“And I say Opiode should give way!”
The speaker. Asmouelle the tamandua, stood be-
fore the narrow wooden oval that was the Quorum
table and glared at his colleagues. His nose was
damp and glistening, and so was the table. Most
everything stayed damp in Quasequa, a city built on
numerous islands in the middle of the Lake of
Sorrowful Pearls. Causeways joined the islands together,
and each isle sent its duly chosen representative to
^ argue for it in the Quorum.
This afternoon the arguments raged hotter than
the air outside the Quorumate. The members were
debating the selection of an advisor in matters ar-
cane and magical.
The unexpected challenger for this mystic position
sat and brooded in a chair at the far end of the
Quorum chamber. Reluctant attendants saw to his
needs. They were afraid of the newcomer. So were
several members of the Quorum, though none
confessed such unseemly fears openly.
Two members openly supported the challenger,
but not out of fear. Kindore and Vazvek saw a
chance to better themselves by striking a bargain
with the newcomer for their aid. The rest of the
2 Alan Dean Poster
Quorum regarded this naked display of sycophancy
with disgust.
And now Asmouelle appeared to have joined
them.
The tamandua sat down. Domurmur the lynx rose
and spoke dispassionately. “And / say this wanderer
has yet to prove himself capable of anything stronger
than bad breath.” His paws rested on the ancient
table, which was as black and shiny as a bottle of
oil.
Kindore responded with an insult of some subtlety,
and once again the debate dissolved into chaos. It
ceased only when Trendavi raised a hand for silence.
He did not stand. Long experience had taught him
that it was not necessary for a legislator to jump up
and down like a toy in a box to make a point.
The aged pangolin squinted down the length of
the table, studying the challenger silently for a moment.
Then he nodded to his left.
“Opiode the Sly has been principal advisor in
arcane matters to the Quorum of Quasequa for
nearly thirty years. Skillfully and well has he served.
The city and its citizens have profited much from his
advice.” Trendavi showed scaly palms. “As have we
all.”
Words of agreement rose from the members while
Kindore and Vazvek were conspicuous by their silence.
The newcomer said nothing.
“It is true that this Markus person”—and Trendavi
gestured toward the individual in the solitary chair,
who sat smiling to himself as if at some secret joke—
“has demonstrated to the Quorum nothing more
than a facile tongue.”
Now the newcomer stood and approached the
black table. “Since you credit me with it, let me use
it, friends.” The towering form of his personal body-
guard moved to stand close to the door. “Can I come
TSOS MOMENT Of THB MACMCiAflr 3
nearer?” He smiled pleasantly and even Domurlnur
had to admit that this Markus the Ineluctable, as he
styled himself, could be downright ingratiating in
manner when he so desired. Especially for a human,
a species not noted for its social graces.
Trendavi nodded. All eyes focused on the newcom-
er as he moved close.
For his part, Markus the Ineluctable sensed antag-
onism, fear, curiosity, and some open support among
the members of the Quorum. He would concentrate
his efforts on persuading those who seemed to be
wavering. Of the ten, he could count on three. The
two who openly feared him he could ignore. He had
to persuade at least two others.
And he had to move carefully lest he panic them
all. It was too early to press his demands. His posi-
tion was uncertain in Quasequa, and despite his
powers, he had no wish to raise a formal alliance
against him. Far better to make friends of them than
enemies. Of a majority, anyway.
“I’ve come here from a faraway land, a land far-
ther off and stranger than any of you can imagine.”
“So you’ve claimed.” Domurmur had become some-
thing of an unofficial spokesman for Markus’s
opposition. “All that you claim is difficult to be-
lieve.”
“Yet much of it is proven by my presence, isn’t it?”
“Not necessarily,” said Newmadeen, preening her
whiskers casually. One of her long ears was bent
forward in the middle, a sign of beauty among the
hares.
Markus turned away momentarily and coughed.
He did not need to cough, but he didn’t want them
to see the expression on his face. He didn’t like being
called a liar- Calming himself, he turned to face
them again. Newmadeen he didn’t reply to, but he
4 Alan Dean Foster
would remember her. Oh, yes, he would remember
her. Markus the Ineluctable never forgot an enemy.
“Why not?”
Cascuyom the howler shrugged. “There is nothing
unique or remarkable about your person. There are
many humans living in Quasequa. All species mix
freely here. Or you could have come from any one
of several neighboring lands with denser human
populations. Your humanness is proof of nothing.”
Markus stepped up to the table, enjoying the way
several of the members shied away from him. “But
I’m no mere human! I’m not your usual mortal. I
am a magician—the magician. Markus the Ineluctable!
I have powers you cannot comprehend, abilities you
cannot conceive of, talents you cannot imagine!”
“A mouth big beyond belief,” Domurmur whispered
to the beauteous Newmadeen.
Trendavi cleared his throat, spoke thoughtfully
and, he hoped, with some degree of neutrality- “You
must think quite highly of your skills to come straight
to the Quorum to challenge the faithful and talented
Opiode without first passing time as an apprentice.
For the nonce I will credit you with boldness instead
of ignorance. Whether Opiode will be as forgiving
remains to be seen.” He nodded toward the salaman-
der seated in the advisor’s chair off to his right.
Red-orange blotches decorated what was visible of
Opiode’s back. He wore a single garment that resem-
bled a raincoat. It was not close-fitting. No salaman-
der could wear anything close to its skin because its
natural bodily secretions would cause the material to
stick.
Opiode’s long tail flicked nervously back and forth.
What he’d heard of this Markus the Ineluctable
hadn’t pleased him. Now that he saw him in the
flesh, he liked the man even less.
Still, he’d held his peace because protocol demanded
THE MOMENT OF TISK MAOTCMUT 5
it. Not that his personal opinion would be accepted
as evidence. The selection of chief advisor to the
Quorum was purely a matter of business. He would
have his turn in due course. So he continued to sit
quietly, ignoring the debate as best he could while
trying to still the twitching of his tail.
Markus was talking on. “I can do things you won’t
believe by means of a magic you’ve never encountered
before”
“More talk,” said Domurmur, slapping the table
with a paw- Markus grinned at him.
**I suspected it would come to this. You want more
than talk from me.”
“That’d be nice,” said Domurmur sarcastically.
“We’ve had to contend with applicants whose loquadou&-
ness far exceeded their abilities before”
For an instant, it seemed as if Markus the Inelucta-
ble was about to lose his temper. His barely concealed
rage didn’t faze Domurmur. He was made of sterner
stuff than some of his colleagues.
“Yes.” said Opiode suddenly, unable to contain
himself any longer. “Let’s have an end to this talkl”
All eyes turned to the chief advisor as he rose
from his seat. The glow bulbs hanging by their single
Strands from the curved stone ceiling pulsed a little
brighter as the salamander stood. It was his spelling
which provided their soft, steady light. The servitors
flanking the doorways whispered expectantly among
themselves. Attendants and Quorum members alike
could feel the power flowing from the old wizard,
could sense that he was completely involved in what
was taking place.
About the challenger there was no such percepti-
ble aura of strength. There was only the air of
mystery and feeling of alienness he had brought with
him from the moment he’d stepped into the chamber.
6 Alan Dean Poster
That, and the regal bearing he affected, which some-
how seemed not to fit.
Nor was his actual appearance particularly impres-
sive. He was tall for a human but not spectacularly
so, round of countenance, and crowned with less fur
than most. In hand-to-hand combat it was unlikely
he could have defeated any of the Quorum with the
exception of old Trendavi, for he displayed a consid-
erable paunch above his belt line.
The forthcoming batde would not be physical,
however. Opiode approached the Quorum. “I see no
reason to oppose a challenge. Indeed, I could not
turn it down if 1 wished to. Nor is there any way you
can choose between us without a contest of wills. The
people of Quasequa deserve to have an advisor who
has proven his abilities” He sighed deeply, looked
resigned as he smoothed the slime on the back oT his
hands with a fold of his voluminous robe.
“I have demonstrated my fitness many times be-
fore and expect to have to do so many times again.”
He cocked an amphibian eye Coward the newcomer.
“Have you any objection to a public contest?”
“Here and now suits me fine.” Markus fairly oozed
confidence. “I’m a little new at this kind of duel. Do
we need seconds?”
“1 think not. In any event, my assistant Flute is
quite young and I would not want him subjected to
mystic influences that could injure him at a delicate
Stage of his development.”
“Aw, I wouldn’t do that.” Markus turned. “Prugg,
no matter what happens you stay there and keep out
of the way. Understand?” The huge bodyguard nod-
ded once and backed away from the table. He was
not completely impassive, however. Like everyone
else in the chamber, he was curious to see how his
master would fare. He was even a little worried.
After all, Opiode was the most noted wizard in the
THB MOMENT OF TSB SSAWCSAM 7
land. It was simple for his master to overawe the
peasant folk with his magic, but outwitting Opiode
would be another matter entirely.
Markus the Ineluctable seemed anything but
intimidated, though. He grinned and gestured
expansively toward the salamander. “You first.”
Opiode did not smile. “Food is vital to the health
of all. No food is more important to the people of
Quasequa than the fish that swim in the lakes around
us.” He slid back his sleeves, cleared his throat, and
his words rolled through the chamber.
“The bounty of the lake
I bid you aH to share
Your hungers may you slake
With meat beyond compare
For while I advise Quasequa there will be
No nutritional dystopia
But always instead if you look you will see
An ichthyological cornucopia.”
Quorum members and servitors alike watched with
the fascination of children as a small, glowing blue-
green whirlpool formed in the air above the floor.
You could smell the lake water as the vortex hummed.
Then the fish poured forth, falling head upon tail,
until there was a heaping mound of flopping, bounc-
ing weewaw lying in the middle of the floor. Weewaw,
the hardest to catch and tastiest of all. And Opiode
had brought forth this expensive and improbable
feast with a wave of his hands and a few words.
The wizard spoke only when the last fish had
• tumbled to the stones and the whirlpool had vanished.
“Can you so readily insure the supply of food to the
citizens of the city?”
Markus frowned a moment. Then his grin returned.
He raised his hands above his head, the fingers
8 Alan Dean Poster
pointing outward. His black cape fluttered behind
him. The Quorum members strained to listen, but
those with good hearing could make no sense of the
newcomer’s words. Even Opiode, who could hear the
incantation clearly, did not understand. The words
were strange and sharp.
Sense they might not have made, but there was no
denying their effect. A bright green glow appeared
before the table. A few of the members shifted
nervously in their chairs, and Markus casually as;
sured them they had nothing to worry about.
The glow expanded and thinned. Markus looked
smug as the glow formed a floating rectangle above
the floor.
It was an aquarium without sides- Magic alone
held the water in place. Swimming to and fro within
the drifting section of lake was a whole school of
weewaw. suspended before the Quorum.
“I don’t know about the rest of you, but I hate
waste. Wouldn’t it be better to get your fish one at a
time and keep the others fresh for the taking?”
Opiode muttered something and his pile of dead
weewaw vanished. Markus did likewise and the float-
ing aquarium also disappeared, save for a few mis-
placed drops which stained the floor-
“Well brought!” said Kindore, only to have his
colleagues shush him. Opiode glared at the flying
squirrel, then turned his attention back to the smil-
ing Markus. They had determined one thing already.
His challenger was for real.
“It is not enough to feed a population in times of
difficulty, stranger. One must be able to defend
them as well” Again he lifted an arm, made sinuous
motions in the air.
“Let those who threaten
beware, beware
THE MOMEMT OF THE MAGICIAN 9
We will not fight
with air, with air
We mold our weapons
with care, so there
Be metallurgical might!”
Fire this time, bright and hot. The Quorum mem-
bers shielded their faces as the set of armor co-
alesced before them, melting out of the flames. Sword,
shield, and long spear accompanied it. The fire
cooled and flickered out.
Notorian moved from his seat to inspect the newly
forged weapons. He hefted the sword, tapped the
armor with it.
“Fine instruments for fighting.”
“For one fighter, yes,” Markus agreed readily. “For
a trained warrior. But what of the ordinary citizen?
How does he, or she, defend the community?”
Once more he raised his hands, once again he
intoned an invocation none could comprehend. This
he concluded by swinging his cape around in front
of him, to form a funnel in the air.
There was a tinkling sound as something fell from
the base of the funnel. Then another, and another.
It became a metallic clashing as the flow increased,
until the flow of knives was a shining waterfall pouring
from the bottom of the cape.
Notorian the wolf picked one up and tested the
edge. “Finest steel I’ve ever seen,” he declared to the
stunned Quorum. The rush of metal continued until
Trendavi finally raised a hand himself.
“Enough!” Markus nodded, let the cape swirl back
around his neck. As he did so, the clanging waterfall
ceased. The floor of the Quorum chamber was awash
in knives of every shape and size- Markus kicked a
few of them aside and bowed.
“As my employers wish.” He swept a hand out to
Alan Dean Fofltcr
10
encompass the armory. “A gift to the Quorum and to
the citizens of Quasequa, my adopted home.”
“They’re only knives,” Cascuyom muttered.
“You’d prefer swords?” Markus asked him, over-
hearing. “Or maybe something more lethal still? Like
this.” He threw his left hand toward the ceiling- A
burst of lightning flew from his fingers to shatter the
pole holding a banner across the table. Splinters and
fabric tumbled onto the Quorum. Markus grinned as
they fought to extricate themselves while maintaining
their dignity.
“Something more impressive?” he inquired.
“No, no, that will be quite satisfactory,” harrumphed
Trendavi, trying to untangle himself from the fallen
banner.
“You can feed and you can destroy,” snapped
Opiode, “but can you create?”
Again the salamander’s hands moved in time to his
mouth.
“Jewels of the earth
Scarce and profound
Gems of great worth
Come forth from the ground
Rise here to please us
To tempt and to tease us!”
Crystals of blue and yellow, of rose and lavender
began to take shape in the center of the table. They
seemed to grow out of the wood, catching the light
as they developed, throwing back delightful colors at
the enraptured members. By the time Opiode con-
cluded the incantation, the entire table was encrusted
with crystals. A smattering of applause came from
the servitors gathered along the walls-
But Markus the Ineluctable only smiled wider as
THS MOMEHT OF THE MAQtCIAM 11
he moved his fingers against one another. The ap-
plause for Opiode turned to awed whispers.
