neetha Napew - Spellsinger

"Any spellsinger requires his instrument to make magic." He nodded in the

direction of the closely guarded duar. "You threaten emptily. I had heard that

you controlled a river dragon. That plus your admission just now is proof enough

for me."

"How do you know that I'm controlling the dragon? Maybe I'm just trying to

frighten you into releasing me. Clothahump the turtle is still back at our

barracks, and he's a powerful wizard, much more powerful than I am. Maybe he's

controlling the dragon and even now setting up a spell to dissolve all of you

like so much tea."

"We know of the hard-shelled bumbler who accompanied you. We know also that he

and the great dragon are even now arguing absurdities back in the harbor

barracks. We know this not through magic but through our well-organized and

loyal network of observers and spies." Again the smile. "Sometimes that is worth

more than magic."

Network, Jon-Tom thought? What's this talk of spies and networks? Something

else, something about the attitude of the people in the room, their attacking

with nonlethal weapons, all bespoke something deeper than your everyday

garden-variety robbers.

"Who do you spy for? Aren't you all citizens of the city or county of

Polastrindu?"

"By birth," admitted the man, and there were murmurs of agreement from the

others in the room, "but not by inclination, or belief."

"You're losing me."

"We don't want to do that," said the man, unclasping his hands. "We want you to

join us."

"Join you? In what? I haven't got time to join anything else. I'm already into

something vitally important to your whole world." He started to recite

Clothahump's warning about the coming cataclysm.

"The Plated Folk are readying their greatest invasion of these lands in their

history, and they have--"

"We know all that," said one of the other guards impatiently.

Jon-Tom gaped at the woman who'd spoken. She was one of the trio blocking the

doorway. "You know?" Nods of assent came from several of the others.

"But I thought... Clothahump said he was the only one perceptive enough to...

but how do you know?"

"Patience," the blond urged him. "All will be explained.

"You asked if we were not citizens of the city, and what we wanted you to join

us for. We are citizens of this city, yes, and we are something more, we

believe. As for what we want you to join, I have already told you. We want you

to join us."

"What the hell do you mean by 'us'? Some kind of political organization?"

The man shook his head. "Not really. Us. Us... we humans." He spoke patiently,

as though explaining to a child.

"I still don't follow you."

The man looked in exasperation at his companions, then once more back at

Jon-Tom. "Listen to me carefully, spellsinger. For tens of thousands of years

mankind has been compelled to exist as a lowly equal with the animals. With the

hordes of stinking, smelly, hairy beasts who are obviously our inferiors." This

was said with casual disregard for his own unkempt mat of fur. "With those who

are destined to be damned together with the rats and mice they so readily

discriminate against themselves."

Jon-Tom didn't reply. The man almost pleaded with him. "Surely you have felt the

inequality, the unnaturalness of this situation?" He paced in front of Jon-Tom's

cot, occasionally shaking clenched fists at him.

"We are more than animals, are we not? Clearly nature has intended us to be

superior, yet some unnatural force or circumstance has held us back from

achieving our birthright. The time to change that is near. Soon mankind shall

inherit this world, as nature intended him to!"

"You're talking, then," said Jon-Tom slowly, "about a race war?"

"No!" The stocky leader turned angrily on him. "This is to be a war for the

race, for the human race, to place it in its rightful position as leader of

civilization." He leaned near, stared searchingly into Jon-Tom's face. "Tell me

then, spellsinger: do the humans of your other-world exist equally with the

animals?"

My God, Jon-Tom thought in panic. What do I say? How perceptive are they? Can

they detect, through magic or otherwise, if I lie? And if so, and they learn the

truth, will they use that to gather support among the humans here for their own

hateful plans?

But are they after all so hateful? Do you hate what this man is saying, Jon-Tom,

or do you hate the thought that you might agree with him?

"Well?" the man prompted.

No reply was worse than anything he might say, he decided. "The humans I've met

are no more than the equal of the other animals here in size and intelligence.

Some have shown themselves to be a damnsight less so. What makes you think

you're so superior?"

"Belief, and inner knowledge," came the instant reply. "This cannot be the way

nature meant things to be. Something is wrong here. And you have not yet

answered my question about the relationship between humans and animals in your

world."

"We're all animals together. Intelligence is the determining factor, and the

other persons I've met here have been pretty much equal in intelligence."

"Ah... the other animals you've met here. What about your own world's

'animals'?"

Jon-Tom's voice rose in frustration. "God damn you, shape and size has nothing

to do with it!"

"It confirms what the dream raiders told us," murmured someone in the back of

the room. There were other unintelligible whispers, smug and self-satisfied.

Jon-Tom found them unsettling.

"Anyway, I won't join you." He folded his arms. "I doubt that many will. I know

plenty of humans already who can tell the difference between civilized and

uncivilized, between intelligent and ignorant, without having to think about it,

and it hasn't a fucking thing to do with body odor. So you can take your

'belief' and 'inner knowledge' and stuff it! Those are the kinds of groundless,

half-assed reasons dictators have used throughout history for discriminating

against others, and I don't want anything to do with it.

"Besides, humans are just another mammalian minority here. Even if they all went

nuts and joined you, you're far too outnumbered to even think the kind of

genocide you're contemplating has a chance of success."

"You're right on all counts," agreed the leader, "except one."

"I don't think I overlooked anything."

"Perhaps it would be better if I explained." The voice had a hoarseness to it

that suggested a severe cold or laryngitis. The man who'd spoken stepped out

into the light. He was as thickset as the leader and even more hirsute. Long

black hair flowed below his shoulders, and his beard almost obscured his face.

Brown and blue leathers were draped tentlike on his body.

Jon-Tom was by now almost too furious to think straight. "Who the hell are you,

jack?" He was thinking of Mudge and Clothahump, of the aristocratic but friendly

Caz, and the acerbic Pog. The idea that this motley mob of near barbarians

considered themselves good enough to lord it over his new-won furry friends was

almost more than he could stomach.

"My identity is perhaps better shown than stated," said the black-haired shape

as he reached up and carefully removed his head.

The skull thus revealed was smaller than a human head, but occupied almost as

much volume because of the bulging, bright green compound eyes. The chitin was

bright blue spotted with yellow patches. A slash of maroon decorated the

mandibles. Antennae drooped toward Jon-Tom. They were constantly in motion,