Alan Foster - Exceptions to Reality

Ignoring the slur, Jon-Tom proved the otter wrong by asking, “If all that’s needed is an amorous song, why not hire any wandering troubadour? Why seek out a spellsinger like myself?”

Wolfram nodded approvingly. “A song to Larinda is all that is required. It is the reaching her that may require the application of some magic in concert with the music.”

“Oi, I knew it were too good to be true,” Mudge muttered under his breath.

“Calmness be upon you, my peripatetic friend,” Wolfram tried to reassure the otter. “A simple spellsong should suffice. Nothing too elaborate. I would attempt it myself except that I, as previously stated, cannot carry a tune in a bucket.”

“’Ow simple a spellsong, guv’nor?” the otter inquired warily.

“That is for the singer to decide. I shall provide you with directions. I will also pay your expenses and hand over half your fee in advance.” Extracting a heavy purse from within the depths of his cloak, he proceeded to spill a clinking pile of gold coins into Jon-Tom’s cupped hands. Mudge’s eyes widened while Stromagg looked on appreciatively.

“ ’Alf, you say, guv’nor?” The otter eyed the golden flood greedily.

Wolfram nodded as he slipped the now empty purse back into his cloak. “The other half when the object of my affection responds.” Turning, he gestured with his staff. “Do you know the lands of the Agu Canyon, which lies between here and Hygria?”

Jon-Tom’s expression wrinkled with concentration. “I know the direction, though I’ve never been there.”

“Nor I,” Mudge added. “I ’ave ’eard ’tis a dry and homey place.”

“There is an unclimbable cliff,” Wolfram explained. “I will give you specific directions that will enable you to find it. On the far side lies Namur Castle, wherein dwells the beauteous Larinda. Serenade her on my behalf. Sing to her of my undying affection, then return to collect the rest of your well-earned due.”

“’Scuse me ’ere a minim, guv.” The otter squinted skeptically at the graybeard. “’Ow now are we supposed to get up an unclimbable cliff?”

Wolfram smiled from beneath the cowl of his blue-and-red cloak. “That, my energetic friend, is why I have sought out a spellsinger to do the singing. How you surmount the barrier is your problem. Or did you think I was paying you only to deliver a love song?”

Jon-Tom was not discouraged “I’m a pretty decent climber. No ascent is ‘unclimbable.’” He looked down at Mudge. “If necessary, I’ll just sing us up the appropriate climbing gear. Or perhaps a great bird to ferry us over.”

Mudge winced. “You forget, guv, that I’ve seen ’ow all too much o’ your spellsingin’ ’as a way o’ turnin’ out.”

“We’ll cope.” Jon-Tom stood a little straighter. “After all, I’ve had plenty of practice by now. I’m far more in command of my skills than I was when I first picked up this duar.” He patted the instrument confidently, then turned his gaze to the looming grizzly. “How about it, Stromagg? It’s always useful to have someone like yourself along on a journey such as this. Are you with us?”

The bear’s great brows furrowed. “Will there be beer?”

II

The granite cliffs and buttes that rose around them were streaked with gray and black, ivory and umber, and lightning-like streaks of olivine green. Stromagg strode tirelessly forward on his hind legs, Jon-Tom riding on one shoulder and Mudge on the other. The twice-burdened bear seemed not to notice the weight at all. In any event, he did not complain. Not even when Mudge would rise to a standing position for a better view. Jon-Tom did not venture criticism of his companion’s unstable stance. For one thing, it would do no good. The otter held advice in the same regard as teetotaling. For another, otters have superb natural balance—and very low centers of gravity.

Overhead, vultures circled, gossiping like black-cloaked old women. They were as civilized as any bird that inhabited the Warmlands, exceedingly polite, and fastidious in their table manners.

“There are the twin buttes.” Jon-Tom consulted the map their employer had provided to them. There was no mistaking the distinctive geological formations. From a distance, the spellsinger saw, the eroded massif known as Mouravi resembled a horned skull. “The cliff wall should lie just to the left of them.”

Hiking down the arroyo to the left of the nearest butte, they suddenly and unexpectedly encountered proof of his observation in the form of a solid wall of rock. Slipping down from Stromagg’s shoulder, Jon-Tom tilted his head back, back, until his neck began to ache. The cliff wall was at least five hundred feet high and as smooth as a marble slab. Close inspection revealed that the featureless schist would make for a treacherous ascent even with the best of available climbing equipment.

Examining the obstacle, Mudge let out a short, derisive whistle. “Ain’t no problem, guv. I say we keep the ’alf payment that old geezer gave us and ’ightail it up to Malderpot. Nice taverns there be in Malderpot. By the time the old man can track us down, we’ll bloody well ’ave drunk away the last of ’is gold.”

“Now, Mudge.” The spellsinger studied the seemingly impassable obstacle. “That would hardly be honorable.”

“Honorable, honorable.” The otter scratched under his chin, his whiskers quivering slightly. “From wot foreign tongue arises that strange word, wot I am sure I never ’eard before and ain’t conversant with?”

Stromagg frowned at the wall and promptly sat down, dust rising from the fringes of his enormous brown behind. His armor hung loose against the vastness of his immense frame. “Stromagg not built for climbing.”

“That’s all right.” Jon-Tom unlimbered his duar. “When Wolfram described this to us, actually having to climb it was something I only half expected would be possible. That’s what he, and anyone else, would think.” Slipping the unique instrument across his front, he gently strummed the intersecting set of dual strings. Accompanying the first notes, a soft pulse of light appeared at the nexus. “We’re not going over this barrier. We’re going through it.”

“Through it?” Mudge squinted at the solid rock, glanced meaningfully at Stromagg. “Through wot, mate? Am I missin’ somethin’ ’ere?”

“Why, through that tunnel.” Jon-Tom pointed. “The one right there.”

Once again Mudge eyed the stone. Then he made the connection with the duar, the position of his friend’s hovering hands, and his eyes widened slightly. “Now, mate, are you sure this is a better idea than wastin’ away old Wolfprick’s money in temptingly lubricious Malderpot? You know wot ’appens when you open your mouth and some strange caterwaulin’ vaguely like a song comes out.”

“Just like I told Wolfram, Mudge. My skill has improved greatly with time and practice.”

The otter grunted. “As opposed to the odds improvin’, I suppose.” He moved to stand closer to, or rather behind, the curious Stromagg as Jon-Tom walked up to the solid rock face. The bear frowned down at the infinitely smaller otter.

“What happens now?”

Mudge put his hands over his ears. “If you’ve any sensitivity at all, large brother, you’ll ’ave a care to cover your bloomin’ ears.”

Stromagg hesitated, then raised his enormous paws. “There will be pain from the wizardry?”

“Not from the wizardry, guv.” Mudge winced. “Trust me on this. You ain’t ’eard ol’ Jonnny-Tom sing. I ’ave. All too many times.”

His fingers quickening on the duar, Jon-Tom launched into the song he had selected, a lengthy ditty of penetrating power that dated from early Zeppelin. The grizzly immediately clapped his great paws over his ears, bending them down forcefully against the top of his head.