neetha Napew - Spellsinger

"Who's gone mad? What... ?"

In her other hand the feline carried a heavy purse, weighed down perhaps with

the family gold horde. She struck at Talea's wrist with it and tore free of her

grasp.

Humans in night clothes and sleeping caps were among the mob. With their smooth

strides they were outdistancing some of their shorter-legged neighbors, but they

were equally panicked. Only the occasional roos and wallabies bounded past them.

"Falameezar. It's got to be," Jon-Tom said fearfully. "Something's gone wrong at

the barracks."

"Maybe it would be better," Mudge said, slowing slightly, "if some of us waited

'ere. Pog and I could stay in reserve in case of..."

"Not me," said the bat forcefully. "My master may be in trouble. I've got ta

help him if he is."

"Loyalty from you, Pog?" Jon-Tom couldn't help saying aloud.

"Loyalty my airborne arse!" the bat snorted derisively. "Dat hard-shelled senile

old turd and I have a contract, and he's not gonna get out of it by getting

himself stepped on by some berserk overheated lizard!" He soared on ahead above

the foot traffic, darting and weaving his way around the panicked birds and bats

that flew toward him.

For a while it seemed as if they'd never make it back to the courtyard.

Eventually the crowds of refugees started to thin, however. Soon they'd vanished

altogether.

Ahead the evening sky was glowing brightly, and it wasn't from a rising moon.

They turned a last corner and found themselves in the open square on the

opposite side from the barracks. That massive structure was a mass of flame.

Orange fire licked at the sky from several smaller buildings nearby, but the

blaze had not yet spread to the large, closely packed residential structures

lining the courtyard. The city wall was solid rock and immune to the flames,

though tents and banners and other flammables stacked near it were twisting

skeletons of orange-lipped black ash that writhed and shrank in the night.

Close by the main harbor gate stood several clusters of nervous animals. Some

were in uniform, others only partially so. Behind them were several large

wagons, three axled, sporting hand pumps. The rudely awakened soldiers waited

and held tight to their axes and spears while handlers behind them tried

frantically to control the baying, hissing lizards yoked to the wagons.

Tubes trailed like brown snakes from each wagon back through the partly opened

gate and doubtless from there out into the river. It was clear that the

Polastrindu fire department was equipped to fight fires, but not the black and

purple-blue behemoth they could hear raging and roaring behind the wall of flame

that had engulfed the barracks.

"Clothahump! Where's Clothahump?" Pog yelled as the little group raced across

the cobblestones toward the gate.

The leader of one of the fire teams gazed at the bat uncomprehend-ingly for a

moment before replying. "The wizard turtle, you mean?" He gestured indifferently

to his left. Then he returned his attention to the spreading conflagration,

obviously debating in his mind if it was worth the risk of attracting the

dragon's attention in order to try to at least contain the vanguard of the

blaze.

They found Clothahump seated nearby on a low hitching bench contemplating the

fire. From time to time thunderous bellows and Hephaestean threats could be

heard from somewhere inside the blazing barracks.

They clustered around the motionless wizard, looked at him helplessly. He

appeared to be deep in thought.

"What happened, sir?" asked Flor concernedly.

"What?" He looked around, frowned at some private thought. "Happened? Oh yes.

The dragon. The dragon and I were talking pleasantly. I was doing quite well,

boy." The wizard's glasses were bent and dangled precariously on his beak. His

carapace was black with soot and he looked very old, Jon-Tom thought.

"I was rationalizing my end of the discussion efficiently when a pair of our

guards joined us unexpectedly. They wondered where you were and I informed them

you were all asleep, but they remained. I think they were attempting to prove

their bravery by remaining in the dragon's presence.

"Falameezar greeted them as comrades, a word I explained to them. We all began

to talk. I would have made excuses, but the dragon was enthusiastic about the

chance to have a serious talk with members of the local proletariat." Despite

the proximity of the blaze, a cold chill traveled down Jon-Tom's spine.

"The beast inquired about their aspirations for their huge commune and their

eventual hopes for strengthening proletarian solidarity. None of that made any

sense to the guards, of course, but then it doesn't make any sense to me either,

so I was hard put to rationalize their replies.

"But that was not what ignited, so to speak, the problem. Soon both guards were

boasting uncontrollably about their plans for leaving the army and getting rich.

I tried to quiet them, but between explaining to the dragon and attempting to

silence them, I got confused. I could not work any magic to shut them up.

"They went on and on about their supposedly wealthy friends, one of whom was a

merchant who had a hundred and sixty people working for him, slaving away making

garments for the trade. They boasted about how cheaply he paid them, how

enormous his profits were, and how they hoped they would be as fortunate some

day.

"I think what finally set the dragon off was the offer one of them made to

employ him to work in a foundry, helping to make weapons so the local police

could clear the streets of 'the pitiful beggars who infest decent

neighborhoods.' That appeared to send him beyond reason. I could no longer

communicate with him.

"He started raving about revolutions betrayed and capitalist moneymongers and

began spewing fire in all directions. It was only by tucking my head into my

shell and scrambling as fast as I could that I escaped. The two rabbit guards, I

fear, exploded like torches when the dragon exhaled at them." He sighed heavily.

"Now he insists he will burn down the entire city. I'm afraid the only thing

that has kept him from destroying more of the town thus far is his own rage. It

chokes him so severely he cannot concentrate on generating fire."

"Why don't you make him stop, wizard?" Talea was leaning close to his face and

practically shouting into it. "You're the all-powerful sorcerer, the great

master of magic. Make him stop!"

"Stop, yes? I was trying to think." Clothahump leaned his chin on stubby

fingers. "Dragon spells are as complicated as their subjects, you know. The

right ingredients are required for a truly effective cast. I don't know..."

"You've got to do something!" She looked back at the searing blaze. Then she

looked at Jon-Tom. So did everyone else.

"Now the lad's willin' and good-natured," said Mudge caution-ingly, "but 'e

ain't no fool. Are you, mate?" The otter was torn between common sense and the

desire to save his own highly flammable skin.

But Jon-Tom already had the duar swung around against his belly and was trying

to think of something to sing. He could remember several rain songs, but that

might only anger the dragon and certainly wouldn't solve the problem. Falameezar

might not burn Polastrindu down, but from the smashing and crunching sounds

issuing from behind the flames Jon-Tom judged him quite capable of tearing it

down physically.

He marched out toward the barracks, ignoring the single plea that came from