counterrevolutionaries everywhere!"

"I know. Be on your guard, comrade Jon-Tom."

"I will."

The dragon eased into shore. They marched down his back and tail, passing supply

packs from hand to hand. A well-used track halfway between a wide trail and a

small road led over the hills. Jon-Tom looked back for a moment. The others had

already started up the road. Flor was alive with excitement at the prospect of

entering the strange city. Her enthusiasm made her glow like the lining of

clouds after a storm.

He waved to the dragon. "Be well, comrade. Up the revolution."

"Up the revolution!" the dragon rumbled back, saluting him with a blast of fire

and smoke. Then the ferocious head dipped beneath the surface. A flurry of

bubbles and some fading, concentric ripples marked with a watery flower the

place where the dragon sank. Then they too were gone.

Jon-Tom waded, his long legs and walking staff soon bringing him up alongside

his companions, despite the burden of guilt he carried. Falameezar was far too

nice a dragon to have been so roundly deceived. Perhaps they'd left him happier

than he'd been before, though.

"What do you think he'll do?" Caz moved next to Jon-Tom. "Will he stay and wait

for you to return?"

"How should I know? I'm no expert on the motivations of dragons. His political

beliefs seem unshakable, but he tends more to philosophizing than action, I

think. He might simply grow bored and swim back downstream to his familiar

feeding grounds." He looked sharply at the rabbit. "Why? Do you expect trouble

in Polastrindu?"

"One never knows. The larger the city, the more arrogant the citizens, and we're

not exactly the bearers of good news. We shall see."

An hour's hike had brought them to the crest of the last hill. Finally the

destination of so many days' traveling lay exposed to their sight.

It was wonderful, yes, but it was a flawed wonderment. They started down the

hill. Why should a city here be so very different from any other? he thought

sardonically.

There was a massive stone wall surrounding the city. It was intricately

decorated with huge bas-reliefs and buttressed at ground level. Several gates

showed in the wall, but the traffic employing them was sparse.

It was not a market day, Caz explained. Farmers were not bringing produce into

the city, nor distant craftsmen and traders their wagon-borne wares.

There was somewhat more activity to the south of the city. The great wall ran

almost to the river there. At least a dozen vessels were tied to the rotting

docks. Some were similar to the sail-and-oar-powered keel-type boat that Caz had

fled from that day on the river. Jon-Tom wondered if that very same ship might

be among those bobbing gently at anchor below them. Barges and fishing vessels

comprised the rest of the motley but serviceable flotilla.

"The main gate is on the opposite side of the city, to the northwest and facing

the Swordsward."

"What's that?" Flor wondered aloud. "Have you been there? It seems like you've

been everywhere."

Caz cleared his throat. "No, I have not. I've been no farther than anyone else,

I should say. It is a vast, some say endless, ocean of vegetation inhabited by

vile aborigines and dangerous creatures.

"We have no need to march around the whole city. The harbor gate should be a

quite satisfactory ingress."

They continued down the winding path, which had now expanded to road size.

Curious fellow travelers let their gaze linger long on the unusual group.

Lizard-drawn wagons and carts trundled past them. Sometimes riders on individual

mounts would run or hop past. There was even a wealthy family on a small riding

snake.

Clothahump was enjoying himself. He moved with much less effort downhill than

up. His glance turned upward. "Pog! Anything to report, you useless miscreant?"

The bat yelled down to them as he dipped lower in the sky. "Da usual aerial

patrol. A couple o' armed jays overflew us a few minutes ago. I don't tink dey

saw us wid da dragon, though. Dey've long since turned 'round and flown back to

report. Dey didn't act excited."

Clothahump appeared satisfied. "Good. I have no time for intermediaries,

Polastrindu is too big for them to bother with every odd group of visitors, even

if we are a bit odder than most."

"We may not seem so from the air, sir," Jon-Tom pointed out.

"Quite so, my boy."

They strolled into the docks without anyone challenging them. They watched as

busy stevedores, mostly broad-shouldered wolves, margays, and lynxes,

laboriously loaded and unloaded stacks of crates and bales. Exotic goods and

crafts were stacked neatly on shore or loaded carefully onto dray wagons for

transport into the city.

Along the docks the aroma was pungent but something less than exotic. Even the

river was darker here than out in midstream. The gray coloration derived not

from some locally dark soil, as Jon-Tom first thought, but from the effluent

pouring out of pipes and gutters. The raw sewage abraded much of the initial

glamor, he'd come to associate with Polastrindu.

Flor's expression twisted in disgust. "Surely it's not this bad in the city."

"I sure hope not." Talea sniffed once, tried to close down her sense of smell.

"It is said that the larger the town, the dirtier the habits of its citizens."

Caz trod lightly on the filthy paving lest it sully the supple leather of his

enormous shoes. "This derives from the concentration of the inhabitants on the

making of money. Fastidiousness follows financial independence, not hard work."

One narrow stone arch bridged an open trench. As they crossed, the stench nearly

knocked Flor unconscious. Jon-Tom and Caz had to help her across. Once past she

was able to stand by herself and inhale deep drafts of only partly tainted air.

"Mierda, what a smell!"

