neetha Napew - Spellsinger

it will be to gather all the notables you require in a brief period of time."

"Nevertheless, it must be done."

"And at the audience you will of course substantiate all your claims."

"Of course," said the turtle irritably.

Jon-Tom took note of the implied threat. There was more to Major Ortrum than met

the eye, or the nose. It took considerable bravery to stand there showing

apparent disregard for the massive presence of Falameezar. Even Jon-Tom himself,

at first sight, made many of the locals pause.

Then it occurred to him that bravery might have nothing to do with it. He

wondered at the contents of the snuffbox. Major Ortrum might be stoned out of

his socks.

"It will take a little time."

"As soon as possible, then," said Clothahump with a harrumph of impatience.

"Naturally, you will give me the particulars of this supposed threat, so that

the sorcerers at least will know, excuse my boldness sir, that they are not

being dragged from their burrows and dens to confront only the ravings of a

senile fraud." He put up a mollifying hand. "Tut, tut, sir. Think a moment.

Surely you yourself would want some assurance if the positions were reversed?"

"That seems reasonable enough. The wizards of the greater territories are a

supercilious bunch. They must be made to understand the danger. I will give you

such information as will be sufficient to induce them to attend the audience."

He hunted through his plastron.

"Here, then." He removed a handful of tiny scrolls. "These are curse-sealed."

"Yes, I see the mark," said the raccoon as he carefully accepted them.

"Not that it would matter if you saw their contents," Clothahump told him. "All

the world will know soon enough. But there are certain snobbish types who would

resent the intrusion of mere laymen into sorceral affairs."

"Rest assured they will not be tampered with," said the Major with a fatuous

smile. He placed the scrolls in his side purse.

"Now to less awesome matters. It is growing late. Surely you must be tired from

the day's work"--he eyed the unfortunate beaver sharply--"and from your

extensive journeying. Also, it would help settle the populace if you would

retire."

Caz brushed daintily at his lace cuffs and silk stockings. "I for one could

certainly use a bath. Not to mention something more elaborate than camp cuisine.

Ah, for an epinard and haricot salad with spiced legume dressing!"

"A gourmet." Major Ortrum looked with new interest at the rabbit. "You will

pardon my saying so, sir, but I do not understand you falling in with this kind

of company."

"I find my present company quite satisfactory, thank you." Caz smiled thinly.

Ortrum shrugged. "Life often places us in the most unexpected situations." It

was clear he fancied himself something of a philosopher. "We will find you your

bath, sir, and lodgings for you all."

The beaver leaned close, still stiffly at attention, and jerked his head toward

the dragon. "Lodgings, thir? Even for that?"

"Yes, what about Falameezar?" Jon-Tom asked. "Comrades are not to be separated."

The dragon beamed.

"No trouble whatsoever," the raccoon assured him. He pointed behind them. "That

third large structure there, behind you and to your left, is a military barracks

and storehouse. At present it is occupied only by a small maintenance crew, who

will be moved. Should your substantial reptilian friend desire to return to his

natural aquatic habitat, whether permanently or merely for a washup, he will

find the river close at hand. And there is ample room inside for all of you, so

you will be able to stay together.

"If you will please follow me?" He returned to his chair. Curses and urgings

came from the driver. Though high-pitched and squeaky, they were notable for

their exceptional vileness.

Divide and promote a selected few, Jon-Tom thought angrily. That's how to keep

the oppressed in line. The treatment of the smaller rodents was a source of

continuing unease to him.

They followed the chair to the entrance of a huge wooden building. A pair of

towering sliding doors were more than large enough to admit Falameezar.

"This building is often used to house large engines," Ortrum explained. "Hence

the need for the oversized portal.

"I will leave you here now. I must return to make my report and set in motion

the requests you have made. If you need anything, do not hesitate to ask any of

the staff inside for assistance. I welcome you as guests of the city."

He turned, and the chair shuffled off under the straining muscles of the

mice....

XIX

Their quarters were Spartan but satisfactory. Falameezar declared himself

content with the straw carried in from the stables, the consistency being drier

but otherwise akin to the familiar mud of his favorite riverbottom.

"There are some ramifications of communal government I would like to discuss

with you, comrade," he said to Jon-Tom as the youth was walking toward his own

quarters.

"Later, Falameezar." He yawned, nearly exhausted by the hectic day. It had

turned dark outside. The windows of Polastrindu had come alive like a swarm of

fireflies.

Also, he was plain tired of keeping the dragon's insatiable curiosity sated. His

limited store of knowledge about the workings of Marxism was beginning to get a

little threadbare, and he was growing increasingly worried about making a

dangerous philosophical mistake. Falameezar's friendship was predicated on a

supposedly mutual affinity for a particular socioeconomic system. A devastating

temper lay just beneath those iridescent scales.

A hand clutched his arm and he jumped. It was only Mudge.

"Take 'er a mite easier, mate. Yer more knotted up than a virgin's girdle. We've

made it 'ere, an' that were the important thing, wot? Tonight we'll go out an'

find ourselves a couple of less argumentative ladies than the pair we're

travelin' with and 'ave ourselves a time of it, right?"

Jon-Tom firmly disengaged his arm. "Oh no. I remember the last tavern you took

me into. You nearly got my belly opened. Not to mention abandoning me in

Thieves' Hall."

"Now that were Talea's doin', not mine."

"What was my doing?" The redhead had appeared in the doorway ahead.

"Why nothin', luv," said Mudge innocently.

She eyed him a moment longer, then decided to ignore him. "Anybody noticed that

there are dormitories at each end of this mausoleum? They're full of soldiers.

We've been given the officer's quarters, but I don't like being surrounded by

the others."

"Afraid of being murdered in your sleep?" Flor had joined the discussion.

Talea glared at her. "It's been known to happen, usually to those who think

their beds safe. Besides, that Major Maskface said there was normally only a

'maintenance crew' living here. Then where'd all the bully-boys come from, and

why?"

"How many are there?" inquired Caz.

"At least fifty at each end. Possums, weasels, humans; a nice mix. They looked

awfully alert for a bunch of broom-pushers. Well armed, too."

"It's only natural for the city to be nervous at our presence," Jon-Tom argued.

"A few guards are understandable."

"A few yes, a hundred I'm not so sure."

"Are you saying we're prisoners?" said Flor.

"I'm saying I don't sleep well knowing that over a hundred 'nervous' and

well-armed soldiers are sleeping on either side of me."

"Wouldn't be the first time," Mudge murmured.

She looked at him sharply. "What? What did you say, you fuzz-faced little