neetha Napew - Spellsinger

lockups ain't particularly persistent, but if it was a slow night a few

ambitious types might've elected to come follow." He stood up, gestured back

down the road.

"Personally I think we're well clear of 'em, but you never can be sure."

"Right." She was climbing into the driver's seat. "Best never to take chances

with a skunk."

Shortly they were trundling once more down a road that had become hardly more

than a trail. They'd turned off, he noted, on a branch that was almost devoid of

wagon ruts. Their absence was compensated for by large rocks that did nothing to

help his kidneys.

They paused later for a Spartan breakfast of bread, jerky, and a kind of dried

fruit that resembled lime but tasted much better. Then off again.

It was noon when Talea indicated they'd arrived. Jon-Tom peered ahead between

her and the otter. "I don't see anything."

"What did you think?" she asked archly. "That a place like the local branch of

the intracounty... a place like Thieves' Hall would announce itself with flying

banners and a brass band?"

They turned down a still narrower path and penetrated as deeply into the dense

woods as trees would allow. After a half-mile walk they came to a crude corral

filled with an astonishing assortment of reptilian mounts. Several hundred yards

off to the right of this open-air stable Talea located a metal doorway. It lay

half hidden beneath the roots of several massive oaks and was set directly into

the rock face of a low-browed cliff.

She rapped hard on the metal three times with her open palm, waited, then

repeated the knock.

Presently a small window opened in the top of the door. No face showed itself.

It was easy enough for whoever was within to see outside without placing an eye

invitingly near a possible knife thrust.

"Succor and surcease, comfort and respite to those who know how to live," said a

voice from within.

"T' practice usury without interference," Mudge responded promptly. "T' get

one's fair share. T' never givin' a sucker an even break."

There was a pause and then the door swung outward on rusty hinges. Talea entered

first, followed by Mudge. Jon-Tom had to bend almost double to clear the

ceiling.

Inside they confronted a muscular otter a couple of niches taller than Mudge. He

inspected them cautiously, reserving particular attention for Jon-Tom.

"That one I don't know."

" 'E's a friend." Mudge smiled as he spoke. "An acquaintance from a far

province, wot?" He did not elaborate on that, nor did he mention Clothahump.

The other otter blew his nose on the floor and turned perfunctorily away. They

followed. Before long they passed a series of interlocking tunnels. These all

seemed to devolve into a much larger central cavern. It was filled with a noisy,

raunchy, squalling crowd that made the patrons of the Pearl Possum look like

nursery schoolers their first day away from home.

There was enough sharpened steel in that one room to fight a small war. A fair

amount of dried blood on the stone floor showed that those instruments were

frequently in use. In the enclosed area the noise was close to deafening. Not to

mention the odor. He'd almost come to ignore the animal smells, but in that

tight, poorly ventilated chamber, populated as it was by a less than usually

hygienic assembly, it was overpowering.

"What do we do now?"

"First we find the president of the local chapter," Talea explained, "and pay

our protection money. That allows us to stay here. Then we find a piece of

unoccupied tunnel. There are hundreds of them honeycombing this hillside. We set

up temporary housekeeping and lie low until the councilman has a chance to

forget what happened to him.

"Of course, he may buy Nilanthos' explanation, but I wouldn't put it past his

type to check out any citizen's reports for that night. That's where we could

have trouble, remember. We'll wait here a couple of weeks until it all turns to

memory-mush. Then we can safely leave."

At his look of distress, Mudge said, "Don't look so ill, mate. Crikey, 'tis only

for a couple o' weeks." He grinned. "Lynchbany cops 'ave mem'ries as brief as

their courage. But it do behoove us t' stay out o' sight o' casual travelers for

a while. None save the completely daft are likely t' come within leagues o' this

spot."

Jon-Tom focused on well-used swords and knives. "I can't imagine why not," he

said drily, trying to hold his breath.

As it turned out they did not utilize Thieves' Hall for two weeks. It was less

than a day before Jon-Tom made his mistake. It didn't seem like a mistake at the

time, and afterward he was too confused to be sorry.

There was a game. It was common in Lynchbany and well known among those who

preyed upon the townsfolk. It involved the use of triangular dice and a circle.

There were no hidden complexities.

A good student like Jon-Tom had no trouble picking it up, after a few hours of

careful study. He was still a mite hesitant about actually participating, but

Talea was off somewhere chatting with friends and Mudge had simply disappeared.

Left on his own and mentally exhausted, he was both bored and irritable. A

little game playing would be good for him.

Clothahump's purse still contained a few tiny copperpieces, the remnants of the

Mudge-directed spending spree that had enriched several of Lynchbany's

merchants. Cutting an impressive figure in his flashing green cape, Jon-Tom

leaned on his club-staff and studied one of the several continuous games before

finally deciding to join.

The particular game he'd selected seemed to be the largest. With the greater

number of participants he would have more opportunities between throws to study

the play. No one objeeted to or commented on his joining. It was simply a matter

of taking the place of a distraught lynx when the latter ran out of money and

dropped out.

Through no particular skill (the fickleness of dice being everywhere constant)

he did quite well. Dutifully, he concentrated on doing still better. So intent

on the game did he become that he failed to notice that he was drawing something

of a crowd of onlookers.

Players angrily left and were replaced by eager newcomers, full of fresh spirit

and fresh cash. There were always nine or ten throwers seated or squatting

around the circle.

The rock was cold against his backside, even through the leather pants. Not

quite as chilled were the well-traveled coins beginning to stack up in front of

him. For the first time in a long while he was not only relaxed but enjoying

himself.

Much to the delight of the crowd, which always pulls for a big winner, he hit

two nines in a row. Mutterings of magic came from a few of the other players.

They remained mere mutterings. An aged bat named Swal hung himself from the

overhead lamps. From there he could watch all the players. His opinion was well

respected, Jon-Tom could tell, and his knowledge of magic extensive though he

was no wizard himself. Very poor basketball players can make very fine coaches.

Swal had a detailed knowledge of magic though he couldn't work any himself.

Nevertheless, one of the other players tried to turn the tide in his own favor,

attempting to magic the dice before his turn to throw came up. Neither Jon-Tom

nor any of the other players or onlookers caught the unnatural vibration, but

the outraged Swal noticed it immediately.

"He muttered it softly, but I tasted the end of it," Swal explained to the