"It should be less overwhelming once we are inside the city gate." Clothahump

did not sound particularly apologetic. "There we will be away from the main

sewer outfalls."

A rattling warning fell on them as Pog dipped close. "Master, soldiers come from

da gate. Maybe dat overfly patrol wasn't so indifferent as it seemed. Maybe we

in for some trouble."

Clothahump waved him away as one might a large housefly. "Very good, Pog, but

you worry overmuch. I will deal with them."

It was a well armed if motley-looking knot of soldiers that soon came into view,

marching toward them. Between twenty and thirty, Jon-Tom guessed. He slipped his

club-staff from its lacings and leaned on it expectantly. Other hands drifted in

the vicinity of sheathed swords. Mudge made a show of inspecting his bow.

The troop was led by a heavily armored beaver, a thickset individual with a

no-nonsense gleam in his eyes. Catching sight of the column, sailors and

stevedores scattered for cover. While at first they had ignored the newcomers,

they now shied from them as if they carried plague.

Boots, sandals, and naked feet generated a small rumble of retreat as other

onlookers scurried for safety. Ten soldiers detached themselves with forced

casualness from the main body. They quick-marched to the left to get behind the

newcomers and cut off any possible retreat.

"That doesn't look promising." Jon-Tom's grip tightened on the staff as he

watched the maneuver.

"Easy, my friend." The imperturbable Caz stepped forward. "I will handle this."

"They would not dare to attack us," said an outraged Clothahump. "I am an

emissary to the Council of Wizards and as such my person is inviolable and

sacred."

"Don't tell me, good sir," said Caz, gesturing at the nearing troops. "Tell

them."

Now the walls had become menacing instead of beautiful. Their stone towers cast

threatening shadows over the travelers. From ships and other places of

concealment the mutterings of watchful sailors and merchants could be heard.

Finally the main body of soldiers drew up in a crescent facing them. Their

leader stepped forward, pushed his helmet back on his furry forehead with a

muscular paw, and studied them curiously. In addition to his chain mail, helmet,

and thicker steel plates protecting particularly vulnerable places there was an

unusual moon-shaped iron plate strapped to the thick, broad tail. It was studded

with sharp spikes and would make a devastating weapon if it came to

close-quarter fighting.

"Well," he said, speaking with a distinct lisp, "what have we here? Two gianth,

a tough-looking little female"--Talea spat at the ground--"a dithreputable otter

type, a fop, and an elderly gentleman of the amphibian perthuathion."

"Good sir." Caz bowed slightly. "We are travelers from downriver on a mission

that is of great importance to Polastrindu and the world."

"Thath motht interethting. Whom do you reprethent?"

"By and large we represent ourselves for now, primarily in the person of the

great wizard Clothahump," and he gestured toward the impatient turtle. "He

carries information vital to our survival that he must present to the city

council."

The beaver was casually twirling an ugly skull-splitter of a mace, indifferent

to where the spike-studded ball might land.

"Thath all very nice, but it remainth that you're not citithenth of thith city

or county. At leatht, I athum you are not. Unleth of courth you can produth your

identity chith."

"Identity chits?"

"Everyone who liveth in the county or thity of Polathrindu hath an identity

chith."

"Well, since we don't come from the county or city of Polastrindu, as you've

just been informed, obviously we don't have any such thing," Jon-Tom said in

exasperation.

"That doth not nethetherily follow," said the beaver. "We get many vithitoth.

They all have properly thtamped identity chith. To be freely admitted to the

thity all you have to do ith apply for and rethieve your proper chith." He

smiled around enormous teeth. "I will be happy to provide you with thom."

Jon-Tom relaxed a little. "Good. We'll need theven."

"You very funny, big man. Thinth you have thuch a good thenth of humor, for your

party it will cotht only"--the beaver performed some silent cogitation--"theven

hundred silver pietheth."

"Seven hundred...!" Clothahump sputtered all over the pavement. "That's

extortion! Outright robbery! I am insulted. I, the great and wise and knowing

Clothahump, have not been so outraged in a hundred years!"

"I believe that our leader," said Caz quietly, "is somewhat disinclined to pay.

Now if you will just convey word of our arrival to your superiors, I am sure

that when they know why we have come--"

"They won't hear why you have come," broke in the beaver, "until you pay up. And

if you don't pay up, they won't hear why you were overcome." He grinned again.

His huge teeth were badly stained by some dark brown liquid. "Actually, ith

eighty silver pietheth per party for identity cardth, but my men and I have to

make a living of thom kind, don't we? A tholdierth pay ith pretty poor."

There were angry murmurs of agreement from the troops standing behind him.

"We will depart peacefully then," said Caz.

"I don't think tho," said the beaver. The ten soldiers who had detached

themselves earlier now moved in tightly behind the travelers, blocking their

path. "I don't want you going around to the other gateth."

Flor whispered to Mudge, "Are all your cities so hospitable?"

Mudge shrugged. "Where there's wealth, luv, there's corruption. There's a lot of

wealth in Polastrindu, wot?" He eyed the soldiers nervously.

Some of them were already fingering swords and clubs in anticipation of a little

corrective head-bashing. They looked healthy and well fed, if not especially

hygienic.