Flowers began to appear, growing out of the na-
ked stone of the walls and ceiling. Exotic, alien
blossoms that put forth the most exquisite smells. A
blaze of color and fragrance filled the Quorum cham-
ber to overflowing.
You could see the opinions of several members of
the Quorum begin to shift in/Markus’s favor.
“Satisfied yet?” Markus asked them. “You tell me
which of us is the more powerful magician.”
“A magician is a trickster, not a wizard,” said
Opiode.
Markus shrugged. “I prefer magician. I’m comfort-
able with it. I’ve always called myself a magician. As
for my ‘tricks,’ they seem just as effective as your
wizardry. Had enough?”
“There is one more thing,” said Opiode slowly.
“You have shown what you can do for others, but can
you do for yourself?” So saying he pointed a red-and-
black arm at Markus’s face and uttered an incanta-
tion so powerful the words cannot stand repeating.
A slight but steady breeze sprang up, rippling the
fur of the onlookers, and the glow bulbs grew dim. No
one in the chamber dared to breathe, lest a fraction
of that energy latch onto them and turn them to
dust.
As they stared, Markus the Ineluctable began to
rise from the floor. He put his hands on his hips and
considered his levitation thoughtfully, then nodded
appreciatively in Opiode’s direction.
“Hey. not bad. Not bad at all.” Then he raised one
hand and murmured something almost indifferently.
Opiode the Siy, Opiode the clever, Opiode the
principal advisor in matters arcane and magical to
the Quorum of Quasequa, vanished.
Shouts and cries from the servitors, mild panic
Aim Dean roster
12
among the more impressionable members of the.
Quorum as Markus settled gently back to the ground.
“What have you done with him?” Domunnur’s
teeth were clenched, but he knew when he was
overmatched. There was little more he could do than
ask. “Where is he?”
“Where is he? Well now, let me think.” Markus
rubbed his chin. “He might be over… there!” He
pointed sharply toward a far doorway. Servitors
stationed there scattered, dropping a platter of fruit
behind them. Markus turned, inspecting the chamber.
“Or he might be… under there.” A couple of the
members of the Quorum inadvertently peered un-
der the table, hastily sat up straight in their chairs
when they realized how easily the newcomer had
manipulated them.
“But he’s actually probably right… here.” Markus
the Ineluctable removed his black hat, turned it
upside down, and tapped it once, twice, a third time.
Out plopped a dazed and very disoriented Opiode
the Sly. Disdaining Markus’s proffered hand, the
salamander struggled to his feet and backed away,
shaking his head and trying to regain his bearings.
From the Quorum came a rising cry in support of
Markus.
Opiode ignored it, stared narrowly at his opponent.
“I don’t know how you did that, but of one thing I
am certain: it was no clean wizardry.”
“Oh, it was clean enough,” said Markus smugly.
“Just a mite different from what you’re used to,
that’s all. Are you afraid of something different,
something new?” He turned to face the Quorum.
“Are you all afraid of something different, even if it’s
better than what you’ve been used to?”
“No,” said Trendavi quickly. “We are not afraid of
what is different, or of what is new. We of Quasequa
pride ourselves on accepting new things, on promot-
TBS MOMENT OP TSOE MAGICIAN
13
ing innovation.” He gazed sorrowfully in Opiode’s
direction. “It is my recommendation and I hereby
move that the Quorum officially nominate Markus
the Ineluctable to the position of chief advisor to the
Quorum on matters arcane and magical, and I fur-
thermore move that Opiode the Sly, who has served
us so well lo these many years, be retired from the
post with a vote of thanks and an official commenda-
tion to be decided upon later.”
“Seconded!” said a pair of voices simultaneously.
And that was that. It was done, over, and Markus
stood smiling, arms crossed before him as his sup-
porters gathered around to congratulate him on his
victory and those who had opposed him moved to
offer grudging words of acceptance. A few would
have offered their condolences to the defeated Opiode,
but the salamander did not linger. Instead, he left
quickly and with dignity, still a bit shaken from the
manner in which Markus had handled him, but in
no way cowed or t>eaten.
It was dark in the wizard’s study. But then, Opiode
preferred the dim light and the dampness. His rooms
were situated at the edge of the Quorumate Com-
plex and below the water line. Ancient stones held
back the warm water of the Lake of Sorrowful Pearls
while allowing a pleasant dampness to seep through.
Thick moss, red as well as green, grew on the stones
and ceiling. The furniture was fashioned of stone or
boram root, which resists rot.
Glow bulbs dangled overhead, their magic lights
dimmer than usual, the weak illumination a reflec-
tion of the wizard’s uncomfortable state of mind.
Opiode stared steadily at one flickering bulb as he
lay in his thinktank. The stone basin was filled with
freshly drawn lake water rich with lichens, mosses,
tight blue hot pads, and minute aquatic insects.
14 Alan Dean Foster
Altogether, the rooms constituted a benign and
thoroughly salamandrine environment.
But as Opiode lay on his back, his arms crossed
over his chest, his tail gently agitating the water, it
was plain to see he was disturbed. Tending the
crackling fire nearby was a much smaller and younger
salamander, well aware of his master’s unease. Flute
wore the cloak of an apprentice. He was stouter than
Opiode, marked with black spots instead of red, and
his expression was anxious- His feathery pink gills
lay flat against his neck as he waited patiently for
Opiode to arise. A sad day. He knew what had
happened in the Quorum chamber far above. Every-
one in the city would know by tonight.
Finally Opiode rose from the basin, shifting easily
to inhaling air instead of water, and declared
portentously, “This thing must not be allowed to
happen!”
“Your pardon. Master,” said Flute sofdy. “What
must not be allowed to happen?”
“I have lost. There is nothing that can be done
about that. Nor do I deny the strength of this
newcomer’s magic. He is a valid wizard, or magician,
or whatever he chooses to call himself. A manipula-
tor of the unknown. But it is not his abilities I fear; it
is his intentions. Those I comprehend even less than
his magic.”
He walked over to stand before the fire. Flute
moved to the table and checked the settings for
supper, then to the stove on which a big pot of
caddisfly stew sat boiling. He stirred it carefully. One
had to have a delicate touch with the dish or the
nests within would become soft and stringy and
would lose the delicate crunch so beloved of gourmets.
“Nor do I like the attitude of his original support-
ers on the Quorum,” Opiode went on, staring into
the fire. “Kindore and Vazvek. Those two opportun-
THK MOMKVT OF THE MAOICIAM
15
ists would throw in their lot with anyone they thought
might help them turn a profit. And Asmouelle and
some of the others have the spines of worms. With so
much support, there is nothing to stop this Markus.”
“Stop him from doing what. Master?”
“From doing whatever he wishes to do. He is chief
advisor to the Quorum. A prestigious position and
one which would satisfy most. But not him, 1 think. I
saw that much in his eyes. That is not sorcery. That is
thirty years of experience. Flute. No, he wants more.
I fear, much more.”
“Evil designs. Master?”
“Flute, I have lived long enough and dealt with
those in power often enough to recognize the hun-
ger for power when it manifests itself on the face of
another. I saw it in the face of Markus the Inelucta-
ble as I left the Quorum chamber. He conceals it
from the others, but he cannot hide it from me,
“Did you know. Flute, that the great joy of living in
Quasequa is that we have never had a single ruler?
No kings here, no presidents or emperors. Only the
Quorum, which functions in a kind of constrained
anarchy. It suits us, we Quasequans.
“This Markus will think otherwise. He will see
weakness where we see strength. And it does have its
vulnerabilities, our system, particularly when some
are ready to grovel at the feet of the first would-be
dictator who comes along and declares himself.”
“You think he means to announce himself absolute
ruler?”
“I wish I could be certain, but I can’t.” Opiode
absently cleaned his left eye with his tongue. “In any
event, I am no longer in a position to stop him.”
“Is his magic so much stronger than yours, Master?”
“It was today. On another day”—he shrugged slick
shoulders—”who can say? But there is no denying
his power. If 1 only knew the source he draws
Alan Dean Foster
16
upon…” He broke off and moved to the table, the
frustration sharp on his face.
Flute reached for the potholders. “Supper, Master?”
“No, not yet.” Opiode waved him off, his mind
working intensely. “If I could only be certain of his
intentions, of his motivations—but where humans
are concerned, nothing is obvious, nothing is certain.”
“What if he truly is more powerful than you,
Master?” It was not a disrespectful question.
“Then we will need the assistance of one who can
deal not only with strong magic but with strange
magic.”
“There is one more talented than you. Master?”
For the First time that day, Opiode smiled slighdy.
“You have seen but little of the wide world, my
young student. It is unimaginably vast and rich with
wonders and surprises. Yes, there are wizards more
powerful than I. I am thinking of one in particular.
One who is wise beyond all others, knowledgeable
beyond comprehending, stronger even, I think, than
this Markus the Ineluctable… 1 hope. One who is
brave, courageous, and bold, an inspiration to all
other wizards. It is he whose help we must have:
Clothahump of the Tree.”
Flute frowned, turned away so that Opiode could
not see the skepticism on his face. “I have heard of
him. Master. Truly it is said that he is wise and full of
learning, long-lived and powerful. However, I have
yet to hear it said of him that he is brave, courageous,
and bold.”
“Well,” Opiode retreated somewhat, “I confess some
of it may be rumor. But his ability is proven fact. You
know that he was largely responsible for the recent
defeat of the Plated Folk at the batde for the Jo-
Troom Gale.”
“I have heard many versions of that battle. Master,
some of which were less flattering to Clothahump of
THE MoMKprr OF THK MAGICIAN.
17
the Tree than others. It is told that he was there at
the critical moment, yes, but to what degree he was
involved depends on which storyteller you are listen-
ing to.”
“Nevertheless, he is the only one powerful enough
to help us. We must seek his aid. He cannot refuse
us.”
“How will you inform him. Master?” Flute gazed
sadly at the supper that was on the verge of
overcooking. “Shall I prepare the pentagram for a
traveling conjuration?”
“No.” Opiode rose from the table. “This Markus
might be strong enough to detect it. And there is no
guarantee of its working, given the distance the
conjuration would have to travel. Clothahump’s home
lies a long way from Quasequa—and I am getting
old. It has been a long time since I attempted a
traveling conjuration over such a distance.”
Flute was shocked by this admission of weakness
but fought not to show it. Truly the loss of today’s
contest had weakened not only his Master’s stature
but his confidence as well.
Or perhaps Opiode the Sly was merely being prop-
eriy cautious. Flute preferred to think that that was
the case.
“We must have a messenger,” the wizard muttered.
“A reliable messenger. One who is used to traveling
far and fast and who will not be afraid to leave the
familiar country that surrounds the Lake of Sorrow-
ful Pearls.” He thought a moment longer before
nodding to himself and looking up at his apprentice-
“Khi the Isle of Kunatweh, the furthermost of the
four high islands that form the eastern part of the
.city, hi the place where the fliers congregate, lives a
raven named Pandro. Bring him here to “me- Make
certain that none see you. I will explain what he
must do. Although 1 have never had reason to use
18 Alan Dean Foster
one such as him before, by reputation he is brave
and trustworthy. Again 1 tell you to take care in your
going and returning. It is said that this Markus
already has spies roaming the city and reporting
back only to him.
“Although he defeated me today, he strikes me as
no fool. I am sure he still regards me as his most
dangerous rival. In that he is right,” Opiode muttered
grimly. “I sense and see what kind of individual he is
and so am unalterably opposed to having him in a
position of power in the city 1 love so dearly. I believe
he must know my feelings toward him, and in any
case, such as he will leave nothing to chance. So he
will have this place watched. At least you can slip out
without being seen. I do not believe anyone eke
knows of my private entryway.”
“When do I leave. Master?”
“Now.” The wizard hesitated. “Have you eaten?”
“It does not matter. Master. I can eat anytime.**
“No,” Opiode said firmly.” “You may need all your
strength. First we eat.”
They did so, the meal passing largely in contempla-
tive silence. Then Flute secured his waterproof cloak
snugly around him and moved to the arched alcove
on the far side of the room. The arch was an
inverted bell fashioned of tightly chinked tile. A
pressure spell invoked by Opiode kept the lake water
out.
Flute climbed the stone steps until he could look
out onto the black water that lapped against the wall
of the bell. He readied his gills, fluffing them out
with his hands, and dove into the water.
A couple of fast kicks carried him well out into the
open lake. He did not surface but swam hard and
unerringly for the four high islands of the east. Like
the other isles that combined to form the sprawling
city of Quasequa, they were connected to one an-
THE MOMENT or TBB MAOICUJT
19
other by causeways, but this was not the time to walk
openly on city streets.
It was time for stealth and for clinging to the dark
bottom of the lake.
II
Opiode sat in his robes of office, a thin, narrow
upswept cap balanced on the middle of his slick
head, and regarded his visitor. Flute stood quietly by
the front door.
The raven wore the kilt of his clan, colorful material
striped with green, purple, and red. His vest was light-
ly spun lavender. A single gold chain hung round
his neck to rest against his chest feathers. He rubbed
the underside of his beak with a flexible wingtip.
“Let me get this straight, now, sorcerer.” He was
studying the papers Opiode had handed him. “You
want me to fly north along this route, turning slighdy
west here, to deliver this message.” He shuffled the
papers, held up one filled with writing instead of
diagrams. “It goes to an old turtle named Clothahump
who lives in”—he checked the map briefly—”this ma-
jor tree here. For one hundred coins.” Opiode nodded.
“That’s a helluva long flight,” Pandro said.
“I had heard that you were not afraid of long flights.”
“I ain’t. 1 ain’t afraid of anything, least of all a little
long-distance traveling. But considering how quiet
you’re being about this, and the amount you’re paying
me, well, no disrespect. Master Opiode, but—what’s
the catch?”
20
TBK MQMKNT OF THE KAOICIAN 21
Opiode glanced at Flute, then sighed and smiled,
down at Pandro. “It would not be right for me to
keep it from you. You must know what you are
about, as well as its importance.
