neetha Napew - Spellsinger

The wizard looked thoughtful. "Let me see... oh yes, it was about a hundred

years ago, I think."

Pog shook his head. "Sorry, Master. I wasn't around."

"Damn it," Clothahump muttered in frustration, still sorting through his shell,

"it has to be in here someplace."

Jon-Tom turned his attention to the water. Everyone's attention was on the

wizard. He swung the duar around from his back, experimented with the strings.

Notes floated like Christmas ornaments over the surface.

"Allow me, sir," he said importantly, watching out of the corner of an eye to

see if Flor was paying attention.

"What, again?"

He waded ankle-deep out into the water. It swirled expectantly about his boots.

"Why not? Didn't I do well the last tune we needed transportation?" Yes, Flor

was definitely watching him now.

"You did well indeed, boy, but by accident."

"Not entirely accident. We needed transportation, I called for it, we got it.

The outlines were a little different, that's all. I should have more control

over it this time."

"Well... if you think you're ready." Clothahump sounded uncertain.

"Ready as I can be."

"Then you know a proper salamander song?"

"Uh... not exactly. Maybe if you'd describe one."

"We should need six of them," the turtle began. "Pog has his own transportation.

Salamanders are about twelve feet long, including tail. They have shiny gray

bodies tending to white on their bellies, and their backs and sides are covered

with red and yellow splotches. They have small but sharp teeth, long claws on

webbed feet, and are dangerous only when threatened. If you can induce them up,

I can put a control spell on them that will allow us to manage them all the way

to Polastrindu." He added under his breath, "Know that stupid thing's around

here somewhere."

"Twelve feet long, gray to white with red and yellow spots, claws and teeth but

dangerous only when threatened," Jon-Tom muttered. He was stalling for time,

aware of everyone's eyes on him. "Let's see... something by Simon and Garfunkle

maybe? No, that's not right. Zepplin, Queen, Boston... damn. There was a song by

the Moody Blues... no, that's not right."

Flor leaned close to Talea. "What's he doing?"

"Preparing the proper spellsong, I suppose."

"He sounds confused to me."

"Wizards often sound confused. It's necessary to the making of magic."

Flor looked doubtful. "If you say so."

Eventually Jon-Tom reached the conclusion that he'd have to play something or

admit defeat. That he would not do, not with Flor watching him. He fiddled with

the mass and tremble controls, ran fingers over both sets of strings, strumming

the larger and plucking at the smaller. No doubt he'd have been better off

asking Clothahump for help, but the fear of self-failure pushed him to try.

Besides, what could go wrong? If he conjured up fish instead of salamanders they

might not be on their way any sooner, but at least they would eat well while

waiting.

Let's see... why should he not modify a song to fit the need of the moment?

Therefore, ergo, and so forth.... "Yellow salamander" didn't scan the same as

"yellow submarine," but it was close enough. "We all live on a yellow

sal'mandee, yellow sal'mandee, yellow sal'mandee...."

At the beginning of the chorus there was a disturbance in the water. It

broadened into a wide whirlpool.

"They're down there, then," murmured Clothahump excitedly, peering at the

surface. He tried to divide his attention between the river and the singer.

"Maybe a little longer on the verbs, my boy. And a little more emphasis on the

subjeets of seeking. Sharply on the key words, now."

"I don't know what the key words are," Jon-Tom protested between verses. "But

I'll try."

What happened was that he sang louder, though his voice was not the kind suited

to shouting. He was best at gentle ballads. Yet as he continued the song became

easier. It was almost as if his brain knew which of the words catalyzed the

strange elements of quasi-science Clothahump called magic. Or was the wizard

right, and science really quasi-magic?

This was no time, he told himself furiously as he tried to concentrate on the

song, for philosophizing. A couple of jetboats might be even more useful....

Careful, remember the riding snake! Ah, but that was a fluke, the natural result

of an uncertain first-time try at a new discipline. Sheer accident. At the time

he'd had no idea of what he'd been doing or how he'd been doing it.

Salamanders Clothahump wanted and salamanders he'd get.

Now the water in the vicinity of the whirlpool was beginning to bubble

furiously.

"There they are!" yelled Talea.

"Blimey but the lad's gone an' done it." Mudge looked pridefully at his wailing

ward.

For his part Jon-Tom continued the song, sending notes and words skipping like

pebbles out across the disturbed river. Water frothed white at the center of the

whirlpool, now bubbling to a respectable height. Occasionally it geysered twenty

feet high, as if something rather more massive than a lowly salamander was

stirring on the river bottom.

Talea and Caz were the first to frown and begin backing away from the shore.

"Jon-Tom," she called to him, "are you sure you know what you're doing?"

Oblivious now to outside comments, he continued to sing. Clothahump had told him

that a good wizard or spellsinger had to always concentrate. Jon-Tom was

concentrating very hard. "

"My boy," said Clothahump slowly, rubbing his lower jaw with one hand, "some of

the words you're using... I know context is important, but I am not sure..."

Bubbles and froth rose three times the height of a man. There was a watery

rumble and it started moving toward shore. If there were any amphibians out

there, it was apparent they now likely numbered more than half a dozen.

The violence finally penetrated Jon-Tom's concentration. It occurred to him that

perhaps he might be better off easing back and trying a new song. But Flor was

watching, and it was the only watery song he knew. So he continued on despite

Clothahump's voiced uncertainty.

At least something was out there.

There was thunder under the water now. Suddenly, a head broke the froth, a head

black as night with eyes of crimson. There was a long narrow snout, slightly

knobbed at the tip and crowded with razor ivories. Bat-wing ears fluttered at

the sides and back of the skull. The head hooked from a thickly muscled, scaly

neek and ran into a massive black chest shot through with lines of iridescent

purple and azure. Red gills ran half the length of the neck.

A forefoot rose up out of the water. It was bigger than Jon-Tom, whose fingers

had frozen on the strings of the duar as completely as the remaining words of

the stanza had petrified in his mouth.

The sun continued to shine. Only a few dark clouds pockmarked the sky, but

around them the day seemed to grow darker. The thick, leathery foot, dripping

moss and water plants from black claws the length of a man's arm, moved forward

to land hi a spray of water. Webbing showed between the digits.

The elegant nightmare opened its mouth. A thin stream of organic napalm emerged

in a spray that turned the water several yards short of the sandy peninsula into

instant cloud.

"Ho!" said a distinct, rumbling voice that made Pog sound positively sweet by

comparison, "who dares to disturb the hibernation of Falameezar-aziz-Sulmonmee?

Who winkles me forth from my home inside the river? Who seeks," and the great