" 'Ere now, your wizardship, why don't we just pay up? These blokes look as

though they'd rather 'ave themselves a good massacre than anythin' else. If we

wait much longer we won't 'ave ourselves much o' a choice."

"I will not pay." Clothahump obstinately adjusted his spectacles. "Besides, I

can't remember that asinine silver spell."

"You won't pay, eh?" The beaver waddled over until he was glaring eye to eye

with the turtle. "Tho you're a great withard, eh? Leth thee how much of a

withard you really are," and he flipped the mace around, snapped his wrist, and

struck Clothahump square on the beak.

The sorcerer let out a startled cry and sat down hard. "Why you impudent young

whelp!" He fumbled for his glasses, which had been knocked loose but not broken.

"I shall show you who is a wizard. I will disembowel you, I'll... !"

"Port armth!" the beaver barked. Instantly a cluster of spears and clubs was

pointed at the travelers. The officer said sourly, "I've had jutht about enough

of thith foolithneth. I don't know who you are, where you come from, or what

kind of game you're trying to play with me, but we don't take kindly to vagranth

here. Ith dragged off to the thellth you're to be, and methily, too, unleth you

come up with thorn cash."

There was stone wall to his right and sharp steel ahead and behind, but nothing

blocked Jon-Tom's path as he'd worked his way to the water's edge. He cupped his

hands and yelled desperately, "Falameezarrrr!"

"What, thereth more of you then?" The beaver's whiskers twitched as he turned to

face the stagnant water. "Where ith thith one? Hiding on a boat? Ith going to

cotht you another hundredth silver piethes. I'm growing tired of thith. You'll

pay me right now or elth..." and he twirled the mace menacingly.

A great tired creaking drowned out the last words of the threat as two ships

were bodily shouldered aside. Dock planking gave under irresistible pressure

from below. A huge black head emerged from beneath, trailing water and shattered

boards. Great claws dug into broken stone, and coal-eyes glared down at the

group.

The beaver stared open-mouthed up at the wet, shiny teeth clashing just above

him. "D-d-d-d-!" He never did get the whole word out, but managed to outwaddle

half his subordinates in the race for the main gate.

Sailors hastily abandoned their ships in the mad rush for the gate. Vendors and

merchants abandoned their stocks and wharfside businesses in favor of drier

territory. There was panic on the city wall as rudely awakened troops ran into

one another in their rush to take up defensive positions.

The now solitary band of travelers put up their own weapons.

"A timely appearance, comrade," said Jon-Tom. "I'd hoped you might still be

nearby, but I had no idea it would be quite this near."

Falameezar gazed at the terrified faces peeking over the top of the wall. "What

is wrong with them?" He was more curious than angry. "I heard your call and came

as promised, but I thought they surely would treat you as fellow

comrades-in-arms in the great struggle to come."

"Yes, but you recall what I told you about the presence of

counterrevolutionaries?" Jon-Tom said darkly.

"Oho, so that's it!" Falameezar let out a furious hiss and a trio of small shops

burst into flame.

"Careful. We just want to get inside, not burn the city down."

A massive tail lashed at the water and instantly put out the small fires, though

he did the innocent shops no more good than had the flames.

"Keep your anger in check, Falameezar," Jon-Tom advised. "I'm sure we'll have

this all straightened out as soon as we can get to talk with the city's

commissars."

"I should certainly think so!" said the dragon huffily. "The idea of letting

counterrevolutionaries interdict innocent travelers."

"It's hard to tell the true revolutionaries from their secretive enemies."

"I suppose that's so," the dragon admitted.

"There might be even worse yet to come," Jon-Tom informed him as they all

sashayed across the stones toward the now tightly barred wooden gate.

"Like what, comrade?"

Jon-Tom whispered, "Revisionists."

Falameezar shook his head and muttered tiredly, "Is there no decency left in the

world?"

"Just keep your temper under control," Jon-Tom told him. "We don't want to

accidentally incinerate any honest proletarians."

"I will be careful," the dragon assured him, "but inside I am trembling with

outrage. Yet even a filthy revisionist can be reedueated."

"Yes, it's clear that the formation of instructional cadres should be a priority

here," Jon-Tom agreed.

The city of Polastrindu had suddenly taken on the aspect of a ghost town. At the

dragon's continued approach all interested faces had vanished from the wall.

Only an occasional spear showed itself, and that was the only sign of movement.

Jon-Tom could feel the eyes of hidden sailors and stevedores on his back, but

there was nothing to worry about from that quarter. In fact, so long as

Falameezar remained with them there was little to fear from anywhere.

He glanced at Caz. The rabbit smiled and nodded back at him. Being the one in

control of the dragon, it behooved Jon-Tom to do the talking. So he marched up

to the gate and rapped arrogantly on the wood.

"Captain of the Gate, show yourself!" When there was neither a reply nor hint of

movement from within, he added, "Show yourself or we'll burn down your gate and

make you Captain of Ashes!"

There were sounds of argument from within. Then a slight groaning of wood as the

massive portal opened just wide enough to permit the egress of a familiar

figure. The gate shut quickly closed behind him.

"That's better." Jon-Tom eyed the beaver, who looked considerably less

belligerent now. "We were discussing something about 'identity chits'?"

