neetha Napew - Spellsinger

developed useful hands from those hooves, and the development of intelligenee is

concurrent with digital dexterity.

"The rest have it, though. Along with the birds. None of the reptiles save us

turtles, for some reason. And the inhabitants of Gossameringue and the

Greendowns, of course. The less spoken about them, the better." He studied

Jon-Tom.

"Now since we can't send you home, lad, what are we going to do with you...?"

III

Clothahump considered several moments longer. "We can't just abandon you in a

strange world, I suppose. I do feel somewhat responsible. You'll need some money

and a guide to explain things to you. You, otter, Mudge!"

The otter was intent on a huge tome Pog was avidly displaying. "Both of you get

away from the sex incantations. You wouldn't have the patience to invoke the

proper spirits anyhow. Serve you both right if I let you make off with a formula

or two and you messed it up right clever and turned yourselves neuter."

Mudge shut the book while Pog busied himself dusting second-story windows.

"What d'you want o' me, your wizardness?" an unhappy Mudge asked worriedly,

cursing himself for becoming involved.

"That deferential tone doesn't fool me, Mudge." Clothahump eyed him warningly.

"I know your opinion of me. No matter, though." Turning back to Jon-Tom he

examined the young man's attire: the poorly engraved leather belt, the scuffed

sandals, the T-shirt with the picture of a hirsute human wielding a smoking

instrument, the faded blue jeans.

"Obviously you can't go tramping around Lynchbany Towne or anywhere else looking

like that. Someone is likely to challenge you. It could be dangerous."

"Aye. They might die alaughin'," suggested Mudge.

"We can do without your miserable witticisms, offspring of a spastic muskrat.

What is amusing to you is a serious matter to this boy."

"Begging your pardon, sir," Jon-Tom put in firmly, "but I'm twenty-four. Hardly

a boy."

"I'm two hundred and thirty-six, lad. It's all relative. Now, we must do

something about those clothes. And a guide." He stared meaningfully at Mudge.

"Now wait a minim, guv'nor. It were your bloomin' portal 'e stumbled through. I

can't 'elp it if you pinched the wrong chap."

"Nevertheless, you are familiar with him. You will therefore assume charge of

him and see that he comes to no harm until such time as I can make other

arrangements for him."

Mudge jerked a furry thumb at the watching youth. "Not that I don't feel sorry

for 'im, your wizardship. I'd feel the same way toward any 'alf mad creature...

let alone a poor, furless human. But t' make me responsible for seein' after

'im, sor? I'm a 'unter by trade, not a bloody fairy godmother."

"You're a roustabout by trade, and a drunkard and lecher by avocation,"

countered Clothahump with considerable certitude. "You're far from the ideal

guardian for the lad, but I know of no scholars to substitute, feeble

intellectual community that Lynchbany is. So... you're elected."

"And if I refuse?"

Clothahump rolled up nonexistent sleeves. "I'll turn you into a human. I'll

shrink your whiskers and whiten your nose, I'll thin your legs and squash your

face. Your fur will fall out and you'll run around the rest of your life with

bare flesh showing."

Poor Mudge appeared genuinely frightened, his bravado completely gone. "No, no,

your sorcererness! If it's destined I take the lad in care, I ain't the one t'

challenge destiny."

"A wise and prosaic decision." Clothahump settled down. "I do not like to

threaten. Now that the matter of a guide is settled, the need of money remains."

"That's so." Mudge brightened. "Can't send an innocent stranger out into a cruel

world penniless as well as ignorant."

"Mind you, Mudge, what I give the lad is not to be squandered in wining and

wenching."

"Oh, no, no, no, sor. I'll see the lad properly dressed and put up at a

comfortable inn in Lynchbany that accepts humans."

Jon-Tom sounded excited and pleased. "There are people like me in this town,

then?"

Mudge eyed him narrowly. "Of course there are people in Lynchbany Towne, mate.

There are also a few humans. None your size, though."

Clothahump was rummaging through a stack of scrolls. "Now then, where is that

incantation for gold?"

" 'Ere, guv'nor," said Mudge brightly. "Let me 'elp you look."

The wizard nudged him aside. "I can manage by myself." He squinted at the mound

of paper.

"Geese... gibbering... gifts... gneechees... gold, there we are."

Potions and powders were once more brought into use, placed in a shallow pan

instead of a bowl. They were heaped atop a single gold coin that Clothahump had

removed from a drawer in his plastron. He noticed Mudge avidly following the

procedure.

"Forget it, otter. You'd never get the inflection right. And this coin is old

and special. If I could make gold all the time, I wouldn't need to charge for my

services. This is a special occasion, though. Think what would happen if just

any animal could wander about making gold."

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

"Bless my shell, lad, that's so. You have some learning after all."

"Economics are more in my line."

The wizard waved the wand over the pan.

"Postulate, postulate, postulate.

Heavy metal integrate.

Emulate a goldecule,

Pile it high, shape it round,

I call you from the ground.

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

There was a flash, a brief smell of ozone. The powders vanished from the pan. In

their place was a pile of shining coins.

"Now, that's a right proper trick," Mudge whispered to Jon-Tom, "that I'd give a

lot to know."

"Come help yourself, lad." Clothahump wiped a hand across his forehead. "That's

a short spell, but a rough one."

Jon-Tom scooped up a handful of coins. He was about to slip them into a pocket

when their unusual lightness struck him. He juggled them experimentally.

"They seem awfully light to be gold, sir. Meaning no disrespect, but..."

Mudge reached out, grabbed a coin. "Light's not the word, mate. It looks like

gold, but 'tis not."

A frowning Clothahump chose a golden disk. "Um. Seems to be a fine edge running

the circumference of the coin."

"On these also, sir." Jon-Tom picked at the edge. A thick gold foil peeled away,

to reveal a darker material underneath. High above, Pog was swimming air circles

and cackling hysterically.

"I don't understand." Clothahump finished peeling the foil from his own

specimen. He recognized it at the same time as Jon-Tom took an experimental

bite.

"Chocolate. Not bad chocolate, either."

Clothahump looked downcast. "Damn. I must have mixed my breakfast formula with

the transmuter."

"Well," said the starving youth as he peeled another, "you may make poor gold,

sir, but you make very good chocolate."

"Some wizard!" Pog shouted from a sheltered window recess. "Gets chocolate

instead of gold! Did I mention da time he tried ta conjure a water nymph? Had

his room all laid out like a beaver's lair, he did. Incense and perfume and

mirrors. Got his water nymph all right. Only it was a Cugluch dragonfly nymph

dat nearly tore his arm off before..."

Clothahump jabbed a finger in Pog's direction. A tiny bolt of lightning shot

from it, searing the wood where the bat had been only seconds before.

"His aim's always been lousy," taunted the bat.

Another bolt missed the famulus by a greater margin than the first, shattered a