neetha Napew - Spellsinger

baboon's behind, lad." He nodded upward, toward the peak of the roof." 'Ave you

ne'er seen such a performance before, then?"

"Of course I have." He turned forcefully back to face his guardian, rocked a

little unsteadily. It seeped into his brain that he might have become a little

bit tipsy. How much of that black booze had he downed?

"That is, I have... on film."

"What be that?"

"A magic apparition," Jon-Tom explained facilely.

"Well if you've gazed upon such, though not, I dare to say," and he gazed

admiringly ceilingward, "of such elegance and skill, then why the red face?"

"It's just that," he searched for the right words to explain his confusion, "I

shouldn't find the actions of..." How could he say, "another animal" without

offending his companion? Desperately he hunted for an alternate explanation.

"I've never seen anything done with quite that... well, with quite that degree

of perverse dexterity."

"Ah, I understand now. Though perverse I wouldn't call it. Crikey, but that was

a thing of great beauty."

"If you say so, I guess it was." Jon-Tom was grateful for the out.

"Aye." Mudge growled softly and smiled. "And if I could once get my paws on that

supple little mother-dear, I'd show 'er a thing of beauty."

The thick, warm atmosphere of the restaurant had combined with the rich food and

drink to make Jon-Tom decidedly woozy. He was determined not to pass out. Mudge

already did not think much of him, and Clothahump's warnings or no, he wasn't

ready to bet that the otter would stay with him if he made a total ass of

himself.

Determinedly he shoved the mug away, rose, and glanced around.

"What be you searchin' for now, mate?"

"Some of my own kind." His eyes scanned the crowd for the sight of bare flesh.

"What, 'umans?" The otter shrugged. "Aw well, never 'ave I understood your

peculiar affinity for each other's company, but you're free enough to choose

your own. Espy some, do you?"

Jon-Tom's gaze settled on a pair of familiar bald faces in a booth near the rear

of the room. "There's a couple over that way. Two men, I think."

"As you will, then."

He turned his attention down to the otter. "It's not that I'm not enjoying your

companionship, Mudge. It's just that I'd like one of my own kind to talk to for

a while."

His worries were groundless. Mudge was in entirely too good a mood to be

offended by anything.

"Wotever you like, mate. We'll go and 'ave a chat then, if that's wot you want.

But don't forget we've still the little matter o' settlin' you on some proper

course o' employment." He shook his head more to clear it than to indicate

displeasure.

"Minstrel... I don't know. There might still be the novelty factor." He

scratched the fur just under his chin. "Tell you what. Give us another song and

then we'll go over and see if we can't make the acquaintance o' those chaps."

"I thought you'd heard enough the first time."

"Never go on first appearances, mate. Besides, 'twas a damn blue and gloomy tune

you let out with. Try somethin' different. Many's the minstrel who well mangles

one type o' tune yet can warble clearly another."

Jon-Tom sat down again, linked his fingers, and considered. "I don't know. What

would you like to hear? Classical, pop, blues, jazz?" He tried to sound

enthusiastic. "I know some classical, but what I really always wanted to do was

sing rock. It's a form of popular music back where I come from."

"I don't know either, mate. 'Ow 'bout ballads? Everyone likes ballads."

"Sure." He was warming again to his true love. "I know a number of 'em. What

subject do you like best?"

"Let me think on it a minute." Actually, it was only a matter of seconds before

a gleam returned to the black eyes, along with a smile.

"Never mine," Jon-Tom said hastily. "I'll think of something."

He thought, but it was hard to settle on any one song. Maybe it was the noise

and smell swirling around them, maybe the aftereffects of the meal, but words

and notes flitted in and out of his brain like gnats, never pausing long enough

for him to get a grip on any single memory. Besides, he felt unnatural singing

without his trusty, worn Grundig slung over his shoulder and across his stomach.

If he only had something, even a harmonica. But he couldn't play that and sing

simultaneously.

"Come on now, mate," Mudge urged him. "Surely you can think o' something?"

"I'll try," and he did, launching into a cracked rendition of "Strawberry Fair,"

but the delicate harmonies were drowned in the bellowing and hooting and

whistling that filled the air of the restaurant.

Nonetheless, he was unprepared for the sharp blow that struck him between the

shoulderblades and sent him sprawling chest-down across the table.

Angry and confused, he turned to find himself staring into a ferocious dark

brown face set on a stocky, muscular body as tall as Mudge's but more than twice

as broad....

VI

The snakeskin beret and red bandana did nothing to lessen the wolverine's

intimidating appearance.

"Sorry," Jon-Tom mumbled, uncertain of what else to say.

The face glared down at him, powerful jaws parting to reveal sharp teeth as the

lips curled back. "You ban not sorry enough, I think!" the creature rumbled

hollowly. "I ban pretty sorry for your mother, she having much to listen to a

voice like that. You upset my friends and my meal."

"I was just practicing." He was beginning to feel a mite indignant at the

insults. The warmth of the roast was still with him. He failed to notice the

queasy expression that had come over Mudge's faee. "It's difficult to sing

without any music to accompany me."

"Yah, well, you ban practice no more, you hear? It ban hurt my ears."

Mudge was trying and failing to gain Jen-Tom's attention. Jon-Tom rose from his

seat to tower over the shorter but more massive animal. It made him feel better,

giving proof once again to the old adage about the higher, the mightier. Or as

the old philosopher said, witness the pigeon's tactical advantage over man.

However the wolverine was not impressed. He gazed appraisingly up and down

Jon-Tom's length. "All that voice tube and no voice. Maybe you ban better at

singing in harmony, yah? So maybe I put one half neek here and the other half

across the table," and powerful clawed hands reached for Jon-Tom's face.

Dodging nimbly, Jon-Tom slipped around the table, brought up his staff, and

swung the straight end down in a whistling arc. Having had plenty to consume

himself, the wolverine reacted more slowly than usual. He did not quite get both

hands up in time to defend himself, and the staff smacked sharply over one set

of knuckles. The creature roared in pain.

"Look, I don't want any trouble."

"You stick up for your rights, mate!" Mudge urged him, beginning a precipitous

retreat from the vicinity of the table. "I'll watch and make sure it be a fair

fight."

"Like hell you will!" He held the staff tightly, trying to divide his attention

between the wolverine and the otter. "You remember what Clothahump said."

"Screw that!" But Mudge hesitated, his hand fumbling in the vicinity of his

chest sword. Clearly he was sizing up the tense triangle that had formed around

the table and debating whether or not he stood a better chance of surviving

Clothahump's vengeful spell-making than the wolverine and his friends. The

latter consisted of a tall marten and a chunky armadillo who displayed a sword