"They're being prepared right now," the officer told him, his gaze continually

darting up at the glowering crimson-eyed face of the dragon.

"That's nice. There was also the matter of a large number of silver pieces?"

"No, no, no. Don't be ridiculouth. And abthurd mithunderthanding!"

A moment later a grateful expression came over his face as the gate opened

again. He disappeared inside and came back with a handful of tiny metal

rectangles. Each was stamped with tiny symbols and a few words.

"Here we are." He passed them out quickly. "You are to have your own nameth

engraved here." He indicated a wide blank place on each chit. "At your leithure,

of courth," he added obsequiously.

"But there are only seven chits here." The beaver looked confused. "Remember, by

your own recognition there are now eight in our party."

"I don't underthand," said the nervous officer. He nodded slightly in

Falameezar's direction. "Thurely that ith not coming into the thity?"

"A bourgeois statement if ever I heard one!" The dragon leaned close enough for

the smell of brimstone and sulfur to overpower the odor of spilling sewage. That

he could swallow the officer in one snap was a fact not lost on that worthy.

"No, no... a mithunderthanding, thath all. I... I'm truly thorry, thir dragon. I

didn't realize you were a part of thith party... not jutht... if you'll excuth

me, pleath!" He back-pedaled through the opening faster than Jon-Tom would have

believed those bandy legs could carry him.

Several minutes went by this time before he reappeared. "The latht chit," he

said, panting as he preferred the freshly stamped metal plate.

"I'll take charge of it." Jon-Tom slipped it into a shirt pocket. "And now if

you'd be so kind as to open the gate?"

"Open up in there!" yelled the officer. The newcomers strolled through.

Falameezar had to duck his head and barely succeeded in squeezing through the

opening.

They found themselves in a deserted courtyard. Hundreds of anxious eyes observed

them from behind dozens of barely opened windows.

Huge stone structures marched off in all directions. As in Lynchbany, they gave

the impression of dozens of smaller buildings that had grown together, only here

the scale was larger. The city had the appearance of a gray sand castle. Some of

the structures were six and seven stories tall. Ragged apartment buildings

displayed odd windows and individual balconies.

The streets they could see were much wider than in provincial Lynchbany, though

overhanging porches and window boxes made them appear narrower. The street that

opened into their courtyard led to the harbor gate. It was only natural that it

be wider than most. Undoubtedly the city possessed its share of alleys and

closes.

Evidence of considerable traffic abounded, from the worn domes of the

cobblestones that projected like the bald skulls of buried midgets to the huge

piles of discarded trash. Several dozen stalls ringed the courtyard square.

Jon-Tom suspected that until a little while ago these had been crowded with busy

vendors hawking wares to sailors and shoppers alike. A few salespeople still

cowered within, too weak or too greedy to flee. Some of the frightened faces

were furry, a few humanly smooth.

"Look at 'em, ashrinkin' behind their bellies." Mudge made insulting faces at

the half-hidden onlookers, feeling quite invulnerable with the bulk of

Falameezar immediately behind him. "Welcome to wonderful Polastrindu. Pagh! The

streets stink, the people stink. Sooner we've done with this business and can

get back to the clean forest, the better this 'ere otter'll like it." He cupped

his hands and shouted disdainfully.

"You 'ear me, you quiverin' cowardly buggers! Yer 'ole city sucks! Want to argue

about it?"

No one did. Mudge looked satisfied, turned to face Jon-Tom. "What now, mate?"

"We must meet with the local sorcerers and the city council," said Clothahump

firmly, "during which meeting you will do me the pleasure of restraining your

adolescent outpourings."

"Ah, they deserve it, guv."

"Council?" That ominous rumble came from a quizzical Falameezar.

"Council of commissars," explained Jon-Tom hastily. "It's all a matter of

semantics."

"Yes, of course." The dragon sounded abashed.

Looking around, Jon-Tom spotted the beaver hovering uncertainly in a nearby

doorway. "You there, come here." The officer hesitated as long as possible.

"Yes, you!"

Reluctantly he emerged. Halfway across the square, perhaps conscious of all the

eyes watching him from numerous windows, he seemed to regain some of his former

pride and dignity. If he was going to his death, seemed to be his thinking, then

he might as well make a good showing of it. Jon-Tom had to admire his courage,

belated though it might be.

"Very well," the beaver told him calmly. "You've bullied your way into my city."

"Which was necessary only because you tried to bully us outside," Jon-Tom

reminded him. "Let's say we're even now. No hard feelings."

The beaver shot a whiskery glance at the quiescent form of Falameezar before

staring searchingly back at Jon-Tom.

"You mean that, thir? You are not going to take your revenge on me?"

"No. After all," Jon-Tom added, hoping to gain a local ally, "you were only

doing your duty as you, uh, saw it."

"Yeth. Yeth, thath right." The officer was still reluctant to believe he wasn't

being set up and that Jon-Tom's offer of friendship was genuine.

"We have no grudge against you, nor against any citizen of Polastrindu. We're

here to help you."

"And every sentient inhabitant of our warmland world," Clotha-hump added

self-importantly.

The officer grunted. Clearly the beaver preferred talking with Jon-Tom, though

staring up at the towering human hurt his short neck.