“You must have heard that another has assumed
my position as chief advisor to the Quorum.”
“Sure. It’s all over town. This Markus fella… what’s
it to me?”
“Good Pandro, I have reason to believe that this
newcomer intends ill toward our great city. But 1
cannot convince the members of the Quorum of
that. They would think I was making accusations out
of bitterness at my loss- And I cannot move against
this Markus by myself. I need help. This Clothahump
that you will seek out is the only one who can help us.
“The ‘catch’ is that this Markus the Ineluctable is
crafty as well as skilled in the arcane arts. You are
sure none saw you arrive here?”
“As sure as we can be, Master,” said Flute. “I took
every precaution.”
“Then, good Pandro, there may be no catch. But
be ever alert as you wing northward, for this Markus
is not stupid. If he believes you are aiding me, it
could be dangerous for you. If he did see you arrive
here, or sees you depart, he may try to stop you
from completing your journey.”
“Is that all?” The raven rested his wingtips on his
hips for a moment, then rolled up the message and
the map and slipped them into his backpack. “Then
Acre’s nothing to concern yourself with. Master
Optode. There isn’t another flier in Quasequa who
Can stay in the air for as long as I can on as little food
as I can. Anybody he sends after me, if he sends
anyone. I can outfly.” He flicked his beak with a
;Kringtip.
^ “See here? Been broken twice in fights. I can take
,^care of myself and I’m not worried about anything
Alan Dean Foster
22
this Markus fella might send up after me. If it flies, I
can outrun or outfight it.”
“It is good to be confident. Overconfidence is
dangerous.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll use my good judgment, sir. I’ve a
mate and three fledglings to take care of, and you
can bet I’m coming back to them. That’s stronger
motivation than your hundred coins. Relax. I’ll get
your message through.”
“Can you fly at night?” Opiode asked him.
“Night, day, the air’s all the same to me whether
it’s light or dark out. But if you’d feel better about it,
I’ll leave tonight.”
Opiode smiled. “Feel better, I would. The night
must be a friend to us all, now.” Flute nodded
solemnly.
“As you wish, sir.”
“Caution above all,” Opiode counseled him. “This
Markus has spies everywhere. Even among the fliers.”
“I’ll keep it in mind, sir. Once I’m clear of the lake
district I should have free flying all the way north.
Besides, I know all the’good fliers and fighters in the
high islands. I don’t think any are in this fella’s
pay.”
“I was not worried about your cousins,” Opiode
said darkly, “so much as I was concerned about what
this Markus might call forth from another, more
sinister sky to challenge you.”
“Can’t spend all our time worrying about the
unforeseeable, can we, sir? At least I can’t. I sup-
pose that’s your job.” He tapped his head. “Anyway,
anything I can’t outfly or outfight I can sure as hell
outsmart.”
“Then be off with you, owner of an unseen cloud,
and hasten back to us safely.”
Pandro started for the doorway. “You can bet on
that, sir.”
THE MOMENT OF THE MAGICIAN
23
“A raven, you say?” Markus the Ineluctable was
listening with only half his mind to what the mouse
was telling him. He was too busy enjoying the splen-
dor of his new tower quarters, the finest that the
Quorumate Complex could offer.
“Yes, wise one,” said the mouse. It had a tendency
to stutter, a condition made worse by its proximity to
the powerful and much-feared new chief advisor to
the Quorum. “It flew s-s-straight away from the
H-Ianding where Mossamay Street and the wizard’s
c-c-close join.”
“Which direction did it take?”
“It f-f-flew north, wise one. Few city fliers live to
the n-n-north.”
Markus turned from contemplation of an exqui-
site wood carving to stare at his bodyguard. The
mouse barely came up to his hip. “Prugg, what’s
your opinion of this?”
Prugg was very big, very strong, and not very
bright. Despite his size and strength, people had a
tendency to laugh at him. At least, they used to.
Since he’d become Markus the Ineluctable’s personal
servant they’d stopped laughing. Prugg was just intelli-
gent enough to realize this. He was very grateful to
‘ the magician. Markus made him feel comfortable,
feven though he understood very little of what his
new master had to say.
But he didn’t have to think anymore. Markus did
all his thinking for him, Prugg found thinking
uncomfortable. And nobody laughed at him anymore.
• He was respected and feared. It was a new sensation
<and Prugg found that he liked it. Markus under-
‘•Steod him, understood his needs. Prugg responded
^with devoted, unquestioning service.
^’ So he considered the question carefully before
)lying. “It is true that the lands to the north of the
24 Alan Dean Foster
city are not as thickly inhabited as those in other
directions. Master.”
“What’s the land to the north of here like?”
“Open forest where live peoples who do not pledge
their allegiance to the city or to any other government,
Master. North of that is the Wrounipai, the first of
many swamps all connected together that run from
west to east. They cut us off from any lands that lie
still farther north.”
“And what about those lands?”
“I do not know. Master. I have never been there. I
do not know anyone from the city who has ever been
there.”
“And that’s the way this bird was heading when he
left Opiode’s place.” Markus turned his full attention
on his spy. “You’re certain of that?”
“Y-y-y-y-for sure, wise one! I am certain of it. He
f-f-f-flew straight away from the wizard’s neighborhood.
I followed him with my eyes from the rooftops
nearby.”
“Okay, but how can we be sure he was on a mission
for Opiode?”
The visitor moved nearer, anxious to ingratiate
himself with the magician- His whiskers trembled as
he whispered.
“The wizard Opiode has a young assistant named
Flute. I s-s-saw him conversing with the raven before
he took off for the north.” Markus was nodding
absently, admiring the polished hardwood inlay of
the table behind him- A single chair rested against
the table.
It needs something, he thought. A gargoyle or
demon or some such carved atop the chair. Some-
thing to draw the visitors’ eyes upward. For that
matter, if the table was going to serve as a desk, it
had to be up on a dais. He’d have to get some
TBE MOMENT OF THE MAGICIAN 25
carpenters in here and get them started on the
alterations he wanted.
He was aware of his spy standing hopeful and
silent by his legs. “That’s it?”
“That is all, w-w-wise one ”
Markus nodded, glanced toward Prugg. “Give him
a gold piece.”
“Thank you, wise one!” The spy was unaccus-
tomed to such largess, but Markus had always be-
lieved in paying his help as much as possible. Other-
wise you ended up with garbage working for you,
ready to sell you out to the first high bidder. Even if
he was overpaying for this particular bit of information,
in so doing he was buying himself a valuable servant
forever.
The mouse took the coin; skittered quickly away
from the ominous, silent shape of Prugg; and did
some admirable bowing and scraping as he retreated
from the magician’s room.
When the door was closed once more, Prugg turned
to his benefactor. “What will you do now, Master?”
“What would you suggest?”
Prugg strained. Thinking hurt his head. “There
are faster fliers than ravens, Master. I would send
them after this one. Better not to take chances. Kill
it.”
“He has nearly a full day’s head start,” Markus
murmured, “but I agree with your suggestion.” Prugg
smiled proudly. “I will send fliers out after him, yes,
faut 1 will not hire them. I will conjure them forth to
do our bidding.”
“”Yes. Master,” said Prugg admiringly, waiting to
see what the magician would do next.
What Markus did was to assume a wide stance in
the middle of the room. The floor there had been
deared of all furniture and decoration. Prugg moved
to one side for a better view. He found it astonishing
Alan Dean Foster
26
that Markus required no special chamber in which to
perform his wizardry. Nothing but a clear floor and
plenty of arm room.
As always, Markus mumbled the incantation. Not
that Prugg would have understood the words any
better than Opiode, but Markus the Ineluctable took
no chances with his secrets.
The room darkened perceptibly and the air grew
very still. Prugg would have been able to see better
with glow bulbs, but Markus would have nothing of
Opiode’s around him and insisted instead on using
simple torches for illumination.
Then a faint whine became audible, alien and
harsh, rising slowly in volume. Prugg strained to see.
In the center of the room, in front of Markus,
shapes took form. If was as the magician had said:
fliers, but fliers akin to none Prugg had ever heard
tell of. He found himself backing away. They were
far smaller than he was, but ugly and threatening to
behold.
Markus, on the other hand, seemed delighted by
their appearance. They danced and whirled over his
head as he guided them with words and hands.
“Beautiful, beautiful! Better than I dared hope
for. If only I could’ve called them up as a child. Ah,
well, Prugg, it takes time to master the art. See,
they’re just as I described theml”
The demons continued to pivot and spin over
their master’s head, roaring exultantly and gnashing
their long teeth. In the enclosed space the din was
deafening.
They had no faces, Prugg noted.
No eyes, nostrils, external ears, or visible mouths.
Only those mindless, clashing teeth. Fangs without
jaws. Prugg found he was shaking. There were worse
things in the world than one’s own nightmares^
“To the north!” Markus cried, pointing with one
Tsss Moanswr or THE WAQSCSAS 2,7
If v!
ft^
^
m
hand. “There flies the raven named Pandro. Where
he’s going 1 don’t know, but see that he doesn’t get
there. Go!”
One by one, in single file, the faceless demons tore
through the open window. Only when the last of the
growling chorus had faded into the light of mideve
did Markus drop his hands and return to stand
behind his desk.
“About this chair, Prugg. What I want you to do
is—” He stopped and stared at his bodyguard. “Are
you paying attention?”
The huge servant forced his gaze away from the
window where the demons had taken their leave and
back to his master. Markus was speaking as though
die conjuration had never taken place. It was all so
matter-of-fact, so ordinary to him, this calling up of
otherworldly powers.
Truly Prugg was fortunate to have him for a master.
It was a lovely warm day, the air thick with humidi-
ty but not oppressively so. Below Pandro the trees
had closed in, shutting off sight of the ground. He
was already well north not only of Quasequa but of
its outlying villages and satellite communities as well.
Rising thermals allowed him to glide effortlessly
over the dense tropical forest. Since departing
Quasequa he’d stopped only once, and that briefly,
the previous night to catch a bit of sleep. Then up
before dawn for a fast breakfast of fruit, nuts, and
dried fish and on to the north.
In his mind he reviewed the landmarks he would
pass on his way to the distant Bellwoods, a forested
region that was little more than rumor in Quasequa.
Opiode assured him such a place existed, just as he
assured him the great wizard he was to deliver his
message to existed.
If he was real, Pandro would find him. He’d never
28 Alan Dean Foster
failed to make a detivery yet, and this morning he
was feeling particularly confident. He felt so good he
skipped his usual midday snack, preferring to cover
as much territory as possible. Thus far the journey
had proved anything but dangerous. He’d assured
his mate before leaving that it would be more in the
nature of an extended vacation than a difficult
assignment. So far it had developed exacdy as he’d
told her.
Then he heard the noise.
It was behind and slightly above him and growing
steadily louder as he listened. At first he couldn’t
place it. More than anything, it sounded like the
droning he imagined the fliers of the Plated Folk
might make. But those historic enemies were likewise
little more than rumor in Quasequa. Pandro had
only seen drawings of them, the fevered sketches of
far-ranging artists with more imagination than fact
at their disposal.
Hard-shelled, gray-eyed relatives of the common
bugs and crawly things that inhabited the woods and
lakes, they were. None had penetrated as far south
as Quasequa. He certainly never expected to see
them in person. Yet when at last he was able to look
back and make out the shapes pursuing him, he was
startled, for they certainly looked like the representa-
tions he’d seen of the Plated Folk.
The reality as they drew nearer still was worse.
They were not minions of the Plated Folk but some-
thing far more sinister. Similarities in shape and
appearance there were, but even the Plated Folk had
faces. The demons overtaking him had none. They
were hard-shelled but utterly different from any-
thing he’d ever seen before- Nor were they fliers like
his cousins, for where there should have been beaks
he saw only hungry, razor-sharp, strangely curved
fangs.
THE MOMENT OF THB MAOICIAW
29
No matter how he strained he couldn’t outdistance
them, and they closed the space between with terrify-
ing ease. Hoping to lose them in the trees, he dove
for the crowns of the forest. They followed easily,
closing ground still more when he reemerged from
the branches. He dipped and rolled and dodged,
employing every maneuver he could remember, some-
times vanishing among the foliage, sometimes dou-
bling sharply back on his route before rising again to
check the sky. And the demons stayed with him,
inexorable in their pursuit, malign in their purpose.
For Pandro they meant only death.
One veered just a little too near the mass of a giant
tocoro tree and smashed into the bark. Glancing
backward, Pandro was relieved to see it fall, spinning
and tumbling and broken, to smash into the ground
below. There was still hope, then. Demonic visitors
his tormentors might be, but they were neither invul-
nerable nor immortal. They could be killed.
Six of them had fallen on him. Now there were
five left. But he couldn’t continue the battle at this
speed. All the diving and dodging among the trees
was wasting his strength at a much faster rate than
mere flying. Yet having tried to outrun them and
failed, he didn’t have much choice. He had to keep
to the woods-
One of his pursuers swooped around the bole of a
forest giant, only to find itself caught in the grasp of
a huge, carnivorous flying lizard. Blood spurted as
the two combatants tumbled groundward, unable to
disengage. The lizard was stunned by the ferocity of
the much smaller creature it had caught, while for its
part the demon was unable to break free from sharp
talons. They struck the earth together.
Four left, Pandro thought wildly. His heart was
pounding against his chest feathers and his wing
muscles ached. One of the demons was right on top
Aim Dean Foster
30
of him, and he had to fold his wings and drop like a
stone, plummeting desperately toward the ground
only to roll out at the last second. Even so, curved
fangs slashed at his left wing in passing, sending
black feathers flying.
He checked the injury as he climbed cloudward.
The wound was superficial, but it had been a near
thing. Too near. And his assailants seemed as fresh
and untired as when they’d First attacked. He had to
do something drastic, and soon. He couldn’t keep
dodging them forever.
Once more he drew his wings in close to his body
and fell earthward. As though of the same mind, the
four demons followed in unison, screaming at him.
