him,” Jon-Tom said disgustedly.
“Be that as it may, wizards can be very touchy about
such things. Zancresta dwells on evil spells and prepares
toxic presents and calls down all who cross him. He has
been dangerous to approach ever since this happened. The
only way for him to regain his self-respect and cancel his
shame is to do something to make himself again be
considered the equal of the turtie of the tree. Yet he sees
no way to do this. This Clothahump refuses all challenges
and duels.”
“Clothahump,” Jon-Tom explained politely, “doesn’t
think much of games.”
“Word travels that he does not because he is getting
senile.”
Jon-Tom didn’t reply. There was nothing to be gained by
arguing with Chenelska and angering him.
“Therefore, my master is badly frustrated, since there is
no way he can prove that he is truly the most skilled in the
wizardly arts.
“Word arrived recently about this severe sickness
Clothahump is suffering from and that he cannot cure with
his own magic, that he needs medicine obtainable only
from a land beyond Snarken. My master was delighted by
it.”
“When we get out of this,” Jon-Tom whispered to
Mudge, “I’m going to string Sorbl up by his feet and hang
him beak-first over an open bottle of brandy.”
“Mate, I truly ‘ope you get that opportunity,” said
Mudge.
“Thanks to the information the wizard’s famulus pro-
vided, we were able to locate and intercept you,” said
Chenelska.
“What does your master intend doing with us?”
“I do not know, man. For now, it would seem sufficient
to prevent you from carrying out your mission and returning