"What then can I do to be of thervith to you, my friend?"

"You could arrange for us to meet with the city council and military

administrators and the representatives of the wizards of this region," Jon-Tom

informed him.

The beaver's eyes widened. Massive incisors clicked against lower teeth. "Thath

quite a requetht, friend! Do you have any idea what you're athking?"

"I'm sorry if it's going to be difficult for you, but we can't settle for

anything less. We would not have traveled all this way unless it was on a matter

of critical importance."

"I can believe that. But you got to underthand I'm jutht a thubof-fither. I'm

not in a pothition to--"

Shouts came from behind him. Several of his soldiers were emerging from the door

behind which they'd taken refuge and pointing up the main street.

An elaborate sedan chair was approaching. It was borne aloft by six puffing

mice. They hesitated at their first view of Falameezar, but shouts from inside

the chair and the crack of the shrewish driver's whip forced them onward. The

shrew was elegantly dressed in lace and silk, complete to lace cap.

The chair halted a modest distance away. The three-foot-tall driver descended

rapidly and opened the door, bowing low. The abused bearers slumped in their

harnesses and fought to catch their breath. They'd apparently run most of the

way.

The individual who emerged from the vehicle was clad in armor more decorative

than functional. It was heavily gilded, befitting its owner's high station and

haughty demeanor. He appraised the situation in the square and ambled over.

Open paw slapping across his chest, the beaver saluted sharply as the newcomer

neared. A faint wave from the other was all the acknowledgment he gave the

officer.

"I am Major Ortrum, Commandant of the City Guard," the raccoon said unctuously.

He managed the considerable feat of ignoring Falameezar as he talked to the rest

of the arrivals.

The dragon caught Jon-Tom's attention. The youth edged back alongside the black

bulk while the raccoon recited some sort of official greeting in a bored voice.

"Those poor fellows there," said the dragon angrily, nodding toward the

exhausted bearers of the sedan chair, "appear to me the epitome of the exploited

worker. And I don't care for the looks of this one now talking."

Jon-Tom thought very fast. "I expect they take turns. That's only fair."

"I suppose," said the dragon doubtfully. "But those workers," and he indicated

the panting mice, "are all of the same kind, while the speaker is manifestly

different."

"Yeah... but what about the driver? He's different, too."

"Yes, but... oh, never mind. It is my suspicious nature."

Too suspicious by half, Jon-Tom thought, breathing a mental sigh of relief at

having once again buffaloed the dragon. He hoped to God the Major didn't take

his leave by kicking one or two of the bearers erect.

"I gather," the raccoon was saying, inhaling a choice bit of snuff, "that you

are here on some silly sort of important mission?"

"That's true." Clothahump eyed the Major distastefully.

"Ah, you must be the wizard who was mentioned to me." Ortrum performed a smooth,

aristocratic bow. "I defer to one who has mastered the arcane arts, and to whom

all must look up to." There was a short, sharp guffaw from the bat fluttering

overhead, but Clothahump's opinion of the Major underwent a radical change.

"At last, someone who recognizes the worth of knowledge! Maybe now we will get

somewhere."

"That will depend," said the Major. "I am told you seek an audience of the

council, the military, and the sorceral representatives as well?"

"That's right," said Mudge, "an' if they know wot's good for them they'll give

us a hard listen, they will."

"Or... ?"

"Or..." Mudge looked helplessly at Clothahump.

"A crisis that threatens the entire civilized world looms closer every day,"

said the wizard. "To counter it will require all the resources of the

warmlands."

"Understand that I do not dispute your word, knowledgeable sir," the Major said,

closing his silver snuffbox, "but I am ill prepared to consider such matters.

Therefore I suppose you must have your audience. You must realize how difficult

it will be to gather all the notables you require in a brief period of time."

"Nevertheless, it must be done."

"And at the audience you will of course substantiate all your claims."

"Of course," said the turtle irritably.

Jon-Tom took note of the implied threat. There was more to Major Ortrum than met

the eye, or the nose. It took considerable bravery to stand there showing

apparent disregard for the massive presence of Falameezar. Even Jon-Tom himself,

at first sight, made many of the locals pause.

Then it occurred to him that bravery might have nothing to do with it. He

wondered at the contents of the snuffbox. Major Ortrum might be stoned out of

his socks.

"It will take a little time."

"As soon as possible, then," said Clothahump with a harrumph of impatience.

"Naturally, you will give me the particulars of this supposed threat, so that

the sorcerers at least will know, excuse my boldness sir, that they are not

being dragged from their burrows and dens to confront only the ravings of a

senile fraud." He put up a mollifying hand. "Tut, tut, sir. Think a moment.

Surely you yourself would want some assurance if the positions were reversed?"

"That seems reasonable enough. The wizards of the greater territories are a

supercilious bunch. They must be made to understand the danger. I will give you

such information as will be sufficient to induce them to attend the audience."

He hunted through his plastron.

"Here, then." He removed a handful of tiny scrolls. "These are curse-sealed."

"Yes, I see the mark," said the raccoon as he carefully accepted them.

"Not that it would matter if you saw their contents," Clothahump told him. "All

the world will know soon enough. But there are certain snobbish types who would

resent the intrusion of mere laymen into sorceral affairs."