Again he rolled up and over before crashing, but
this time he landed behind a chosen tree. His pursu-
ers split and came at him from two sides. The first
one went over his head, the second missed him on
the right. The third went straight for his throat and
crumpled itself against the tree, teeth flying in all
directions as the head shattered. The fourth turned
away to reconsider –
Pandro pushed air as he flew back toward Quasequa,
hoping they wouldn’t see him and intending to make
a wide curve back northward once he’d lost them.
Looking back over his shoulder he spotted two of
them skimming low over the treetops, hunting him
in the opposite direction.
But where was the third surviving demon?
He turned just in time to duck, but the teeth bit
deeply into his neck and back, barely missing his
face. Blood flew with his feathers. The clouds began
to swim in front of his eyes, blotting out all the blue
sky. He felt himself falling toward a green grave.
Good-bye, Asenva of the saucy tail, he thought.
Good-bye fledglings. Good-bye worried wizard, may
THE MOMENT OF TBE MAGICIAN 31
your skin never be dry. I tried my best. But you
didn’t tell me I would have to fight demons.
The first tree reached up to catch him. He hit
hard.
Prugg enjoyed the expressions that came over the
faces of Kindore and Vazvek when the demons
returned. The two members of the Quorum made
protective signs in front of their faces and all but hid
beneath the master’s cape. Markus let them quake in
terror for a few minutes before assuring them they
were in no danger and that the faceless fliers were
his servants. Even so, Vazvek did not emerge from
behind the magician until the demons had settled
one at a time into waiting wall alcoves.
As soon as he was sure they had fallen asleep,
Prugg approached them. He did not want to show
fear in front of the Quorumen, but he feared the
master’s magic nonetheless.
“Go on, Prugg,” said Markus helpfully. “They won’t
hurt you. They won’t move unless I command them.”
Prugg studied the trio. True to the master’s word,
they ignored him. They were not very big, especially
for demons, but those curved fangs were very
impressive. Prugg ran a finger over one and still its
owner did not stir.
“Only three of them,” Markus murmured- “I won-
der what happened to the other three.” He shrugged.
“Doesn’t matter. I can always call up more.” He
tteraed to face his supporters.
“What do you think, Kindore? Should I bring
dievq back to life and have them dance in the air for
you?”
“No, oo, no, advisor,” said a badly shaken Kindore.
He pulled at his thin coat, working to refasten the
buttons which had come loose as he’d scrambled to
32 Alan Dean Foster
avoid the demons. “I have never seen demons like
that”
“How many demons have you seen?” Markus
grinned at the squirrel. “They’re harmless now. We
can resume our discussion.”
This was done. When Markus’s questions had all
been answered, he gave the pair his orders. Not
advice, orders. Markus the Ineluctable had already
moved beyond making suggestions, and Kindore and
Vazvek hastened to carry out his bidding. Things
were moving rapidly now, and the master was pleased.
He dismissed them, watched with amusement as
they retreated quickly, and then walked over to in-
spect his now-silent aerial servants.
“Only three.” He rubbed a forefinger across his
lower lip, then gestured at the last demon in line.
“See, there’s blood on this one’s teeth.”
“I saw. Master.”
“But whose blood? Could it be demon blood?”
Prugg strained but could not come up with a quick
reply.
Markus looked pained. “You’re slow, Prugg, you
know that? Real slow.”
“Forgive me, Master. 1 know that I am stupid. But
I try.”
“That’s okay- I don’t keep you around for your wit.
You may as well know that it can’t be demon blood
because there is no blood in any of these creatures,
Just as there is no life in them. They only live at my
command. They’re not sleeping, Prugg. They’re dead.
Until I choose to give them life again. Therefore it
stands to reason, doesn’t it, that this is the blood of
the black messenger?”
“Yes, that must be so,” agreed Prugg. “Yes, the
black flier must be down, along with whatever mes-
sages he carried from that slimy bad loser, Opiode.”
THE MOMENT or THE MAOICIAN 33
prugg looked pleased. “Can I tell the old wizard his
^’Servant has been killed?”
^ “No, Prugg, you cannot. Nor will I tell him. Let
faun squat in his bath believing his messages are
going to be received. Let him think his trusted
messenger ran out on him. Let him stew those possi-
bilities over for a while. It will keep him out of our
hair for now.” He smited thinly. “I have a lot to do
^and I don’t want to have to waste time worrying
^about the salamander.”
•^•~r
f-
^ “What’s wrong with him?”
Pandro heard the words faintly through the black
^haze that was the inside of his head. There was a
Hflaoment during which he thought the words might’ve
^fceen part of a dream, a bad dream he’d been having.
1’Then more words, different, a little more intelligible
^Cthis time.
“How the hell should I know? Do I look like a
^ohysician?”
H • “You always did look like something escaped from
||a hospital,” countered the first voice. “One where
j|they treat mental problems.”
j- “Shut up, you two. I think he’s coming around,”
^commanded still a third voice.
^ The voices went away again- It occurred to Pandro
$fhat perhaps they might be waiting for some kind of
^response from him-
^- “I… can hear you okay, but I can’t see you. I’m
||»lmd”
^l’ “He’s blind,” said one voice, not in the least
f Sympathetic.
^ “Have you tried,” said the third voice, a little more
rntly, “opening your eyes?”
Pandro mulled this over. “Why, no. I haven’t.”
|»”Try,” the voice urged him.
H Pandro blinked, discovered he was lying on a crude
34 Alan Dean Foster
platform built between two branches high above the
forest floor. The foliage around him was swarming
with the graceful, swift shapes of fellow fliers. They
had one thing in common: every one of them was
considerably smaller than he was. None stood more
than a foot high.
Two of the three who were staring down at him
wore blue-and-black kilts with bright chartreuse vests,
while the third was clad in a kilt of white and yellow
with a pink vest. This attire was subdued compared
to their natural coloration, which was brilliant and
metallic.
At first he had a hard time telling them apart.
They hardly ever stopped moving, darting in front
of him, behind, making erratic loops around the
branches, arguing constantly with each other, and
occasionally flitting overhead to sip from one of the
huge tropical blossoms that burst forth from the
tree.
Shoving backward with his wingtips, Pandro sat
up, winced in pain- His wing came away from the
back of his neck unbloodied, however. If he hadn*t
turned at the last instant, the demon would have bit
him in the face. The image that produced in his
mind made him queasy all over again.
“Where are you from?… What are you doing
here?… Who are you?… Why the neck chain… ?”
The trio threw one question after another at him
and didn’t wait for replies- One of them was tapping
him on the shoulder as it spoke.
“Take it easy,” Pandro pleaded. A quick inspection
revealed that the surrounding trees were filled with
tiny homes and traditional covered nests. “My turn
first- Where did you find me?”
One of the querulous hummingbirds drifted in
front of Pandro, fanning his face with wings that
were sensed rather than seen- It nodded to its right.
THE MOMENT or TAB MAOJCUW 35
*You came down over there.” Crimson flashed
^beneath its bill. “Busting branches all the way down.
^.Wonder is that you didn’t bust your skull.”
“Some others tried to,”
“Oh ho!” said another, whose throat was blue as
an alpine tarn. “A fight! If it’s a fight they’re looking
-for…” He curled the tips of both wings into fists and
glared belligerently at the sky, looking for someone
^Co sock.
” “Watch your blood pressure. Spin,” said the third
? bird. He was slightly less hyperkinetic than his
; companions.
“Watch your rear.” The bird dove on him, and the
‘ithree of them went round and round in the air,
iJabbing with feet, wings, and beaks. When they fmal-
^ly separated, Pandro saw that no harm had been
H-done. None of them was even breathing hard. Two
^ buzzed upward for a sugary drink while the third
;’ regarded the injured visitor sorrowfully.
.^ “That’s the trouble these days. Nobody knows how
^.to have a good fight anymore.”
(“I know civilization’s in a bad way.” Pandro agreed
dryly, “but it’s going to be worse if I don’t carry out
U wy mission.”
^ “Hot damn, a mission!” He danced all around
JrfPandro as the raven stood and tested his wings.
^ Emeralds flashed on his tiny chest.
,, Except for a few missing feathers and the naked
^-•Icar that ran from the back of his neck downward,
^randro seemed to be intact.
; “Yes, a mission for the wizard Opiode, former
}-®hief advisor to the Quorum of Quasequa.”
tit “Never go into Quasequa,” declared the humming”
>ird, shaking its head and forcing Pandro to duck
°ack to avoid the swinging bill. “Nothing going on
lere. Talk about dull.”
, “Cousin, to your kind, everything is dull. Are the
36 Alan Dean Foster
rest of us responsible if you happen to live at a speed
twenty times faster than anyone else’s?”
“No, you’re not,” said the one called Spin. “You
can’t help it if you’re slow and boring. The whole
rest of the world is slow and boring.”
“It’s liable to get exciting real soon,” said Pandro
grimly. “Some weird human’s taken over as chief
advisor in Quasequa. This Opiode’s worried about
what he might do. The newcomer’s a powerful
magician, and Opiode doesn’t seem to think much of
his plans.” He had a sudden horrible thought, and a
wingtip went to his chest. When he clutched the vial
containing the messages, he relaxed. The demons
had ripped off his backpack, but they’d missed the
chain and vial hanging around his neck. A good
thing he’d taken care to put the messages there for
safekeeping.
He eyed the sky. “1 guess they think they got me.”
“Who thinks they got you?” asked Oun, the second
hummingbird.
“The demons. They must’ve been sent after me by
Markus the Ineluctable, that new advisor I just told
you about. Opiode warned me to watch out, but
there wasn’t anything I could do. They were just too
fast for me”
“Demons, wow!” said Spin. “About time we had a
decent scrap.” He turned to his two companions. “I’ll
go find Wix and the rest of the gang and we’ll—!”
“Hold on a minute,” said Pandro. The humming-
bird pivoted in midair. “You don’t want to go looking
for these things.”
“We’re not afraid of anything that flies”
“I’m sure you’re not, but these were different.” He
shuddered, remembering that cold, barren contact
on the back of his neck. He made a chopping motion
with one wing. “And they’ve got teeth, not just bills.
They’ll take you apart.”
THS MOMENT OF THE MAGICIAN 37
“Condor crap!” snapped the second hummingbird,
^darting through the air and striking out with lefts
1 and rights at imaginary opponents. “We’ll pull their
wings off! We’ll—!”
“Do nothing of the kind,” said the spokesman for
the trio, “because there aren’t any demons around.”
Oun’s crimson chest feathers flashed. “There aren’t?”
^ “Seen any demons lurking about? Either of you?”
is; “Well, no.” Both looked abashed and finally land-
Is ed on the platform. “Not actually.” Spin lifted slightly.
|l “But if Pandro here could lead us to them…”
t The raven shook his head violently. “Thanks, but
; I’ve got a job to do. Anyway, if they were still looking
‘,,-for me, I’m sure you would’ve seen them by now.
They brought me down, but they didn’t kill me.” He
flexed long black wings and rose from the platform.
No damage to the vital shoulder muscles. Consider-
ing that he’d recently missed death by inches, he felt
pretty good.
“Listen, thanks for your help, but I’d better be on
my way. I’m beginning to share some of that
Salamander’s concern about what’s happening in the
world.”
“Phooey,” muttered Spin, “who cares what some
^-old wizard thinks?”
“Some might,” said the third flier thoughtfully. He
Stared at Pandro. “Fly high, cousin, and don’t look
back.”
“Don’t worry.” Pandro rose skyward. “And while
I’m gone, consider this: Opiode the Sly believes that
^ihis new wizard may have evil designs that extend
^|even beyond Quasequa. Perhaps even to your forest.”
•/IY “Then he better not come here,” hummed Spin,
‘” l?dardng and jabbing at the air, his wings a blur.
I’yFlying demons or no flying demons, we’ll send him
^running without his tailfeathers.”
38 Alan Dean Foster
Pandro’s voice was faint now with distance. “He
doesn’t have any feathers. I told you, he’s a human.”
Spin settled back onto his branch. “A human. Now
what would a human want with us?” He shrugged,
turned to his companion Oun, “What say we go
round up Wix and the rest and have ourselves a
good punch-up anyway?”
“Yeah, sure!” They zoomed toward the next
emergent.
The third member of the trio held back and
struggled to grasp the import of the raven’s words.
Then he shrugged and flew off to join his friends,
That’s the trouble with being a hummingbird.
One’s attention span is so damned short.
Ill
“But I know that she loves me!”Jon-Tom spoke as he
paced back and forth in the turtle’s bedroom. There
was plenty of headroom even for his lanky six feet
two inches because Clothahump had thoughtfully
expanded the internal dimension spell another foot.
For that matter, the entire tree was filled with
rooms that shouldn’t have been, thanks to Clotha-
hump’s wizardry. The turtle wasn’t engaging in any
wizardry now, though- He was lying on his plastron
among the mass of strong cushions which served
him as a bed, his arms crossed under his horny chin.
Only his eyes moved as he followed the nervous
progress of the upset young spellsmger.
“You know, I was once in love myself, lad.”
That revelation was sufficient to halt Jon-Tom in
his tracks- “What… you?”
Raising his head, the turtle peered indignantly at
|jt the tall and tactless young human through hexagonal-
pi tensed glasses-
‘My “And why not me?” He looked suddenly wistful.
ij^lt was about a hundred and sixty years ago. She was
.ytquite attractive- The colors and patterns in her shell
^ reminded one of flatly faceted jewels, and her plas-
^ tron was smooth as polished granite.”
m 39
Alan Dean Foster
40
“What happened?”
Ctothahump sighed. “She threw me over for a
slick-talking matamata. I believe her tastes were rath-
er kinkier than mine.” His attention snapped back to
the present.
“So I am speaking from some experience, my boy,
when I tell you that this Talea does not love you.
Besides which, you are a spellsinger with a promis-
ing future and can do better- She is nothing but a
petty thief.”
Jon-Tom didn’t turn away from the wizard’s gaze.
“It’s not her profession I’m interested in. She saved
my life and I saved hers and we love each other and
that’s that”
“It is not ‘that’ or anything else,” argued the imper-
turbable turtle. “I do not for an instant deny that she
is brave and courageous. I wish I could also add that
she is thoughtful. Brave and courageous do not
automatically translate into love, however. As for
thoughtful, if she were that and she did indeed love
you, she would be here now.”
