neetha Napew - Spellsinger

row of glass containers on a high shelf. They fell crashing, tinkling to the

wood-chip floor as the bat dodged and skittered clear of the fragments.

Clothahump turned away, fiddling with his glasses. "Got to conjure some new

lenses," he grumbled. Reaching into his lower plastron, he drew out a handful of

small silvery coins, and handed them to Jon-Tom. "Here you are, lad."

"Sir... wouldn't it have been simpler to give me these in the first place?"

"I like to keep in practice. One of these days I'll get that gold spell down

pat."

"Why not make the lad a new set of clothes?" asked Mudge.

Clothahump turned from trying to refocus a finger on the jeering famulus and

glanced angrily at the otter. "I'm a wizard, not a tailor. Mundane details such

as that I leave to your care. And remember: no care, no fur."

"Relax, guv'nor. Let's go, Jon-Tom. Tis a long walk if we're to make much

distance before dark."

They left Clothahump blasting jars and vials, pictures and shelving in vain

attempts to incinerate his insulting assistant.

"Interesting character, your sorcerer," said Jon-Tom conversationally as they

turned down a well-trod path into the woods.

"Not my sorcerer, mate." A brightly feathered lizard pecked at some bananalike

fruit dangling from a nearby tree. " 'Ave another chocolate coin?"

"No thanks."

"Speakin* o' coins, that little sack o' silver he gave you might as well be

turned over to me for safe keepin', since you're under me protection."

"That's all right." Jon-Tom patted the pocket in which the coins reposed. "It's

safe enough with me, I think. Besides, my pockets are a lot higher than yours.

Harder to pick."

Instead of being insulted, the otter laughed uproariously. He clapped a furry

paw on Jon-Tom's lower back. "Maybe you're less the fool than you seem, mate.

Frost me if I don't think we'll make a decent animal out o' you yet!"

They waded a brook hauntingly like the one that ran through the botanical

gardens back on campus. Jon-Tom fought to keep his mind from melancholy

reminiscence. "Aren't you the least bit curious about this great crisis

Clothahump was referring to?" he asked.

"Bosh, that's probably just a figment o' 'is sorceral imagination. I've heard

tell plenty about what such chaps drink and smoke when they feels the mood. They

calls it wizardly speculatin'. Me, I calls it gettin' well stoked. Besides, why

dwell on crises real or imagined when one can 'ave so much fun from day t' day?"

"You should learn to study the thread of history."

Mudge shook his head. "You talk like that in Lynchbany and you will 'ave

trouble, mate. Thread o' 'Istory now, is it? Sure you won't trust me with that

silver?" Jon-Tom simply smiled. "Ah well, then."

Any last lingering thoughts that it might all still be a nightmare from which

he'd soon awake were forever dispelled when they'd come within a mile of

Lynchbany, following several days' march. Jon-Tom couldn't see it yet. It lay

over another rise and beyond a dense grove of pines. But he could clearly smell

it. The aroma of hundreds of animal bodies basking in the warmth of mid-morning

could not be mistaken.

"Something wrong, mate?" Mudge stretched away the last of his previous night's

rest. "You look a touch bilious."

"That odor..."

"We're near Lynchbany, like I promised."

"You mean that stench is normal?"

Mudge's black nose frisked the air. "No... I'd call 'er a mite weak today. Wait

until noontime, when the sun's at its 'ighest. Then it'll be normal."

"You have great wizards like Clothahump. Haven't any of them discovered the

formula for deodorant?"

Mudge looked confused. "What's that, mate? Another o' your incomprehensible

otherworldly devices?"

"It keeps you from smelling offensive," said Jon-Tom with becoming dignity.

"Now you do 'ave some queer notions in the other worlds. How are you t' know

your enemies if you can't smell 'em? And no friend can smell offensive. That be

a contradiction, do it not? If 'e was offensive, 'e wouldn't be a friend. O'

course you 'umans," and he sniffed scornfully. " 'ave always been pretty

scent-poor. I suppose you'd think it good if people 'ad no scent a'tall?"

"It wouldn't be such a bad idea."

"Well, don't go propoundin' your bizarre religious beliefs in Lynchbany,

guv'nor, or even with me t' defend you you won't last out the day."

They continued along the path. This near to town it showed the prints of many

feet.

"No scent," Mudge was muttering to himself. "No more sweet perfumes o' friends

and ladies t' enjoy. Cor, I'd rather be blind than unable t' smell, mate. What

senses do they use in your world, anyway?"

"The usual ones. Sight, hearing, touch, taste... and smell."

"And you'd wish away a fifth o' all your perception o' the universe for some

crazed theological theory?"

"It has nothing to do with theology," Jon-Tom countered, beginning to wonder if

his views on the matter weren't sounding silly even to himself. "It's a question

of etiquette."

"Piss on your etiquette. No greetin' smells." The otter sounded thoroughly

disgusted. "I don't think I'd care t' visit long in your world, Jon-Tom. But

we're almost there. Mind you keep control o' your expressions." He still

couldn't grasp the notion that anyone could find the odor of another friendly

creature offensive.

"You 'old your nose to someone and they'll likely spill your guts for you."

Jon-Tom nodded reluctantly. Take a few deep breaths, he told himself. He'd heard

that somewhere. Just take a few deep breaths and you'll soon be used to it.

They topped the little hill and were suddenly gazing across tree-tops at the

town. At the same time the full ripeness of it struck him. The thick musk was

like a barnyard sweltering in a swamp. He was hard pressed not to heave the

contents of his stomach out the wrong orifice.

" 'Ere now, don't you go be sick all over me!" Mudge took a few hasty steps

backward. "Brace up, lad. You'll soon be enjoyin' it!"

They started down the hill, the otter trotting easily, Jon-Tom staggering and

trying to keep his face blank. Shortly they encountered a sight which

simultaneously shoved all thought of vomiting aside while reminding him this was

a dangerous, barely civilized world he'd been dragged into.

It was a body similar to but different from Mudge's. It had its paws tied behind

its back and its legs strapped together. The head hung at an angle signifying a

neatly snapped neck. It was quite naked. Odd how quickly the idea of clothing on

an animal grew in one's mind, Jon-Tom thought.

Some kind of liquid resin or plastic completely encased the body. The eyes were

mercifully closed and the expression not pleasant to look upon. A sign lettered

in strange script was mounted on a post driven into the ground beneath the

dangling, preserved corpse. He turned questioningly to Mudge.

"That's the founder o' the town," came the reply.

Jon-Tom's eyes clung to the grotesque monument as they strolled around it. "Do

they always hang the founders of towns around here?"

"Not usually. Only under special circumstances. That's the corpse o' old Tilo

Bany. Ought t' be gettin' on a couple 'undred years old now."

"That body's been hanging there like that for hundreds of years?"

"Oh, 'e's well preserved, 'e is. Local wizard embalmed 'im nice and proper."

"That's barbaric."

"Want to hear the details?" asked Mudge. Jon-Tom nodded.

"As it goes, old Tilo there, 'e's a ferret you see--and they come o' no good