"Rest assured they will not be tampered with," said the Major with a fatuous

smile. He placed the scrolls in his side purse.

"Now to less awesome matters. It is growing late. Surely you must be tired from

the day's work"--he eyed the unfortunate beaver sharply--"and from your

extensive journeying. Also, it would help settle the populace if you would

retire."

Caz brushed daintily at his lace cuffs and silk stockings. "I for one could

certainly use a bath. Not to mention something more elaborate than camp cuisine.

Ah, for an epinard and haricot salad with spiced legume dressing!"

"A gourmet." Major Ortrum looked with new interest at the rabbit. "You will

pardon my saying so, sir, but I do not understand you falling in with this kind

of company."

"I find my present company quite satisfactory, thank you." Caz smiled thinly.

Ortrum shrugged. "Life often places us in the most unexpected situations." It

was clear he fancied himself something of a philosopher. "We will find you your

bath, sir, and lodgings for you all."

The beaver leaned close, still stiffly at attention, and jerked his head toward

the dragon. "Lodgings, thir? Even for that?"

"Yes, what about Falameezar?" Jon-Tom asked. "Comrades are not to be separated."

The dragon beamed.

"No trouble whatsoever," the raccoon assured him. He pointed behind them. "That

third large structure there, behind you and to your left, is a military barracks

and storehouse. At present it is occupied only by a small maintenance crew, who

will be moved. Should your substantial reptilian friend desire to return to his

natural aquatic habitat, whether permanently or merely for a washup, he will

find the river close at hand. And there is ample room inside for all of you, so

you will be able to stay together.

"If you will please follow me?" He returned to his chair. Curses and urgings

came from the driver. Though high-pitched and squeaky, they were notable for

their exceptional vileness.

Divide and promote a selected few, Jon-Tom thought angrily. That's how to keep

the oppressed in line. The treatment of the smaller rodents was a source of

continuing unease to him.

They followed the chair to the entrance of a huge wooden building. A pair of

towering sliding doors were more than large enough to admit Falameezar.

"This building is often used to house large engines," Ortrum explained. "Hence

the need for the oversized portal.

"I will leave you here now. I must return to make my report and set in motion

the requests you have made. If you need anything, do not hesitate to ask any of

the staff inside for assistance. I welcome you as guests of the city."

He turned, and the chair shuffled off under the straining muscles of the

mice....

XIX

Their quarters were Spartan but satisfactory. Falameezar declared himself

content with the straw carried in from the stables, the consistency being drier

but otherwise akin to the familiar mud of his favorite riverbottom.

"There are some ramifications of communal government I would like to discuss

with you, comrade," he said to Jon-Tom as the youth was walking toward his own

quarters.

"Later, Falameezar." He yawned, nearly exhausted by the hectic day. It had

turned dark outside. The windows of Polastrindu had come alive like a swarm of

fireflies.

Also, he was plain tired of keeping the dragon's insatiable curiosity sated. His

limited store of knowledge about the workings of Marxism was beginning to get a

little threadbare, and he was growing increasingly worried about making a

dangerous philosophical mistake. Falameezar's friendship was predicated on a

supposedly mutual affinity for a particular socioeconomic system. A devastating

temper lay just beneath those iridescent scales.

A hand clutched his arm and he jumped. It was only Mudge.

"Take 'er a mite easier, mate. Yer more knotted up than a virgin's girdle. We've

made it 'ere, an' that were the important thing, wot? Tonight we'll go out an'

find ourselves a couple of less argumentative ladies than the pair we're

travelin' with and 'ave ourselves a time of it, right?"

Jon-Tom firmly disengaged his arm. "Oh no. I remember the last tavern you took

me into. You nearly got my belly opened. Not to mention abandoning me in

Thieves' Hall."

"Now that were Talea's doin', not mine."

"What was my doing?" The redhead had appeared in the doorway ahead.

"Why nothin', luv," said Mudge innocently.

She eyed him a moment longer, then decided to ignore him. "Anybody noticed that

there are dormitories at each end of this mausoleum? They're full of soldiers.

We've been given the officer's quarters, but I don't like being surrounded by

the others."

"Afraid of being murdered in your sleep?" Flor had joined the discussion.

Talea glared at her. "It's been known to happen, usually to those who think

their beds safe. Besides, that Major Maskface said there was normally only a

'maintenance crew' living here. Then where'd all the bully-boys come from, and

why?"

"How many are there?" inquired Caz.

"At least fifty at each end. Possums, weasels, humans; a nice mix. They looked

awfully alert for a bunch of broom-pushers. Well armed, too."

"It's only natural for the city to be nervous at our presence," Jon-Tom argued.

"A few guards are understandable."

"A few yes, a hundred I'm not so sure."

"Are you saying we're prisoners?" said Flor.

"I'm saying I don't sleep well knowing that over a hundred 'nervous' and

well-armed soldiers are sleeping on either side of me."

"Wouldn't be the first time," Mudge murmured.

She looked at him sharply. "What? What did you say, you fuzz-faced little

prick?"

"That it wouldn't be the first time we've been surrounded, luv."

"Oh."