Jon-Tom looked uneasy. “Well, you remember how
she is. Flighty, high-strung, nervous, especially around
you.”
“Me? Now, boy, why should she be in the slightest
nervous around me?”
“You are the greatest, most powerful sorcerer in
the world. You make a lot of people nervous.”
“Do I? Dear me,” said the turtle, “I thought I only
made a lot of people irritable. Take my advice, my
boy, and put her out of your mind. She will interfere
with your studies, which you neglect as it is.” He
brushed dust from one ot the bed pillows and frowned.
“Have to get Sorbl to clean this place up, if I can
corner the little sot long enough to put a dirt hex on
him.”
“Damn it, 1 know that she loves me!” Jon-Tom
THE SSOUKMT OF TOT MAGICIAN
41
spoke with unaccustomed intensity. “I know she does.
1 can feel it. She’s just… she’s just not quite ready to
make it permanent, that’s all. She needs more
reassurance, more encouragement.” He stared at the
wood chips carpeting the floor. “Of course, that
would be easier to do if I had some idea where she
is.”
“You’ll never get a wild type like that to settle
down.” Clothahump removed his glasses and squinted
through one eye as he gave them a perfunctory
cleaning, then set them back on his beak. “Why not
just marry her and then go your separate ways?
There’s so much world left for you to see.”
“I warn to see it all with her.” An uncomfortable
pause followed. Then Jon-Tom moved to the bed
and knelt before it. “Look, you’re the greatest wizard
alive. Can’t you help me?”
Clothahump shook his head, wrestled himself into
a sitting position, and crossed his arms over the
compartments in his plastron.
“I must say it is hard to refuse the requests of one
of such perspicacity. I only wish you could find a
more stable possibility for a mate.”
“Talea’s the one I love.”
“What about that Quintera female you brought
over into this world?”
Jon-Tom swallowed, turned, and walked away from
the bed. “Why bring that up? You know it’s a sore
point with me.”
“Why? Because in the end she preferred that
sophisticated hare Caz to you?” Ctothahump shook a
warning finger at him. “That’s what comes of
projecting your own desires onto someone else. She
may have been your physical ideal, but mentally and
emotionally she was neither… and neither is this
Talea.”
“No!” Jon-Tom whirled on the bed. “Talea’s the
Alan Dean Poster
42
right one. I’m sure of that, even if our relationship is
developing a little, uh, slowly. Come on, Clothahump,
I know you can help if you want to.”
“With what? You want me to mix you up a love
potion to slip into her drink?” He shook his head. “I
don’t deal in those kinds of petty emotionally manip-
ulative devices and you know it. If that’s what you
want, go to the chemist in Lynchbany. I’ll give you a
prescription, but I won’t mix you anything myself.
You’ll be wasting your money, though. Ninety per-
cent of that stuffs no better than what you can buy
over-the-counter.”
“I don’t want your potions or prescriptions, Ctotha-
hump. I want your wise, sage advice.”
“Really? All right. Get a haircut.”
Jen-Tom moaned. His hair was only shoulder-
length, “Not here too. Or do you have a prejudice
against fur because you’ve none of your own?”
The turtle looked down at himself. “My, my, so
you’ve noticed that, have you? I can’t imagine how
one so observant hasn’t been able to win the undying
affection of the woman he thinks loves him.”
“It’s not a question of ‘winning,'” Jen-Tom muttered-
“This isn’t a war.”
“Isn’t it now? Dear me! Perhaps after your first
two hundred years you’ll learn to adjust that view.”
“And don’t lay any of that ‘venerable ancient’ shit
on me, either! I want your advice, not your sarcasm.”
Clothahump peered over his glasses. “If you want
to learn what love is all about, my boy, you’d better
learn to handle sarcasm.”
Jon-Tom shifted to another tack. “I’ve been work-
ing on a song for her,”
“If you think you can spellsing her into love with
you, my boy, then you—”
“No, no, just a friendly little song to show her how
THE MOSfCPiT OF TBS MAGICIAN
43
I feel about her. I’ve always been better at conveying
my emotions through music. Want to hear it?”
Clothahump muttered under his breath, “Do I
have a choice?”
Jon-Tom walked over to the comer where he’d set
down his duar and picked up the peculiar, double-
stringed instrument. He caressed it lovingly. It had
brought him through some tough spots, that duar.
It, and his ability to make magic with it, however
erratic and unpredictable.
“Just something to put her in the right mood,” he
assured Clothahump. “I’ve been trying to remember
what she likes so I can sing about it the next time we
meet.”
“Sing about a rich drunk lying alone in an alley,”
Clothahump suggested.
Jon-Tom ignored the gibe. “I remember her tell-
ing me one time how much she liked roses. She said
they were pretty. She’d never use the word ‘romantic.’
Talea’s not the romantic type- But she said she liked
their smell and the way they went with her hair. So
I’ve been trying to think of a song about roses. It
wasn’t easy. It’s not the sort of thing my favorite
musicians like to write songs about, and I have to be
careful or I’ll wind up with that amazonic tigress I
told you about.
“Anyhow, I finally settled on this. I’d like your
opinion of it.”
“Hold on a moment, boy. I want none of your
hit-and-miss spellsinging in my home. If you feel the
need to practice, do it outside.”
“Oh, it’s all right.” Jon-Tom found himself a seat
1 on a strong shelf. “It’s just a Hide tune. I’m not going
to do any spellsinging.”
Clothahump eyed him warily. “Well, if you’re sure..”
Jen-Tom smiled confidently at him. “Sure I’m
sure. What could be dangerous about a song about
44 Alan Dean Foster
something as innocent as roses?” He let his fingers
fall lightly across the first set of strings, then the
second, adjusted the control for tremble ever so
slightly.
The chords floated through the room, soothing
and mellow, not nearly as sharp or discordant as
Jon-Tbm’s heavy metal favorites. Clothahump relented.
“All right, boy.” He moved as far back on the bed
as he was able. “If you’re certain you know what
you’re doing and have everything under control.”
Jon-Tom smiled reassuringly and began to sing.
The music was lovely, but that didn’t relax Clothahump.
He was watching and listening to more than the
melody.
Sure enough, there it was: an intense red glow
near the foot of the bed.
“Boy, see there, I told you…!”
But Jon-Tom wasn’t listening to his mentor. He
was transported to the kingdom of love by images of
how Talea would react to this song, composed specially
for her by the man who adored her.
The intense, blood-red ball of light hung in the
air, throwing off red sparks as Jon-Tom’s voice rose
passionately. Clothahump waved anxiously at it and
was pleased to see it fall to the floor and disappear.
He let out a relieved sigh and narrowed his gaze as
he waited for Jon-Tom to finish his song. So he did
not see the branches that sprang forth from beneath
the carpet of wood chips. They grew with astonishing
speed.
Jon-Tom concluded his chorus and looked proud.
“There, you see? Nothing to worry about. I’ve
been working hard on my control, and I think I’ve
gotten it to the point where I only conjure up what I
want to.” His expression changed to one of curiosity.
“That’s funny. I don’t remember your planting any-
thing at the foot of your bed.”
TUB MOMENT or THE MAOICIAM
45
Fearing the worst, Clothahump tumbled forward
to peer over the edge of the bed. Growing out of the
floor was a small, nicely pruned collection of thin
branches. As they both watched, some two dozen
American beauty blossoms erupted from the naked
twigs.
“Hey, how about that?” said Jon-Tom, delighted.
“Now I ask you, what girl could resist that?”
“Well,” Clothahump said reluctantly, “1 have to
admit that’s quite a charming little bouquet you’ve
called up.”
Jon-Tom netted the duar. “I didn’t even get to the
second chorus. What color would you like this time?
How about a nice canary yellow?” He sang again,
and this time the second bush appeared sooner than
its predecessor. It was also twice as tall and, sure
enough, heavy with fragrant yellow blooms.
“Nothing to it. I told you I’ve been practicing my
control.”
Clothahump stared at the bush. “Good. Then you
can stop it now.”
Jon-Tom’s jaw hung a little slack. “Uh, stop what?”
“Stop it from growing.”
“But I have stopped. I’m not singing anymore.”
Clothahump pointed. “Tell it to that rosebush.”
Indeed, it didn’t take especially sharp vision to see
that the bush was continuing to expand. It was
almost up to the roof. When it hit the ceiling, the
branches began to spread out sideways, throwing out
shoots and blossoms in every direction.
“No sweat. I’ll just sing the final chorus. That
ought to finish it.” He proceeded to do so, the words
falling gentle and sweet on the now heavily aromatic
air of the bedroom.
It had absolutely no effect on the fecund rose-
bush, which continued to spread out across the walls.
Having covered ceiling and sides, branches began to
40 Alan Dean Foster
fill the room, crisscrossing and occasionally running
into one another. Some of the stems were now as
thick as birch trunks. The room was shaking.
“That’s enough, boy!” Clothahump was hemmed
in against the headboard of his bed. Jon-Tom was
trying to edge his way toward the near doorway, had
to duck as two sapling-thick branches boasting three-
inch-long thorns tried to block his exit.
“I… I don’t understand. I’m not singing any-
more.”
“You bet your ass you’re not, lad.” Clothahump
struggled with one drawer in his plastron, finally
yanked it open. “Got to lubricate these one of these
days.” The drawer finally popped open and he rum-
maged around inside himself. “Hope I can stop it
before…”
“Before what?” wondered the thoroughly distraught
Jon-Tom as he stumbled back from an encroaching
branch. It vomited a three-foot-wide blossom in his
face, and the burst of perfume made him dizzy.
“Before these damned things start growing out of
us,” Clothahump shouted at him.
His path to the door blocked, Jon-Tom scrambled
across the floor toward the only remaining open
section of the room . -. Clothahump’s bed.
“Maybe I overdid it a little bit”
“My boy, your powers of observation and your
innate ability to intuit the blatantly obvious never
cease to amaze me. Ah, there!” He removed a small
box from his plastron, shoved the drawer shut, and
opened the box. From within he selected a pinch of
white powder and leaned forward.
“Roots and shoots and cellulose
Blossoms that be profane
Dwell in lands of malathane
THB MOMENT OF TSW MAGICIAN 47
Make thy xylum comatose
Dry up thy tannic staint”
He threw the powder into the advancing thorns. It
evaporated. The cluster of branches seemed to
shudder, to slow… and finally, to petrify.
They were surrounded, engulfed by beauty. Jon-
Tom felt sure he was going to throw up.
He took a step toward the door which led into
Clothahump’s laboratory, found he couldn’t move
more than a few inches off the cushions before
swordlike thorns pricked his legs. He retreated back
onto the bed.
“Sorry,” he whispered morosely. The smell of roses
was overwhelming.
Clothahump sighed, gave him a fatherly pat on the
back. ‘That’s all right, tad. We’re all a little overconfi-
dent now and again. You were right about one thing,
though. If your ladylove were here, I’ve no doubt she’d
be impressed with this little floral tribute of yours… if
she wasn’t cut to ribbons first. I will say this for your
spellsinging: you don’t seem able to do anything in a
small way” At least a thousand blossoms of all shades
and hues kept them imprisoned on the bed.
“There’s nothing basically the matter with your
spellsinging, my boy. But you are going to have to
work at moderating your enthusiasm a bit.” He eyed
his bedroom appraisingly. “An impressive, though
difficult to deliver, bouquet.”
Tucking his head down inside his shell until only
the crown was visible, he slid off the bed and waded
out into the brambles, quite safe from the thorns.
They couldn’t penetrate his body armor, but neither
did he have the strength to force a path through
them. Finally he gave up and returned to the bed.
“It’s no good, lad. I’m neither as young nor agile
as I once was.”
Alan Dean Foster
48
“How about a spell?”
Clothahump’s reply to that suggestion was tart.
“You spelled this jungle up: you unspell it.”
Jon-Tom’s fingers twisted against each other. “I
don’t think I ought to try that.”
Clothahump looked dazed. “What’s that? What’s
this? Some small hint of humility? How gratifying.
Today we pass another signpost on the road to
wisdom.” A powerful, resonant voice interrupted his
sarcasm.
“THERE’S SOMEONE AT THE DOORI”
“Drat, that’s the bell,” the wizard groused. “Why
am 1 blessed with visitors who have such wonderful
timing?”
They waited patiently on the bed. Minutes later an
uncertain voice called to them from the vicinity of
the doorway.
“Uh, Master?” They could just make out the four-
foot-tall shape of Clothahump’s apprentice standing
in the opening. For a wonder, Sorbl sounded almost
sober this morning. That was something of a magic
itself.
“There is someone at the door, Master.”
“We know that, you idiot,” said Clothahump with a
grimace. “We heard the bell too. Who is at the door?”
“He says he’s come a long ways on a mission of
great importance. Master.”
“Don’t they all.”
“His name is Pandro. He’s a raven and he says he
comes from a city named Quasequa.”
Suddenly Clothahump was more interested than
indifferent. “Quasequa, you say? Well, I have not
heard from anyone in that distant land in some time.
I recall mention of a young sorcerer of some promise,
a fellow name of Opiode, who was trying to set
himself up in business down there.”
THE MOMENT OF TOE MAGICIAN
49
“That’s who’s sent him here, sir!” said Sorbl excitedly.
“This Pandro says it’s most urgent.”
“Opiode, yes, that was the name. Though I can’t
be certain. My memory’s not what it used to be. I’ll
see him, though.” The turtle’s tone darkened. “You
> will not offer him any liquid refreshment stronger
than fruit juice!”
“Master, I? Do you think that I… ?”
“Yes, I do. Now, shut up, see him comfortably in,
and inform him I’ll be along directly. Then go to the
storage bin outside the parlor. Inside you’ll find
some large wood clippers. Bring them back here and
cut us out of my bedroom. Then, while we are
listening to this visitor’s tale, you may take the re-
mainder of the day to prune around my bed.”
The owl let out a resigned sigh. “As you direct,
Master.” A brief pause, then, “Would it be improper
of me to ask what happened here?”
