neetha Napew - Spellsinger

guitar with me."

"A pox on your bleedin' instrument," growled the otter. " 'Ow do you expect t'

act a proper minstrel if you can't sing on demand, when someone requires it o'

you? Now don't mind me, mate. Get on with it." He sat expectantly, looked

genuinely intrigued.

Jon-Tom cleared his throat self-consciously and looked around. No one was paying

him the least attention. He took a fortifying swallow from Mudge's mug and

considered. Damn silly, he thought. Oh well, best try an old favorite, and he

began "Eleanor Rigby." Am I one of all the lonely people now? he thought as he

voiced the song.

When he'd finished, he looked anxiously at the otter. Mudge's expression was

fixed.

"Well? How was I?"

Mudge leaned back in his seat, smiled faintly. "Maybe you were right, Jon-Tom.

Maybe it 'twould be better with some instrumental accompaniment. Interestin'

words, I'll grant you that. I once knew a chap who kept several faces in jars,

though 'e didn't 'ave 'em up by 'is door."

Jon-Tom tried not to show his disappointment, though why he should have expected

a different reaction from the otter than from previous audiences he couldn't

imagine.

"I'm really much more of an instrumentalist. As far as voice goes," he added

defensively, "maybe I'm not smooth, but I'm enthusiastic."

"That's so, mate, but I'm not so sure your listeners would be. I'll try t' think

on what else you might do. But for now, I think maybe it would be a kindness t'

forget about any minstrelin'."

"Well, I'm not helpless." Jon-Tom gestured around them. "I don't want to keep

imposing on you, Mudge. Take this place. I'm not afraid of hard work. There must

be hundreds of mugs and platters to wash and floors to be mopped down, tables to

be cleaned, drains to be scoured. There's a helluva lot of work here. I

could..."

Mudge reached across the table and had both paws digging into Jon-Tom's indigo

shirt. He stared up into the other's surprise and whispered intently.

"You can't do that! That's work for mice and rats. Don't let anyone 'ear you

talk like that, Jon-Tom." He let go of the silk and sat back in his chair.

"Come on now," Jon-Tom protested softly. "Work is work."

"Think you that now?" Mudge pointed to his right.

Two tables away from theirs was a rat about three feet tall. He was dressed in

overalls sewn from some heavy, thick material that was badly stained and

darkened. Thick gloves covered tiny paws, and knee-high boots rested on the

floor as the rodent scrubbed at the planking.

The others nearby completely ignored his presence, dropping bones or other

garbage nearby or sometimes onto his back. As Jon-Tom watched, the rodent

accidentally stumbled across the leg of a drunken gull hunting a table with

perches to accommodate ornithological clients. The big bird cocked a glazed eye

at him and snapped once with its beak, more taunting than threatening.

Stumbling clear, the rat fell backward, tripped over his own feet, and brought

his bucket of trash and goo down on himself. It ran down his boots and over the

protective overalls. For a moment he lay stunned in the heap of garbage. Then he

slowly struggled to his knees and began silently gathering it up again, ignoring

but not necessarily oblivious to the catcalls and insults the patrons heaped on

him. A thick bone bounced off his neck, and he gathered it up along with the

rest of the debris. Soon the watchers grew bored with the momentary diversion

and returned to their drinking, eating, and arguing.

"Only rats and mice do that kind of work?" Jon-Tom inquired. "I used to do

something like it all the time. Remember, that's what confused Clothahump into

bringing me here in the first place."

"What you do elsewhere you'd best not try 'ere, mate. Any self-respectin' animal

would sooner starve before doin' that, or go t' beggin' like our sticker-hiding

friend, the gibbon."

"I don't understand any of this, Mudge."

"Don't try t', mate. Just roll with the waves, wot? Besides, those types are

naturally lazy and dumb. They'd rather lie about and guzzle cheese all day than

do any honest work, they would. Spend all their time when not eatin' in

indiscriminate screwing, though you wouldn't think they'd 'ave enough brains t'

know which end to work with."

Jon-Tom was fighting to control his temper. "There's nothing wrong with doing

menial work. It doesn't make those who do it menial-minded. I..." He sighed,

wondered at the hopelessness of it all. "I guess I just thought things would be

different here, as far as that kind of thing goes. It's my fault. I was

imagining a world that doesn't exist."

Mudge laughed. "Little while back I recall you insistin' that this one didn't

exist."

"Oh, it exists all right." His fists rubbed angrily on the table as he watched

the subservient rat suddenly go down on his chest. A turtle with a disposition

considerably less refined than Clothahump's had stuck out a stubby leg and

tripped the unfortunate rodent. Once more the laboriously gathered garbage went

flying while a new burst of merriment flared from the onlookers.

"Why discrimination like that here?" Jon-Tom muttered. "Why here too?"

"Discrimination?" Mudge seemed confused. "Nobody discriminates against 'em.

That's all they're good for. Can't argue with natural law, mate."

Jon-Tom had expected more from Mudge, though he'd no real reason to. From what

he'd already seen, the otter was no worse than the average inhabitant of this

stinking, backward nonparadise.

There were a number of humans scattered throughout the restaurant. None came

near approaching Jon-Tom in height. Nearby a single older gentleman was drinking

and playing cards with a spider monkey dressed in black shot through with silver

thread. They paired off against a larger simian Jon-Tom couldn't identify and a

three-foot-tall pocket gopher wearing a crimson jumpsuit and the darkest

sunglasses Jon-Tom had ever seen.

No doubt they were as prejudiced and bigoted as the others. And where did he

come off setting himself up as arbiter of another world's morals?

"There ain't nothin' you can do about it, mate. Why would anyone want t' change

things? Cor now, moppin' and sweepin' and such are out, unless you want t' lose

all respeet due a regular citizen. Politickin' you're also qualified for, but

that o' course ranks even lower than janitorial-type drudgeryin'. I'd hope you

won't 'ave t' fall back on your abilities for minstrelin'." His tone changed to

one of hope mixed with curiosity.

"Now ol' Clothahump, 'e was bloody well sure you were some sort of sorcerer, 'e

was. You sure you can't work no magic? I 'eard you questioning 'is wizard-wart's

own special words."

"That was just curiosity, Mudge. Some of the words were familiar. But not in the

way he used them. Even you did the business with the dancing pins. Does everyone

practice magic around here?"

"Oh, everyone practices, all right." Mudge swilled down a snootful of black

brew. "But few get good enough at it to do much more than a trick or two. Pins

are my limit, I'm afraid. Wish to 'ell I knew 'is gold spell." His gaze suddenly

moved left and he grinned broadly.

"Course now, when the situation arises I ain't too bad at certain forms o'

levitation." His right hand moved with the speed of which only otters are

capable.

How the saucily dressed and heavily made up chipmunk managed to keep from

dumping the contents of the six tankards she was maneuvering through the crowd