neetha Napew - Spellsinger

He hunted in vain for silverware. Mudge pointed out that the restaurant would

hardly provide instruments for its patrons to use on one another. The otter had

a hunting knife out. It was short and triangular like the tooth of a white shark

and went easily through the meat.

"Rare, medium, or well burnt?" was the question.

"Anything." Jon-Tom fought to keep the saliva inside his mouth. Mudge sliced off

two respectable discs of meat, passed one to his companion.

They ate as quietly as smacking fingers and gravy-slick lips would permit.

Jon-Tom struggled to keep the juice off his freshly cut clothes. Mudge was not

nearly so fastidious. Gravy ran down his furry chin onto his vest, was sopped up

by vest and chest fur.

They were halfway full when a partially sated Jon-Tom relaxed long enough to

notice that in addition to the center bone running through the roast, there were

thin, curving ribs running from the bone to meet like the points of calipers

near the bottom.

"Mudge, what kind of meat is this?"

"Not tasty enough, mate?" wondered the otter around a mouthful of vegetables.

"It's delicious, but I don't recognize the cut or the flavor. It's not any kind

of steak, is it? I mean, beef?"

"Beef? You mean, cattle?" Mudge shook his head. "They may not be smart, but

we're not cannibals 'ere, we're not." He chewed ap-praisingly. "O' course, it

ain't king snake. Python. Reticulated, I'd say."

"Wonderful." Why be squeamish in the face of good taste, Jon-Tom mused. There

was no reason to be. He never had understood the phobia some folk had about

eating reptile, though he'd never had the opportunity to try it before. After

all, meat was meat. It was all muscle fiber to the tooth.

He did not think he'd care to meet a snake of that size away from the dinner

plate, however.

They were dismembering the last of the roast when the waiter, unbidden, appeared

with a small tray of some fat puff pastries seared black across their crowns.

Though he was no longer hungry, Jon-Tom sampled one, soon found himself

shoveling them in as fast as possible. Despite their heavy appearance they were

light and airy inside, full of honey and chopped nuts and encrusted with burnt

cinnamon.

Later he leaned back in the short chair and picked at his teeth with a splinter

of the table, as he'd seen some of the other patrons doing.

"Well, that may take the last of our money, but that's the best meal I've had in

years."

"Aye, not bad." Mudge had his short legs up on the table, the boot heels resting

indifferently in the pastry tray.

A band had begun playing somewhere. The music was at once light and brassy.

Jon-Tom took a brief professional interest in it. Since he couldn't see the

players, he had to be satisfied with deciding that they employed one or two

string instruments, drums, chimes, and a couple of oddly deep flutes.

Mudge was leaning across the table, feeling warm and serious. He put a

cautionary paw on Jon-Tom's wrist. "Sorry t' shatter your contentment, mate, but

we've somethin' else t' talk on. Clothahump charged me with seein' t' your

well-bein' and I've a mind t' see the job through t' the end.

"If you want t' continue eatin' like that, we're goin' to 'ave t' find you some

way t' make a living, wot...?"

V

Reality churned in Jon-Tom's stomach, mixed unpleasantly with the pastry. "Uh,

can't we just go back to Clothahump?" He'd decided he was beginning to like this

world.

Mudge shook his head slowly. "Not if 'e don't get that gold spell aright. Keep

in mind that as nice and kindly as the old bugger seemed a few days ago, wizards

can be god-rotted temperamental. If we go back already and pester 'im for money,

'e's not going t' feel much proud o' you. Not to mention wot 'is opinion o' me

would be. You want to keep the old twit feelin' responsible for wot 'e's done t'

you, mate.

"Oh, 'e might 'ave a fair supply of silver tucked away neat and pretty

somewhere. But 'is supply of silver's bound to be limited. So long as 'e's got

'is feeble old mind set on this dotty crisis of 'is, 'e's not goin' to be doin'

much business. No business, no silver. No silver, no 'andouts, right? I'm afraid

you're goin't' 'ave t' go t' work."

"I see." Jon-Tom stared morosely into his empty mug. "What about working with

you, Mudge?"

"Now don't get me wrong, mate. I'm just gettin' t' where I can tol'rate your

company."

"Thanks," said Jon-Tom tartly.

"That's all right, it is. But huntin's a solitary profession. I don't think I

could do much for you there. You don't strike me as the type o' chap who knows

'is way 'round a woods. You'd as soon trip over a trap as set one, I think."

"I won't deny that I feel more at home around books, or a basketball court."

"Otherworldly sports won't do you ant's piss good 'round 'ere, lad. As far as

the learnin' part of it... wot was it then you were acquiring?"

"I'm into prelaw, Mudge."

"Ah, a barrister-t'-be, is it? Never 'ad much use for the species meself," he

added, not caring what Jon-Tom might think of his detrimental opinions of the

legal profession. "Wot did you study besides the law itself, for the laws 'ere

as you might imagine are likely a mite different from those o' your own."

"History, government... I don't guess they'd be much use here either."

"I suppose we might get you apprenticed to some local barrister," Mudge

considered. He scratched the inside of one ear, moved around to work on the

back. "I don't know, mate. You certain there's nothin' else? You ever work a

forge, build furniture? Do metalwork, build a house, cure meat... anythin'

useful?"

"Not really." Jon-Tom felt uncomfortable.

"Huh!" The otter let loose a contemptuous whistle. "Fine life you've led for a

so-called wizard."

"That's Clothahump's mistake," Jon-Tom protested. "I never claimed to be that.

I've never claimed to be anything other than what I am."

"Which don't appear to be much, as far as placin' you's concerned. Nothin' more

in the way of skills, is it?"

"Well..." Another ambition flooded through him. With it came the laughs of his

friends and the condemnations and horrified protests of his family. Then they

were drowned by a vision of himself with a guitar and by the memories of all the

groups, all the performances he'd collected and mimicked in his less

intellectual, more emotional moments of introspection. Memories and sounds of

Zepplin and Harum, of Deep Purple and Tangerine Dream and Moody Blues and a

thousand others. Electric melodies tingled in his fingertips. Logic and reason

vanished. Once more good sense and truth clashed within him.

Only here good sense did not serve. Heart's desire again took control of him.

"I play a g... an electric bass. It's a kind of a stringed instrument. It's only

a hobby. I thought once I might try to make a career out of it, only..."

"So you're a musician then!" Consternation vanished as understanding filled the

otter. He pushed back his chair, let his feet down on the floor, and stared with

new interest at his companion. "A minstrel. I'll be bloody be-damned. Aye, there

might be a way there for you t' make some coppers, maybe even some silver. You'd

be a novelty, anyways. Let me 'ear you sing something."

"Right here?" Jon-Tom looked around nervously.

"Aye. No one's goin' to 'ear you anyway. Not between the babble and band."

"I don't know." Jon-Tom considered. "I need to warm up. And I don't have my