neetha Napew - Spellsinger

roads carefully, for according to Talea you never knew when you might encounter

a police patrol out for bandits. They also had to take time to hunt and gather

food.

It was three days of hard walking before some of the forest started to look

familiar to Mudge. They were standing by the side of a muddy, narrow road when

Jon-Tom noticed the large sack that had been caught in the crook of a pair of

boulders. There was the sparkle of sunlight on metal.

"Your eyes are good, Jon-Tom," said Talea admiringly, as they fell on the sack

like three jackals on the half-gnawed carcass of a zebra.

The sack was full of trade goods. Glass beads, some semiprecious gems that might

have been garnets or tourmalines, and some scrolls. Talea threw the latter

angrily aside as they searched the sack for other valuables. There were more

scrolls, some clothing, and several musical instruments. Jon-Tom picked up a set

of pipes attached to a curved gourd, puffed experimentally at the mouth

openings.

"Hell." Talea sat back against the rocks. She picked up the empty sack and threw

it over her shoulder. "Double hell. Even when we find some lucky, it turns out

to be deceptive."

Mudge was inspecting the jewelry. "These might fetch two or three golds from a

fair fence."

"How delightful," Talea said sarcastically. "You just whistle up a fair fence

and we'll have a go at it." The otter let out a long, sharp whistle no human

could duplicate, then shrugged.

"Never know till you try." He tucked the jewelry into the pouch at his waist,

caught Talea eyeing him. "You don't trust me t' share out." He pouted.

"No, but it's not worth fighting over." She was rubbing her left calf. "My feet

hurt."

Jon-Tom had set down the gourd flute and picked up the largest of the three

instruments. This one had six strings running in a curve across a heart-shaped

resonator. Three triangular openings were cut into the box. At the top of the

curved wires were tuning knobs. Near the base of the heartbox resonator was a

set of six smaller metal strings, a miniature of the larger, upper set. Twelve

strings altogether.

He considered the arrangement thoughtfully. Let's see, the smaller set wouldn't

be much good exeept for plucking the more delicate, higher notes. So the larger

sextet is probably strummed. Except for the extra set of tiny strings it looked

something like a plastic guitar left too long in an oven.

Talea had picked up one of the flute-things. She tried to blow a tune, produced

only a few sour notes that faded quickly, and tossed it away. The second was

apparently more to her liking. She finished testing it, slipped it into her

belt, and started off back into the forest. Mudge followed, but Jon-Tom,

absorbed in the peculiar guitar, hung behind.

Eventually she paused, turned to face him, and waited until he caught up with

them. "What's holding you back, larklegs?" He smiled as though he hadn't heard

her, turned his attention back to the instrument. A few notes from the small

strings filled the air.

"That's a duar. Don't tell me you can play that?"

"Actually, the lad 'as made claims to bein' somethin' of a musician." Mudge

studied Jon-Tom's obvious interest hopefully. "You always 'ave said that you

sounded better with instrumental accompaniment, mate."

"I know. I remember." Jon-Tom ran his fingers over the upper-level strings. The

sound was much softer than he was used to. Almost lyrelike, but not very alien.

He plucked once again at the lower strings. They echoed the upper, deeper tones.

The curved arm running out from the heart-shaped box was difficult to cradle.

The instrument had been designed to fit around a much broader chest than his

own. The short strap that ran from the top of the arm to the base of the

resonator helped a little, however. Letting the instrument hang naturally, he

found that by leaning forward he could get at both sets of strings. It hurt his

back a little, but he thought he could get used to it. He used both hands,

trying to strum the upper strings while plucking in counterpoint at the lower.

Talea sighed, turned away, and started off again, Mudge in tandem and Jon-Tom

bringing up the rear. His heart still hurt more than his feet, but the music

helped. Gradually he discovered how to swing his arm in an arc instead of

straight down in order to follow the curve of bar and strings. Soon he was

reproducing familiar chords, then snatches of song. As always the tranquilizing

sounds made him feel better, lifting his spirits as well as his adrenaline

level.

Some of the songs sounded almost right. But though he tuned and retuned until he

was afraid of breaking the strings or the tuning knobs, he couldn't create the

right melodies. It wasn't the delicate instrument, either, but something else.

He still hadn't discovered how to tune it properly.

It was late afternoon when Talea edged closer to him, listening a while longer

to the almost music he was making before inquiring, with none of her usual

bitterness or sarcasm, "Jon-Tom, are you a spellsinger?"

"Hmmm?" He looked up at her. "A what?"

"A spellsinger." She nodded toward the otter, who was walking a few yards ahead

of them. "Mudge says that the wizard Clothahump brought you into our world

because he thought you were a wizard who could help him in sorceral matters."

"That's right. Unfortunately, I'm in prelaw."

She looked doubtful. "Wizards don't make those kinds of mistakes."

"Well, this one sure did."

"Then you're not..." She eyed him strangely. "A spellsinger is a wizard who can

only make magic through music."

"That's a nice thought." He plucked at the lower strings and al-most-notes

danced with dust motes in the fading daylight. "I wish it were true of me." He

grinned, slightly embarrassed. "I've had a few people tell me that despite my

less than mesmerizing tenor, I can make a little music-magic. But not the kind

you're thinking of."

"How do you know you can't? Maybe Clothahump was right all along."

"This is silly, Talea. I'm no more a magician than I am any other kind of

success. Hell, I'm having a hard enough time trying to play this thing and walk

at the same time, what with that long staff strapped to my back. It keeps trying

to slide free and trip me.

"Besides," he ran his fingers indifferently along the upper strings "I can't

even get this to sound right. I can't play something I can't even tune."

"Have you used all the dutips?" When he looked blank, she indicated the tuning

knobs. He nodded. "And what about the dudeeps?" Again the blank gaze, and this

time he had a surprise.

Set into a recess in the bottom of the instrument were two knobs. He hadn't

noticed them before, having been preoccupied with the strings and the "dutips,"

as she'd called them. He fiddled with the pair. Each somehow contracted tiny

metal and wood slats inside the resonator. One adjusted crude treble, the other

lowered everything a couple of octaves and corresponded very roughly to a bass

modulator. He looked closely at them and then looked again. Instead of the usual

"treble" and "bass," they read "tremble" and "mass."

But they definitely improved the quality of the duar's sound.

"Now you should try," she urged him.

"Try what? What kind of song would you like to hear? I've been through this with

Mudge, so if you want to take the risk of listening to me...."

"I'm not afraid," she replied, misunderstanding him. "Try not for the sound. Try