great homed owl stood slightly over three feet tall. He
wore a thin vest and a brown and yellow kilt of the Ule
Clan.
He spotted Jon-Tom, waved cheerily, and fell over on
his beak. As he struggled to raise himself on flexible
wingtips, Jon-Tom saw that the vast yellow eyes were
exquisitely bloodshot.
“Hello, Sorbl. You know who I am?”
The owl squinted at him as he climbed unsteadily to his
feet, staggered to port, and caught himself on the edge of
‘the workbench.
6
Alan Dean Foster
“Shure I remember you,” he said thickly. “You… you’re
that spielsunger… spoilsanger. …”
“Spellsinger,” Jon-Tom said helpfully.
“Thas what I said. You’re that what I said from another
world that the master brought through to hulp him against
the Pleated Filk.”
“The master is not feeling well.” He put his staff aside.
“And you’re not looking too hot either.”
“Hooo, me?” The owl looked indignant, walked away
from the bench wavering only slightly. “I am perfectly
fine, thank you.” He glanced back at the bench. “Is just
that I was looking for a certain bottle.”
“What bottle?”
“Not marked, thish one.” Sorbl looked conspiratorial
and winked knowingly with one great bloodshot eye.
“Medicinal liquid. Not for his ancientness in there. My
bottle,” he finished, suddenly belligerent. “Nectar.”
“Nectar? I thought owls liked mice.”
“What?” said the outraged famulus. For an instant
Jon-Tom had forgotten where he was. The rodents here-
abouts were as intelligent and lively as any of the other
citizens of this world. “If I tried to take a bite out of a