"There's one way to find out." Caz moved to the small door set in one of the

huge sliding panels hung from the west wall. He opened it and conversed with

someone unseen. Presently the beaver officer they'd first encountered outside

the city appeared. He looked unhappy, tried to avoid their stares.

"I underthand you would like an evening meal."

"That's right," said Caz.

"They will be brought in immediately. The betht the city can offer." He started

to leave. Caz restrained him.

"Just a moment. That's a very kind offer, but some of us would prefer to find

our own dinery." He picked absently at his tail, whiskers twitching. "That's all

right, isn't it?" He took a step toward the open door.

The officer reluctantly moved to block his path. "I'm truly thorry, thir." He

sounded as if he meant it. "But Major Ortrum gave thrict inthructions on how you

were to be quartered and fed. Your thafety ith of much conthern to the

authoritieth. They are worried that thertain radical foolth among the population

might try to attack you."

"Their concern for our health is most kind," replied Caz, "but they needn't

worry. We can take care of ourselves."

"I know that, thir," admitted the officer, "but my thuperiorth think otherwithe.

Ith for your own protecthion." He backed out, closing the door tightly behind

him.

"That's it, then," snapped an angry Talea. "We're under house arrest. I knew

they were up to something."

Flor was playing with her knife, cleaning her long nails and looking quite

ravishing as she leaned against a wall, legs crossed and her black cape framing

her figure.

"That's easily fixed. Un poco sangre and we'll go where we please, ¿no es

verdad? Or we could wake up Jonny-Tom's fire-breathing compadre and make

charcoal of that door." She gestured at the huge sliding panels with the knife.

"These aren't the enemy, Flor. Now is a time for diplomacy," he told her. "In

any case, I can't risk leaving Falameezar."

Black eyes flashed at him and she stood away from the wall, jabbed the knife

into the wood. "Maybe so, but I'm like Talea in this. I don't like being told

where I can and can't go even if it supposedly is for my own 'protection'! I had

twenty years of older brothers and sisters telling me that. I'll be damned if

I'm going to let some oversized stuffy coon dictate the same thing to me now."

"Tch, tch... children, children."

They all turned. The squat figure of Clothahump was watching them, clucking his

tongue in disapproval.

"You will all be valuable on the battlefield in the war to come, but that war is

not yet, nor here. The fleshpots of the city do not interest me in the least,

so," and he smiled up at Jon-Tom, "I will remain here to satisfy our large

companion's desire for conversation."

"Are you sure... ?" Jon-Tom began.

"I have listened closely to much of your chatter, and you have instructed me

well. The underlying principles to which this dragon adheres so fanatically are

simple enough to manipulate. I can handle him. Besides, it is the nature of

wizards and dragons to get along with one another. There are other things we can

talk about.

"But you should all go, if you so desire. You have done all I have asked of you

so far and deserve some relaxation. So I will occupy the attention of the dragon

when required, and will aid you in slipping away."

"I don't know." Jon-Tom studied the snoring figure of the dragon. "He has a

pretty probing, one-track mind."

"I will endeavor to steer our talk away from eeonomics. That seems to be his

main interest. After you have departed I shall bar the door from the outside...

a simple bit of levitation. With the bars in place and the sounds of

conversation inside, the other guards will assume all are still here.

"That shouldn't be too 'ard to do, wot?"

Mudge jumped. The wizard had mimicked his voice perfectly.

A dark form descended from the rafters. "What about me, Master?" Pog looked

imploringly at him.

"Go with them if you will. I will have no need of you here tonight. But stay

away from the brothels. That's what got you into this in the first place,

remember. You will end up indenturing yourself to a second master."

"Not ta worry, boss. And thanks!" He bowed in the air, dipping like a diving

plane.

"I don't believe you, but I will not hold you back and let the others go. Moral

desiccation," he muttered disgustedly. Pog simply winked at Jon-Tom.

"You said you'd help us get out. What are you going to do," Flor wondered,

"dissolve the wall?"

Clothahump frowned at her as much as his hard face would allow. "You

underestimate the resources available to a sophisticated worker of miracles such

as myself. If I were to do as you suggest, it would be immediately evident to

those watching us what had taken place. Your temporary departure must go

unnoticed.

"When it is but a little darker I will allow you to pass safely and unseen into

the city."

So it was that several hours later the little group of sightseers stood

clustered in a narrow side street. Oil lamps flickered in the night mist. Light

struggled to escape from behind closed shutters. Around them drifted the faint

sounds of a city too big and bustling to go to sleep at night.

Behind them, across the deserted square, bulked the shadowy, barnlike barracks

in which they'd been confined only moments earlier.

Jon-Tom had expected Clothahump to do something extraordinary, such as

materializing them inside another building.

Instead, the wizard had moved to another small side door. His gift for mimicry,

magical or otherwise, had been used to throw the studied voice of one snoozing

guard. Through the use of ventriloquism he had cast rude aspersions on the

ancestry of the other guard. Violently waking up his supposedly insulting

companion, this victim and his associate soon fell to more physical discussion.

At that point it was a simple matter for Caz and Talea to slip up behind them

and via the judicious application of some loose cobblestones, settle the

argument for the duration of the evening.

