neetha Napew - Spellsinger

overhanging porches and window boxes made them appear narrower. The street that

opened into their courtyard led to the harbor gate. It was only natural that it

be wider than most. Undoubtedly the city possessed its share of alleys and

closes.

Evidence of considerable traffic abounded, from the worn domes of the

cobblestones that projected like the bald skulls of buried midgets to the huge

piles of discarded trash. Several dozen stalls ringed the courtyard square.

Jon-Tom suspected that until a little while ago these had been crowded with busy

vendors hawking wares to sailors and shoppers alike. A few salespeople still

cowered within, too weak or too greedy to flee. Some of the frightened faces

were furry, a few humanly smooth.

"Look at 'em, ashrinkin' behind their bellies." Mudge made insulting faces at

the half-hidden onlookers, feeling quite invulnerable with the bulk of

Falameezar immediately behind him. "Welcome to wonderful Polastrindu. Pagh! The

streets stink, the people stink. Sooner we've done with this business and can

get back to the clean forest, the better this 'ere otter'll like it." He cupped

his hands and shouted disdainfully.

"You 'ear me, you quiverin' cowardly buggers! Yer 'ole city sucks! Want to argue

about it?"

No one did. Mudge looked satisfied, turned to face Jon-Tom. "What now, mate?"

"We must meet with the local sorcerers and the city council," said Clothahump

firmly, "during which meeting you will do me the pleasure of restraining your

adolescent outpourings."

"Ah, they deserve it, guv."

"Council?" That ominous rumble came from a quizzical Falameezar.

"Council of commissars," explained Jon-Tom hastily. "It's all a matter of

semantics."

"Yes, of course." The dragon sounded abashed.

Looking around, Jon-Tom spotted the beaver hovering uncertainly in a nearby

doorway. "You there, come here." The officer hesitated as long as possible.

"Yes, you!"

Reluctantly he emerged. Halfway across the square, perhaps conscious of all the

eyes watching him from numerous windows, he seemed to regain some of his former

pride and dignity. If he was going to his death, seemed to be his thinking, then

he might as well make a good showing of it. Jon-Tom had to admire his courage,

belated though it might be.

"Very well," the beaver told him calmly. "You've bullied your way into my city."

"Which was necessary only because you tried to bully us outside," Jon-Tom

reminded him. "Let's say we're even now. No hard feelings."

The beaver shot a whiskery glance at the quiescent form of Falameezar before

staring searchingly back at Jon-Tom.

"You mean that, thir? You are not going to take your revenge on me?"

"No. After all," Jon-Tom added, hoping to gain a local ally, "you were only

doing your duty as you, uh, saw it."

"Yeth. Yeth, thath right." The officer was still reluctant to believe he wasn't

being set up and that Jon-Tom's offer of friendship was genuine.

"We have no grudge against you, nor against any citizen of Polastrindu. We're

here to help you."

"And every sentient inhabitant of our warmland world," Clotha-hump added

self-importantly.

The officer grunted. Clearly the beaver preferred talking with Jon-Tom, though

staring up at the towering human hurt his short neck.

"What then can I do to be of thervith to you, my friend?"

"You could arrange for us to meet with the city council and military

administrators and the representatives of the wizards of this region," Jon-Tom

informed him.

The beaver's eyes widened. Massive incisors clicked against lower teeth. "Thath

quite a requetht, friend! Do you have any idea what you're athking?"

"I'm sorry if it's going to be difficult for you, but we can't settle for

anything less. We would not have traveled all this way unless it was on a matter

of critical importance."

"I can believe that. But you got to underthand I'm jutht a thubof-fither. I'm

not in a pothition to--"

Shouts came from behind him. Several of his soldiers were emerging from the door

behind which they'd taken refuge and pointing up the main street.

An elaborate sedan chair was approaching. It was borne aloft by six puffing

mice. They hesitated at their first view of Falameezar, but shouts from inside

the chair and the crack of the shrewish driver's whip forced them onward. The

shrew was elegantly dressed in lace and silk, complete to lace cap.

The chair halted a modest distance away. The three-foot-tall driver descended

rapidly and opened the door, bowing low. The abused bearers slumped in their

harnesses and fought to catch their breath. They'd apparently run most of the

way.

The individual who emerged from the vehicle was clad in armor more decorative

than functional. It was heavily gilded, befitting its owner's high station and

haughty demeanor. He appraised the situation in the square and ambled over.

Open paw slapping across his chest, the beaver saluted sharply as the newcomer

neared. A faint wave from the other was all the acknowledgment he gave the

officer.

"I am Major Ortrum, Commandant of the City Guard," the raccoon said unctuously.

He managed the considerable feat of ignoring Falameezar as he talked to the rest

of the arrivals.

The dragon caught Jon-Tom's attention. The youth edged back alongside the black

bulk while the raccoon recited some sort of official greeting in a bored voice.

"Those poor fellows there," said the dragon angrily, nodding toward the

exhausted bearers of the sedan chair, "appear to me the epitome of the exploited

worker. And I don't care for the looks of this one now talking."

Jon-Tom thought very fast. "I expect they take turns. That's only fair."

"I suppose," said the dragon doubtfully. "But those workers," and he indicated

the panting mice, "are all of the same kind, while the speaker is manifestly

different."

"Yeah... but what about the driver? He's different, too."

"Yes, but... oh, never mind. It is my suspicious nature."

Too suspicious by half, Jon-Tom thought, breathing a mental sigh of relief at

having once again buffaloed the dragon. He hoped to God the Major didn't take

his leave by kicking one or two of the bearers erect.

"I gather," the raccoon was saying, inhaling a choice bit of snuff, "that you

are here on some silly sort of important mission?"

"That's true." Clothahump eyed the Major distastefully.

"Ah, you must be the wizard who was mentioned to me." Ortrum performed a smooth,

aristocratic bow. "I defer to one who has mastered the arcane arts, and to whom

all must look up to." There was a short, sharp guffaw from the bat fluttering

overhead, but Clothahump's opinion of the Major underwent a radical change.

"At last, someone who recognizes the worth of knowledge! Maybe now we will get

somewhere."

"That will depend," said the Major. "I am told you seek an audience of the

council, the military, and the sorceral representatives as well?"

"That's right," said Mudge, "an' if they know wot's good for them they'll give

us a hard listen, they will."

"Or... ?"

"Or..." Mudge looked helplessly at Clothahump.

"A crisis that threatens the entire civilized world looms closer every day,"

said the wizard. "To counter it will require all the resources of the

warmlands."

"Understand that I do not dispute your word, knowledgeable sir," the Major said,

closing his silver snuffbox, "but I am ill prepared to consider such matters.

Therefore I suppose you must have your audience. You must realize how difficult