“Not at all. You should find it instructive. This
E minor botanical catastrophe sprang from the heart
of our young spellsinger here. He is in love, you see.
One would tend to say he has a green thumb. The
^ actual problem, however, lies with the protuberance
which arises from between his shoulders.”
^ It was a mild enough reprimand and Jon-Tom
fought to accept it gracefully. Lest he do additional
damage, he forced himself to put all thoughts of
the beauteous Talea aside and concentrate instead on
*the potential import of whatever this far-ranging
truest might have to say.
|^ Clothahump’s spell-sharpened shears soon cut a
11″ tunnel to them through the tangled growth, and the
^ two of them were able to crawl to freedom.
iffl ‘
“^ “A good job,” the wizard complimented his appren-
; .^- lice. “Now clean out the rest of it, but leave those
•^ pink blooms over there, the ones under the window.
Alan Dean Foster
00
They’re rather attractive, and that part of the floor’s
always damp anyway.”
“Yes, Master.” They left him hacking away with the
shears at Clothahump’s bedchamber.
The raven awaited them on the guest perch which
had been installed by Clothahump for the comfort of
winged visitors. He might have come a long ways,
but he didn’t look particularly fatigued to Jon’Tbm.
Of more interest was the bruise on his forehead, the
feathers missing from one wing, and the ugly scar
which ran down the back of his neck. The wounds
looked recent, and Jon-Tom wondered if they had
anything to do with the raven’s reason for coming to
the Bellwoods.
If Clothahump noticed any of this, he gave no
sign, preferring instead to stare grimly at the
widemouthed glass from which the raven was sip-
ping decorously.
“What’s that?”
“What’s what?” said the raven uncertainly, looking
up as they entered. “Oh, this?” He gestured with the
glass. “A drink, and nice and strong, too- I sure as
hell needed it. Thanks to your—”
“1 know who to thank,” rumbled Clothahump
dangerously, “He did not by any chance have one
himself? Just to prove that he could be a proper
host?”
Before the raven could reply, the wizard had whirled
and was clomping angrily back toward his bedroom.
“SORBL!”
Jon-Tom and Pandro eyed each other uncomfort-
ably for a couple of minutes until Clothahump
returned.
“I’ll be lucky if he has my bedroom cleaned out by
nightfall, and he’ll be lucky if he doesn’t cut off one
of his own feet in the process- I’ll deal with him
THE MOMENT OF THE MAOICIAJI 51
Her.” He calmed himself as he gazed over at his
;uest.
“Please pardon the interruption. Now then. Your
| name is Pandro and you come from far Quasequa?”
\. The raven put his glass aside on the shelf that was
^attached to the perch- “That’s right, sir.”
I “That is quite a journey.”
I “Tell me about it.” Pandro fluttered to the floor
•and hopped over to stand close to them. “Keep in
: mind that I’m just a hired messenger. I’m not
[ completely sure what this is all about. I could tell you
what I know, but 1 imagine these documents I was
instructed to deliver to you will explain what’s going
; on in my country much better than I could.” He
| removed the papers from the cylinder hanging from
| his neck chain.
[ “These come from Opiode, former chief advisor
‘ in matters arcane and mystic to the Quorum of
| Quasequa.”
” ‘Former’?” Clothahump peered at the messages
through his thick glasses. “Um.” He turned to read
silently-
Jon-Tbm tried to make conversation. “What hap-
Ipened to your neck?”
| Instinctively, a wing felt of the recently acquired
ground. “I was attacked while on my way here. Some-
tone or something wanted to make sure I didn’t n^ake
|cay delivery.”
| “Who attacked you?”
| “Demons.” Pandro said with admirable casualness.
I^Taceless demons. Gray and black they were, with
pong curved teeth and no eyes.”
•is. It wasn’t the explanation Jon-Tom expected, and
^he was more than a little taken aback. “You don’t
‘ IW
• • “They were demons,” Pandro insisted, mistaking
Jim-Tom’s surprise for disbelief. “I know a demon
Alan Dean Poster
when I see one, let alone when it tries to take my
head off.”
“I wasn’t disputing you,” Jon-Tom replied.
The raven studied him with interest. “You’re the
biggest human I’ve ever seen.”
“I’m also a spellsinger,” Jon-Tom told him proudly.
Clothahump .spoke without looking up from his
reading. “That he is. If you want to see a demonstra-
tion of his powers, have a look in the next room
over.”
“It doesn’t matter. It’s not very impressive,” Jon-
Tom said hastily. “This wizard Opiode: you work for
him?”
“I was only hired to make this single delivery. I’m
not in his regular service, if that’s what you mean.”
Clothahump concluded his perusal of the papers
with a noncommittal grunt. “This doesn’t sound too
serious, even though Opiode’s language borders on
the hysterical- Certainly not important enough to
warrant my personal attention. Still, if he feels he
needs help, I suppose it is incumbent on me to
provide some.” He turned back to face the raven.
“This new advisor, this Markus the Ineluctable
Opiode refers to: have you met him?”
Pandro shook his head. “I just run a small messen-
ger service. I don’t get into the halls of the Quorumate
Complex much. No, I haven’t met him. From what
I’ve heard, not many have. Keeps to himself a lot.
But there are plenty of stories about him. And about
his peculiar powers.”
“And he’s a human?”
Pandro nodded. “That’s what they say.”
Clothahump examined the papers again. “A hu-
man who claims to have come here from another
world?”
Jon-Tom felt suddenly faint -,. but not so faint that
he couldn’t interrupt with anxious questions.
THE MOMENT OF THE MAGICIAN
S3
“Another world! Tell me, does he sing his magic,
spellsing like 1 do, or use a musical instrument when
he’s exercising his powers?”
Pandro flinched, taken aback by the gangling young
human’s unexpected enthusiasm. “Not that I’ve heard,
sir, no. It’s said that he whispers his spells so that
none can hear him. I haven’t heard anyone mention
music.”
“It is not used,” said Clothahump, “or Opiode
would have mentioned it in his communication. The
rest he does confirm, however.” He was watching
Jon-Tom carefully. “A human magician who claims to
have come here from another world.”
“It’s possible,” said Jon-Tom excitedly. “Don’t you
think it’s possible? It happened once, to me. Why
not to another?”
“All things are possible- However, just because you
have a good heart and good intentions does not
mean that this new visitor is as good and kind as
yourself, or that he even comes from your world.
The plenum is full of other worlds.”
“That’s right,” said Jen-Torn, momentarily downcast.
“I got so excited I forgot about that.”
“In fact,” the wizard went on, still eyeing the
‘papers, “from what Opiode says, this Markus ap-
; pears to be sadly lacking in the social verities. Opiode
• is not only afraid of what the newcomer has done;
he is even more afraid of what he may intend to do
anext. As for the visitor’s magic, it is powerful indeed.”
L’He folded the papers.
I “This is none of my business. I’m not one to
[insinuate myself into another wizard’s difficulties.
Opiode admits that this Markus defeated him in a
battle of talents. These ‘fears’ he alludes to may
merely be a reflection of his own disappointments.
And he speaks only of worries and concerns, not of
any actual threat. I see no reason for such panic.
Alan Dean Foster
This Markus hasn’t instituted any sort of reign of
terror or inquisition or anything so boring since
assuming Optode’s office, has he?”
**No sir,” Pandro admitted. “As far as the average
citizen is concerned, nothing’s changed. At least, not
insofar as I’ve seen. Of course,” he added thoughtfully,
“I was attacked on my way here, and the forest where
I encountered my assailants is not noted for having a
large demonic population.”
“I wouldn’t know,” Clothahump murmured. “1 am
not familiar with that part of the world. What do you
think of all this, Jon-Tom?”
Sorcerer and spellsinger discussed the matter while
Pandro stood and waked quietly. While hardly an
experienced judge of wizardry qualities, if asked, he
would have had to confess that Opiode was whistling
up the wrong trunk if he expected to get any aid
from this bunch. The apprentice who’d ushered him
inside was an obvious drunk, the turtle showed signs
of senility, and the tail human struck the cosmopoli-
tan Pandro as something of a hick.
Still, surely Opiode the Sly knew what he was
doing in sending here for help. And what was it they
were arguing about?
“I’m telling you, this guy’s from my own world,
from my home!” Jon-Tom was saying. “He’s got to
be. Transported here by accident, just like me.”
“There have been no recent disturbances in the
ether as there were when I brought you over,”
Clothahump told him.
“Maybe he crossed over in a different way. Do you
know of every path between the dimensions?”
“No,” Clothahump admitted, a mite huffily. “As I
said before, all things are possible. All 1 am saying
now is that there is nothing to suggest that this
Markus the ineluctable came over from your world.
For one thing, according to Opiode, this fellow seems
THE MOMBWT OF THE MAOICIAN
55
to have been practicing his magic for quite a while,
whereas you discovered your spellsinging ability pure-
ly by accident and only after you had been in this
world for some time. Furthermore, all this blather of
coming from another world may merely be typical
wizardly showmanship, an attempt to cow and over-
awe impressionable Quasequans. There are many
humans in this world, as you well know. This Markus
may not be a transdimensional traveler; he may be
nothing more than a slick talker. Remember, my boy,
that your materialization here was an accident.”
“Maybe this isn’t an accident,” Jon-Tom argued.
“Maybe some wizard from another world has found
a way to cross over on his own.”
“As I recall, there are no wizards in your own
world.”
Jon-Tom slumped. “I know. But maybe he was
something else. Maybe he’s an engineer like you
thought I was, and he can make magic here by
reciting engineering theorems, or something. The
point is, Fve got to know. Don’t you see, Clothahump?
If he got through on purpose, by design, maybe he
can return home the same way. Maybe with the two
;of us working together we can manage a way home
; for both of us!”
‘• Clothahump was nodding. “That is how I thought
you would react to this information, my boy. Well, it’s
only natural that you should be excited. 1 certainly
will not stand in the way of your finding out.”
TBK MOMENT OF THE. SSAOICtAtf
57
IV
Pandro had been silent long enough.
“Look here, I’m not at all sure what you two are
talking about any more than I knew what Opiode \
was talking about. Like I said, I’m just a messenger.” 3
He gestured with a wingtip toward the papers ^
Clothahump held- “One thing Opiode did tell me,
though. He said that if this Markus is truly from
another world, then it must be a place of evil and
darkness.” He eyed Jon-Tom uneasily.
“And you say you’re maybe from the same place?”
“Maybe. We’ve no reason to believe that yet,” .
Clothahump replied. T
“Well, he’s sure peculiar-looking, but according to ^
the descriptions I’ve heard, mighty different from ^
this Markus the Ineluctable.”
“What’s he supposed to be like?” asked Jon-Tom
eagerly.
“Definitely human. Tall, but much shorter than
you. Fat, and older. Not much fur left on his head.”
Jen-Tom was nodding. “He could be an engineer
from my world.”
“And it’s said he still wears the clothes he was
wearing when he came into our world.”
“Tell me about them, describe them! Does he wear
56
jeans—pants of rough blue material? Or maybe a
suit, something with a long V-shaped opening in the
front, with a white shirt underneath, and maybe a
long strip of material tied around his neck?”
“No,” said Pandro thoughtfully, “the description
that I heard was somewhat different. I was told he
dresses entirely in black of some slick, finely woven
material, with a black cape to match, and a strange
black tower atop his head, and a spot of petrified
blood he keeps always over his heart.”
“That doesn’t sound very familiar,” Jon-Tom re-
plied slowly. And he’d been so positive!
“From another world, perhaps, but not necessarily
yours,” Clothahump told him. “Interesting. Not nec-
essarily dangerous, but interesting.”
“Even if he is from your own world, sir,” Pandro
told Jon-Tom, “1 wouldn’t plan on him helping you
to get back to wherever you’re from. From what
Opiode says, this magician helps no one but himself.”
“Maybe because he’s frightened,” Jen-Tom suggested.
“Maybe if by working together, the both of us can
return home, he’ll turn out to be much less threaten-
ing.”
“If you can get him to leave, regardless of how you
help yourself, sir, all of Quasequa would be grateful”
He hesitated. “Opiode did not say as much, but
there are rumors that this Markus has plans for
• doing away with the Quorum and installing himself
as an emperor or king or something. That would be
a disaster for Quasequa. We have no tradition of
powerful, single rulers. I think what Opiode the Sly
is saying is that now is the time to stop the newcomer
before he can put any evil designs into effect.”
“y he has any such intentions. That may be noth-
ing more than your employer’s paranoia at work.”
‘That is something Opiode felt you would sense,
Alan Dean Foster
58
sir. He said that you were wise and knowledgeable,
brave and bold.”
Clothahump removed his glasses, spoke while clean-
ing them. “Even as a student, I recall this Opiode
being somewhat of a stickler for accurate descriptions”
“I wish I could tell you more, sirs, but I am only a
messenger.”
“You’ve done better than could have been expected
of you.”
“So you will send help?” asked Pandro hopefully.
“Certainly I will.”
“You’ll come yourself?”
“I will send help,” Clothahump said firmly. “You
may convey that message to Opiode. I’m sure he
expects some sort of reply, and that should cheer
him. As for specifics, I prefer not to divulge my
methodology to the hired help.”
“I understand, sir,” said Pandro, bowing and
finishing his stiff drink. He set the glass aside and
headed for the front door. “Any other messages,
sir?”
“Sorbl. Sorbl!” Clothahump yelled. “Never mind.
I’ll do it myself.” The door swung inward at the flick
of his hand. It was a tiny magic, very minor wizardry,
but it impressed Pandro nonetheless. A good impres-
sion the raven would carry with him all the way back
to Quasequa.
“No, no other message. Tell Opiode if he feels the
need to convey additional information to me to send
you back again.”
“Oh, no, sir! He may send more information back
to you. but I won’t be bringing it. I’ve had enough of
wizardly goings-on. Humans from other worlds, face-
less demons, no thank you, sirs! I’ll inform him
you’re sending help down to Quasequa and I’m sure-
he will be heartened by that, but if he wants to thank
THB MOMENT OF THE MAOJCUUV 89
you he can do it himself. I’ve had more than enough
of such doings. Never again.”