It was not quite the miraculous manipulation of magic Jon-Tom had expected from

Clothahump, but he had to admit it was efficient.

No one troubled them or challenged them as they walked down the deserted

thoroughfare. Citizens were voluntarily or else by directive giving the barracks

area a wide berth.

Soon they began encountering evening pedestrian traffic, however, and despite

the size of Jon-Tom and Flor, they attracted little attention. Talea and Mudge

had never been inside a city the size of Polastrindu. They were trying hard to

act blasé, but their actual feeling was awe.

Jon-Tom and Flor were equally ignorant of the city's customs, though not of its

size, and so was Pog. So it was left unspoken that Caz would lead them. After a

while Jon-Tom felt almost comfortable walking the rain-soaked streets, his cape

up over his head. With its overhanging balconies and flickering oil lamps it was

not unlike Lynchbany. The principal difference was the increased volume of

bickering and fighting, of the sounds of loving and playing and cursing and

crying cubs that issued from behind doors and windows.

As in Lynchbany the uppermost garret levels were inhabited by the various

arboreal citizens. Bats like Pog, or kilt-clad birds. Night-fliers filled the

sky and danced or fought in silhouette against the cloud-shrouded moon.

A group of drunken raccoons and coatis ambled past them. Their capes and vests

were liquor-stained. One inebriated bobcat tottered in their midst. She was

magnificently dressed in a long flowing skirt and broad-rimmed hat. With short

tail switching and cat-eyes piercing the night she looked as if she might just

have emerged from a stage version of Puss n' Boots, though the way her companion

coati was pawing her was anything but fairytalish.

They encountered a group of voles and opossums on their way to work. Having just

arisen from a long day's sleep, the workers were anxious to reach their jobs.

The revelers would not let them pass. There was shoving and pushing, much of it

good-natured, as the workers made their way at last up the street.

"Down this way," Caz directed them. They turned down a narrow, winding road. The

lighting was more garish, the noise from busy establishments more raucous.

Heavily made-up faces boasting extreme coloration of fur and skin only partly

due to cosmetics beckoned to them from various windows. By no means were all of

them of a female cast. Flor in particular studied them with as much interest as

ever she'd devoted to a class in the sociology of nineteenth-century theater.

Occasionally these faces would regard them with more than usual intent. These

stares were reserved primarily for the giants Flor and Jon-Tom. Some of the

comments that accompanied these looks were as appreciative as they were ribald.

"My feet are beginning to hurt," Jon-Tom told Caz. "How much farther? You know

where you're taking us?"

"In a nonspecific way, yes, my friend. We are searching for an establishment

that combines the best of all possible worlds. Not every tavern offers sport.

Not every gaming house supplies refreshment. And of the few that offer all, not

many are reputable enough to set foot in."

Still another corner they turned. To his surprise Jon-Tom noted that Talea had

sidled close to him.

"It's nice to be out," he said conversationally. "Not that I was so

uncomfortable back there in the barracks, but it's the principle of the thing.

If they think they can get away with restricting our movements, then they'll be

more inclined to do so, and less respeetful of Clothahump's information."

"That's so," she said huskily. "But that's not what concerns me now."

"No?" He put his arm around her experimentally. She didn't resist. He thought

back to that morning in the forest when he'd awakened to find her curled up

against his shoulder. That warmth communicated itself now through her shirt and

cape. It traveled through his fingers right up his arm and down toward nether

regions.

"What does concern you, then?" he asked affectionately.

"That for the past several minutes we've been followed." Startled, Jon-Tom

started to look back over his shoulder when a hand jabbed painfully into his

ribs.

"Don't look at them, you idiot!" He forced his eyes resolutely ahead. "There are

six or seven of them, I think."

"Maybe it's just another group of party-goers," he said hopefully.

"I don't think so. They've neither fallen behind us, turned off on a different

street, nor come any nearer. They've kept too consistent a gap between us to

mean well."

"Then what should we do?" he asked her.

"Probably turn into the next tavern. If they mean us any harm, they'll be more

reluctant to try anything in front of a room full of witnesses."

"We can't be sure of that. Why not send Pog back to check 'em out," he suggested

brightly, "before we jump to any conclusions? At the least he can tell us

exactly how many of them there are and how heavily armed they are."

She looked up at him approvingly. "That's more like it. The more suspicious you

become, Jon-Tom, the longer you'll live. Pog! Pog?" The others looked back at

her curiously.

"Pog! Good-for-nothing parasitic airborne piece of shit, where the hell--?"

"Stow it, sister!" The bat was abruptly fluttering in front of them. "I've got

some bad news for ya."

"We already know," Talea informed him.

He looked puzzled, remained hovering a couple of feet in front of them as they

walked. "You do? But how could you? I flew on ahead because I was getting bored,

and surely ya can't see...?"

"Wait... wait a second," muttered Jon-Tom. "Ahead? But," and he jerked a thumb

back over his left shoulder, "we were talking about the group that's be--"

"That's far enough!" declaimed a strange voice.

"Whup... see yas." Pog suddenly rocketed straight up into the darkness formed by

garrets and overhanging beams.

Jon-Tom hastily searched the street. The nearest open doorway from which music

and laughter emerged was at least half a block ahead of them on the left. At the