“Don’t you mean ‘nevermore’?” Jon-Tom asked
him.
Pandro eyed him oddly for a moment before bow-
ing a last time. Then he left, closing the heavy
wooden door behind him.
“Hope for the better rather than for the worst,”
said Jon-Tom after the raven had taken his leave.
*TU start packing our supplies.”
Clothahump coughed softly. “What do you mean
*our* supplies, my boy?”
Jon-Tom hailed in mid-stride. “Now, wait a minute.
What about all that business about your being
‘courageous, brave, and bold’?”
“Dear me, is that what he said?” Clothahump was
studying the ceiling. “I thought certain he said
‘courageous, brave, and old.’ Because that is an accu-
rate description. In any case, I’m certainly not about
to leave my work here to embark on some long hike
simply to salve the injured feelings of a deposed
wizard. As 1 said, this hardly sounds to me like a
crisis”
“No crisis, eh? Some evil sorcerer from another
world throws a colleague of yours out of office and is
scheming to take over an entire city with who-knows-
what eventual aims in mind, and you don’t call that a
crisis?”
“It’s not my city, and I’m not the one who’s been
deposed. As for Opiode the Sly’s being a colleague.
I’ve never worked with him and know of him only by
reputation.”
/ “That’s one hell of a cold attitude.”
“I would rather say realistic. However, I did say I
would send help, and so I shall. You are so con-
vinced that this Markus the Ineluctable is from your
world that I wouldn’t think of putting off the day of
Alan Dean Poster
60
that meeting by so much as an hour. I would only
slow you down, my boy.” He indicated the duar
Jon-Tbm cradled against his side.
“You can handle anything that comes before you.
You now know enough of this land and have mastered
sufficient of your spellsinging skills to extricate your-
self from any minor difficulties.” He grinned. “Should
this Markus turn out to be as belligerent as Opiode
feels, you can always threaten him with a bouquet.’*
Jen-Torn gave the wizard a sour look. “What would
I do without your confidence and support?”
“Oh, I support you, my boy, I support you. Your
talent is developing nicely. I merely try to keep a
close watch on the diameter of your head, lest in a
dangerous moment of overconfidence it grow too
large.
“Opiode desires speed in this matter and so do
you. I would be an encumbrance to you both. I am
quite confident of your ability to manage this matter
on your own.”
“What if he’s not from my world?” wondered
Jon-Tom, suddenly thoughtful. “What if he is some
strange demonic being in human guise? That raven’s
description of his attire and his attitude, those don’t
make him sound much like an old friend from back
home”
“Then you must deal with him as the circum-
stances dictate,” the wizard told him firmly. “I can’t
wet-nurse you through maturity.”
“I’m already mature.”
“Then act like it.” He winced. “Besides, my arthri-
tis is acting up.”
“Funny how your arthritis always seems to act up
whenever there’s a long journey to be taken.”
“Yes, it is peculiar, isn’t it?” Clothahump admitted
without batting an eye. He lumbered toward his
bedroom, peered through the doorway. “Ah! Sorbl
THE MOMENT Of THK XAOICIAW 61
has excavated my bed. I can hear him shearing away
in there. Presumably he is not so drunk that he has
cut off either of his wings.” He raised his voice.
“Sorbll How are you managing in there, you useless
befeathered sot?”
“I am tired. Master,” came the faint reply from
somewhere deep within the thorny brambles. “These
vines are tough.” A pause, then, “Can’t you just
magic them away?”
“Perhaps I could, but I did not acquire an appren-
tice so that I might engage in menial labor. Besides,
a little exercise is good for the system, especially
when that system is overloaded with ethyl molecules.”
“With what. Master?”
“Liquorish magical symbols.”
“Not me, Masteri I would never—I”
Clothahump closed the door to the rosebush-ridden
bedroom, shutting off Sorbl’s too-emphatic protesta-
tions of innocence. He turned back to jon-Tom,
peered up at him over steepled lingers.
“Opiode has a reputation for exaggeration, my
boy, and all salamanders are notoriously paranoid. I
know that you will enjoy the journey to Quasequa. It
will be a long but pleasant trip. The city itself is
rumored to be most beautiful, constructed on a
series of islands out in the middle of a body of water
called the Lake of Sorrowful Pearls. If 1 were a hun-
dred years younger, I would not hesitate to accompa-
ny you.”
jon-Tbm was nodding knowingly. “Sounds delightful.
In fact, it sounds a lot like our recent relaxing
vacation jaunt to distant Snarken.”
Clothahump shifted his eyes away from the tall
youth- “Ah, any excursion can be dogged by unforeseen
bad luck.” He cleared his throat self-consciously. “This
time you will encounter no oceans to cross, no mo-
rose moors to traverse. Merely shallow tropical lakes
03 Alan Dean Footer
and lagoons, such as the one on which Quasequa
itself is constructed. A land of moderate tempera-
tures and quiet beauty. A veritable paradise com-
pared to these cold Bellwoods. Often’s the time I’ve
thought of traveling there with an eye toward retir-
ing in such a place.”
“You’ll never retire. You like your reputation too
much.”
“No, 1 mean it, my boy. Someday I will consider
it seriously. Perhaps when I turn three hundred.”
“When you hit three hundred 1 hope I won’t be
around to see it.”
“Yes, your unquenchable desire to return home.
Perhaps this Markus the Ineluctable will turn out to
be helpful.”
“You’re just trying to make me feel better about
going off without you, but you’re right. I’d go
anywhere, under any conditions, if I thought there
was a chance I could get a little closer to home.”
“And what of Opiode’s concerns?”
“Maybe he exaggerates, just like you say. If this
Markus is from my own world, I’m sure that if the
two of us can get together and chat for a while, he’ll
be as happy to see me as I will be to see him, and we
can work something out”
“And if he’s not of your world, and Opiode does
not exaggerate?”
Jen-Tom took a deep breath. “In that case, I’ve got
my duar. If it comes to a battle of sorceral skills, I
think I can handle anything.” Except my own mistakes,
he added silently to himself-
“Good for you, my boy! That’s the spirit! Main-
tain that attitude and I’m sure you’ll have things in
Quasequa sorted out in no time.”
Jon-Tom looked uncertain. “There is one drawback.
I can’t make a journey like that all by myself. Oh, I
understand if you don’t feel up to coming along or
TBK MOMENT Of THK SSAQSCZAM
63
don’t feel it’s necessary, or whatever. But I won’t risk
a trip like this all by my lonesome. I know that flier
wouldn’t have guided me. Not his job, and fliers get
bored having to hang back with us land-bound types.
That much I’ve learned. What about making use of
public transportation systems along the way?”
“A good thought, except that there aren’t any, my
boy. There is no commerce between the Bellwoods
towns and Quasequa. All trade from Lynchbany and
Timswitty and the like goes to the Glittergeist Sea or
Polastrindu.”
“Then I’d like to have an old buddy accompany
me.”
Clothahump shook his head sadly. “I wonder that
your choice of company does not otherwise mirror
your normal good taste.”
“1 Just feel comfortable with Mudge around. He’s
clever with words, knows the customs and ins and
outs, is good with weapons, and is reasonably trust-
worthy so long as I keep an eye on him round the
dock and don’t let him get his paws on the expense
money.”
Clothahump shrugged beneath his shell. “It’s your
neck, my boy. You choose your own companions.”
Jon-Tom frowned. “The only problem is, I haven’t
the slightest idea where he’s to be found. Last time I
had to track him all the way up to Timswitty. Since
Quasequa lies in the other direction, I’d lose a lot of
time if I had to hunt through the Bellwoods in..
search of him.” He Finished on a hopeful note-
“I agree. And don’t give me that innocent-apprentice
look. It doesn’t have the slightest effect on me.
However, if you will insist on having him with you…”
“1 wouldn’t insist,” Jon-Tom said quickly. “It would
Just make me a lot more confident about the whole
business.”
“Very well, very well. I will see what I can do. I will
Alan Dean Fowter
64
attempt to locate him and explain that he is wanted
here.
“As for yourself, you’d best begin preparing for
the journey. Fill your backpack with care, make cer-
tain you have ample spare strings for your duar, and
try to get a good night’s sleep. 1 will be able to
discuss this matter of your ‘friend’ with more certainty
tomorrow rooming.”
“How long do you think it will take for you to
locate him and give him the message?”
“We will just have to wait and see, my boy. We will
have to wait and see.”
Jen-Tom arose the next morning still excited by
the prospect of meeting someone else from home,
someone who might be able to help him get back
where he belonged. It wasn’t that Clothahump hadn’t
been good to him- In his own distinctive, demanding
fashion, the wizard had gone out of his way to make
the displaced human feel welcome.
Nor had his sojourn in this land. been uneventful.
Quite the contrary. But he was more than ready to
return to the calm, familiar life of an anxiety-ridden
pre-law student in Weslwood, CA.
He washed his hands and face in the wooden basin
that grew from one of the tree’s inner walls, wonder-
ing not for the first time what kind of intricate
magical spell could provide indoor plumbing within
the dimensionally expanded trunk of an oak. After
drying himself and dressing carefully, he went through
the contents of his backpack.
It held jerked meat, dried fruit and nuts, a selec-
tion of medicinal herbs and potions, a small metal
box holding the few Band-Aids and pills he’d had on
his person when he’d been sucked into this world, a
change of underclothing, and a small assortment of
toiletry items and personal effects. Packed to bursting,
it was heavier than it had been when he’d set out on
Ttffi StOUKHT W THE MAGICIAN
65
a previous journey to distant Snarken. On that trip
Clolhahump had informed him he would encounter
towns and villages in which to purchase food and
other necessities. The land between here and Quase-
qua, however benign, was apparently a good deal
less urbanized.
That meant living more off the land. Well, he’d
always enjoyed camping out, and if Clothahump’s
description of the country south of the river Tailaroam
was accurate, it should be a relaxing experience-
First breakfast, then he’d ask if the wizard had
succeeded in locating Mudge. Probably he’d have to
meet the otter somewhere. A couple of quick hellos,
and off they’d go, traveling at a brisk but unhurried
pace southward, enjoying the clear weather while
reminiscing about—
A terrible scream split this image and pushed
everything else into the background. It pierced the
thick walls of living wood. was followed by a second
and third. Each howl was more horrible than its
predecessor. Jon-Tom’s skin prickled.
His first thought was that Markus the Ineluctable
was everything Opiode feared and more, and that
he’d somehow tracked the course of Pandro the
raven and had sent his faceless demons to do away
with any potential allies the flier might have made
contact with. Jon-Tom grabbed his ramwood staff
and rushed for the next rooms.
He flicked the concealed switch in the wooden
shaft, and six inches of sharp steel emerged from the
base of the staff. If only he wasn’t too late and
whatever had entered the tree hadn’t gotten ahold of
Clothahumpi The screams continued, but their inten-
sity had fallen somewhat. They seemed to be coming
from the vicinity of the kitchen. He turned down a
narrow hall, keeping his head low, and bounced off a
Alafi Dean Porter
66
wall, then skidded to a halt just inside the dining
area.
Clothahump sat in his reinforced chair next to the
table that grew out of the floor. He was spooning
ground fish and water plant from a steaming bowl.
A tall glass of murky, aged pond water stood nearby.
Heat rose from the iron cookstove where Sorbl la-
bored diligently over two bubbling pots and baking
bread. As he watched, the owl dropped from the
perch welded to the front of the stove, slid a couple
of fried mice out of the oven -and slipped them
between slices of fresh bread, and began to munch
on his own breakfast. The bread smelled delicious.
At the moment, though, his thoughts were not on
food. Instead, he stared openmouthed at the con-
struction which had appeared in the middle of the
floor.
It was a cage, and not a very elegant cage at that.
Six feet tall and three or four square, it seemed to
hover in midair a foot or so above the kitchen tiles. It
had six sides instead of four. Instead of bars, thin
threads connected top and bottom. They did not
ripple in the heat of the room. They did not move at
all.
Not even when the berserk, spitting, squalling
creature caged within chose to bang against them
with its body. It bounced off as if the threads were
fashioned of inch-thick steel. It used its shoulders
because its arms were tied to its sides. In fact, the
occupant of the cage wore a mummylike cylinder of
heavy rope that encased him from ankle to neck.
“Good morning, my boy,” said Clothahump cheerily,
as though nothing out of the ordinary had occurred.
“Have some breakfast?”
“In a minute.” Jon-Tom put his staff aside. He
moved into the kitchen and walked slowly around
the hovering cage, never taking his eyes from it.
TBE MOKBNT OF THE MAOJCJAM
67
With a finger, he tested one of the threads. It
refused to move no matter how hard he pushed or
pulled on it. He had to pull away fast because the
bound creature inside tried to bite off his finger.
Sharp teeth just managed to nick his skin. He sucked
on the thin cut.
“I’m sorry, Mudge,” he said, “but I didn’t have
anything to do with this.”
“Oi now, didn’t you, you stretched-out offspring of
an otherworldly bitch? You slippery sliver-tongued
bastard. Of course you didn’t ‘ave nothin’ to do with
it, you and that calcified lump of solid bone wot calls
‘imself a sorcerer.”
Clothahump ignored this tirade and continued to
slurp daintily at his meal.
“Don’t give me that crap, matel You and ‘im *ave
always been in league with one another against me.
Don’t try to deny it! ‘Tis been that way all along.”
Jon-Tom continued to suck on the Finger his friend
had attempted to amputate, spoke quietly. “He was
just supposed to find you and send you a message.”
He turned to face the wizard. “You were just sup-
posed to send him a message.”
Clothahump considered, the spoon halfway to his
mouth. “I did send a message, my boy, and you were
correct in your concerns. He was quite a distance
away, in a town near Kreshfarm-in-the-Geegs.”
“It weren’t far enough!” Mudge howled. He tried
to sit down, but the enveloping ropes prevented the
maneuver, and he had to settle for leaning up against
the threads. “Seems it’ll never be far enough to get
me away from you two arseholes! It won’t stop me
from tryin’, though. I’ll never stop tryin’l” He glared
accusingly at Jen-Tom.
“Why, mate? I thought after that little sea voyage I
*elped you out with we were even up.”
Jen-Tom found himself unable to meet the otter’s
Alan Dean Foster
68
gaze. “We were… as far as that particular trip was
concerned. Unfortunately, something new has come
up.” He tried to smile. “You know how highly I value
your company and assistance.”
“And you want good old ‘appy-go-lucky Mudge
along to ‘old your bleedin* ‘and, right? Or maybe to
push you along in your pram?”
When Jon-Tom didn’t reply, the otter turned his
attention back to the kitchen table. “Untie me, you
disgustin’ ball of reptilian corruption, or when I get
out of ‘ere, I swears I’ll shove you in on yourself and
cement up all the openin’s!”
“Now, now.” Clothahump dabbed delicately at his
mouth with a linen napkin. “Let us remember who
we are talking to.”
“Oh, I know who I’m talkin’ to, all right. The
world’s master meddler. I don’t care anymore, you
see? So I can say wotever I want. Turn me into a
snake, turn me into a worm, even turn me into a
bloody ‘uman. See if I care. Because you’ve gone too
far this time, the two of you, and I’ve ‘ad it! I’m not
goin’ anywhere.” He nodded in Jon-Tom’s direction.
“Especially not with ‘im. Not across any oceans, not
into any fights, not to the local market to buy chestnuts.
Nowhere, nohow, no way!”
Jon-Tom switched to rubbing his bitten finger.
“Ever hear of Quasequa, Mudge?”
The otter frowned down at him. “Qua wot?”
“Quasequa. It lies far to the south of the Bellwoods.
Exquisite country, a beautiful tropical city built out
on a vast lake. The kind of place an otter, it seems to
me, would find downright paradisaical.”
“Charming, friendly inhabitants;’ Clothahump added
without glancing up from his meal, “who know how
to make a stranger feel at home. Especially, I am
told, the ladies.”
TBS MOMENT OF TJXE MAGfCUUr
69
Mudge seemed to waver, but only for an instant-
Then his determination returned.
“Oh, no, you ain’t goin’ to smooth-talk me into it
again. Not this time. I know ‘ow you two operate, I
does.” He nodded again toward Jon-Tom. “This one’s
*alf solicitor and ‘alf devil. Between the two of you,
you could sell ice to polar bears- No, I’ll ‘ave none of
it this time. Do what you want to me.”
Jon-Tom approached the cage, his best profes-
sional smile fairly lighting up the dim kitchen. He
was careful, however, not to get within biting dis-
tance of his best friend.
“Aw, c’mon, Mudge. One more time. For old times*
sake. Be a friend.” The otter didn’t reply, stared
stolidly at the far wall.
“I know you’re upset right now, and I can under-
stand why. I sympathize, really. I meant it when I
said I had nothing to do with bringing you here like
this. I was going to come out and meet you, but
Clothahump decided that it was important to try and
save time, I guess, so he brought you here this way
without telling me of his plans.”
*Time. Let me tell you somethin’ about time, mate.
Do you ‘ave any idea where I was when ‘is sorcerership
there yanked me out of reality and into nothingness?
Do you ‘ave any idea what five minutes in Chaos is
like?”
“There are somewhat smoother methods of generat-
ing the transition,” Clothahump murmured, “but
they take too much time.”
“Do they now? Time, wot? I’ll tell you about time.”
A wistful expression came over his face. “There I
was, sittin* in Shorvan’s Gambling Palace in down-
town Toothrust… which is a good place for a gam-
bling chap like meself to be… ‘oldin* twelve of a
kind. Twelve of a kind!” He almost broke out sobbing,
but managed to restrain himself.
Alan Dean Foster
70
“And the pot… there was enough gold in that pot,
me friends, to set me up for three, four years o*
comfort. So I’m gettin’ ready to make me play, see,
because I know wot the score is and that the one
chap with a chance to stop me ‘as to be bluffin’
because ‘e ain’t ‘oldin’ diddly-squat in ‘is paws. This
bum’s a foxie with no moxie, see? I can read ‘is
bloomin’ whiskers, and I know I’ve got ‘im beat, I
know I dol So I push in all me chips, a great
galumphin’ pile won at great labor and pain, and
wot do you think ‘appens to me and me twelve of a
kind, eh? Wot?” Jon-Tom said nothing.
“I’m jerked bodily into Unfamiliar Chaos, which
ain’t no garden spot, I can tell you, and then finds
meself bound up like a B&D ‘oliday gift in this
bloody cage so’s that tuft o’ blotchy, moth-eaten
feathers over there can tell me that I’ve been sum-
moned hence because you, mate, needs me ‘elp on
one of your forthcomin’ suicidal excursions.”
Jon-Tom glared at Ctothahump, who appeared
not in the least distressed. “You did say, my boy, that
you wanted his company on this journey. If anything,
I expressed a dissenting opinion.”
“I said that I wanted his help, his willing help.”
“Best not to waste time,” the turtle harrumphed,
“debating semantics.”
“If you don’t want to waste time,” Jon-Tom said,
**why not send us to Quasequa tlie same way you
brought him here?”
“It’s not quite that simple, my boy. Bringing and
sending are quite different things. The spells are
more complex than you can imagine. Bringing takes
enough out of you, and 1 am not at all adept, I
confess, at sending. If I were better at either, I’d
bring this Markus person here. That would simplify
everything, wouldn’t it? Unfortunately, 1 cannot do
TUB MOUKKT OF THE SS.AOIC3AM
71
that. I was only able to manage this recall because of
your strong association with this creature and—”
“Who’re you callin’ a ‘creature,’ you fat-brained…”
Mudge hesitated, latched onto a new thought. “Wait
a minim. Who’s this ‘Markus’ you’re talkin’ about?”
“Someone I have to talk to,” Jon-Tom explained.
“In beautiful Quasequa.”
“Ain’t nowheres as beautiful as a gamin’ room with
a big pot o* gold lyin’ in it waitin’ for the takin’.
Twelve of a kind. The draw o’ me life.” He looked
back to Clothahump again. “The least you could’ve
done, your sorcerership, was to ‘ave brung me ‘ere
first-class instead of economy.”
“I am not one to indulge in frivolous, unnecessary
expense.”
“Right, guv, and I’m sure you travels steerage
every time you transpose, too. At least let me out o’
these blasted ropes!”
“Yes, I believe 1 can do that, now that you have
calmed down somewhat and decided to act halfway
civilized. All that screaming and cursing, tch.” He
mumbled something under his breath.
Nothing happened. “Well,” Mudge asked, “is that
it?”
“Not quite. You have to sneeze.”
“Oi, I do, do I? Just like that? You think sneezin*
on cue’s as simple as talkin’? As simple as drawin* to
twelve of a kind? Right then!” He inhaled sharply,
tickled his nose with a whisker, and blew messily in
Jon-Tom’s direction. No question but that his aim
was deliberate.
The ropes turned to dust at his feet. He stood and
rubbed his arms to restore the circulation.
Same old Mudge, Jon-Tom mused, cleaning him-
self up as he inspected his old friend. The otter
boasted a new vest of gray shot through with silver
thread together with matching silver-and-black shorts.
Alan Dean Foster
72
His new boots were bright metallic blue. The famil-
iar longbow and quiver of arrows were slung across
his back. On his head rode the same battered green
felt cap. New feather, though.
“That’s an improvement, guv’nor. Now ‘ow about
this bloomin’ cage?”
“What cage?” asked Clothahump with a half smile.
“There is nothing barring your path save a few
flimsy threads.”
“Few they may be but flimsy they ain’t. Don’t think
I ‘aven’t tried.” He pushed out with a hand, casually,
and several of the threads snapped. He had to rush
to jump clear as the wooden roof started to collapse
on top of him. Then he was standing unrestrained
on the kitchen floor staring at what up until a
moment ago had been an impenetrable prison but
was now nothing more than a couple of blocks of
wood lightly linked together by a few cloth threads.
“The only thing worse than a bloody wizard,” he
mumbled, “is a bloody wizard who likes to play
jokes.”
“I do not play jokes,” declaimed Clothahump with
dignity. “Such mundane exercises in plebeian amuse-
ment are beneath my stature.” He coughed lighdy. “I
do admit to some slight subtle sense of humor,
however. At my age you pass up no opportunity for
some mild amusement.
“As for your late lamented twelve of a kind, for
that 1 am sorry. I have reason to believe that the
wizard Opiode the Sly, whom you travel to visit, will
be willing to reimburse you fully.”
“Yeah, that’s wot you always say, guv.”
“In any case, you will surely have the run of lovely,
exotic Quasequa, whose climate and virtues the poets
extol beyond—”
“Oh, come off it, guv’nor, I’ve ‘eard all this before.”
He sniffled once. “Twelve of a kind.” A glance up at
TBC MOMENT OF THE MAGICIAN
73
jon-Tbm. “You know ‘ow long a player waits for a
‘and like that, mate?”
“No, I don’t. I thought the most you could get in a
game was four of a kind.”
Mudge mulled this over. “I can see we’re talkin’
different games ‘ere, mate. You wouldn’t understand,
then.” He turned to face Clothahump. “Right then;
this brotherly dabbler in the back o’ beyond may or
may not pay me for me time and trouble, but wot
about me own ‘ard-earned money I put on the table?
Wot about the loss o’ me gamblin’ stake? Or don’t
you think you’re responsible for me losin* that?”
“I am not responsible for your gambling debts,”
said the turtle slowly, “but I agree it would be wrong
were you to suffer the loss of your own money on my
account.”
“Well now, that’s more like it.” Mudge looked sur-
prised and somewhat mollified. “You know, guv, if
you wouldn’t treat me like an old ‘ammer and saw all
the time, I might be a mite more inclined to partici-
pate willingly in these charmin’ little diversions you
and the ‘airless one ‘ere come up with. Quasequa,
wot? Never been there, ’tis true. Wot is it we’re
supposed to do there?”
“Check out a new chief advisor to the local rulers,
a newly arrived wizard who calls himself Markus the
Ineluctable,” Jen-Torn told him.
“Sounds straightforward enough to me.” His gaze
narrowed and darted back and forth between Jon-
Tom and Clothahump. “You’re sure that’s all, now?
You two wouldn’t be concealin* somethin’ from old
-Mudge, now would you?”
“Certainly not,” said Clothahump, obviously insulted.
“Would I do something like that, Mudge?”
“I don’t like it. You two are too chummy. I feel
safer when you’re arguin’.” He focused on the turtle.
Alan Dean Foster
74
“Wot’s the land like between ‘ere and this -Quasequa
place?”
“Tropical, friendly, largely uninhabited and un-
spoiled. I would be coming along myself if my arthri-
tis were not acting up. That, and the fact that this is
really a minor business, precludes my accompanying
you”
“There’s something else.” Jon-Tom put a comradely
hand on Mudge’s shoulder. The otter moved out
from under it, but at least he didn’t try to bite. “This
Markus the Ineluctable claims to have come from
another world. If he comes from my world and the
two of us strike up a friendship, it’s a chance for me
to get home. Maybe for both of us to get home.”
“Well now, that would be worth the journey, to see
the last of you, mate, though I don’t know as ‘ow I
could stand more than one of you otherworldly twits
in the same place at the same time. Nothin’ personal,
but if you get back to your ‘ome, maybe I can get
back to ‘aving a normal life o’ me own.”
“A normal life,” said Clothahump dryly, “rich with
thieving, fighting, wenching, and being in a condi-
tion verging on permanent inebriation all the time.”
“Yes, that’s wot I said,” agreed the otter blithely,
missing the wizard’s sarcasm entirely.
Clothahump eyed him sadly. “I fear there is no
hope for you, water rat.” He looked suddenly
thoughtful. “I was led to believe that the most you
could hold in a game of artimum was eleven of a
kind.”
“I thought artimum was a spice,” said Jon-Tom.
“A spicy game of chance, my boy. Spices are in-
volved as well as dice and cards.” He gave the otter a
shrewd look. “You didn’t, by any chance, cardamom
your hand?”
“Oh, wonderful!” Mudge threw up his hands and
beseeched the heavens for understanding. “I’m snatched
Tas MOMENT w THE MAGJCIAJV
7S
r T
; ?
away from the biggest winnings of me ^hort life so’s I
can be accused o’ cheatin’ by someone who wasn’t
even there.”
“Did you cardamom your cards?” Clothahump
persisted.
Shaking his head, Mudge turned to Jon-Tom, put
a hand around his waist. “Right then, mate. Long as
our course ‘as been determined, we might as well be
on our way. Sooner we gets there the sooner we can
start *ome, right?”
“Might as well wait another day, since I’ve saved so
much time what with Clothahump bringing you
straight here. We can leave tomorrow morning.” He
was taken aback by the otter’s sudden enthusiasm.
“Let’s ‘ave a chat then, must be a lot you ‘ave to tell
me, and I’ve plenty to tell you.” He eased Jon-Tom
toward the doorway.
“Twelve of a kind.” Clothahump was rubbing his
lower jaw and gazing speculatively after the hurried-
ly departing otter.
Mudge made sure to close the door behind him.
v
It was raining when they departed the following
morning. Mudge appeared to have undergone a
complete change of heart and was all but pushing
Jon-lbm out the door.
“No reason to wake ‘is nibs,” the otter told him,
smiling reassuringly. “Let the poor bugger ‘ave ‘is
rest.”
“Tell me about this game called artimum. I’ve
heard of it before but I don’t really know how—”
“Now don’t you start, mate. Tell you about it when
we’re well on our way. Wouldn’t want anyone else to
get the wrong idea about old Mudge, would you?
Besides, there’s more interestin’ tales I’ve yet to tell
you. Did I mention yesterday about the vixen in
Tenwattle who… ?”
The rain slid offJon-Tom’s waterproof iridescent
lizard-skin cape, which he kept well over his head,
while Mudge merely placed his felt cap in his pack to
protect it. Other than that he ignored the rain, for
otters are as comfortable soaking wet as they are
bone dry.
Heavier drops rang some of the bell leaves which
gave this country its name, but for the most pan the
trees were quiet. A tendaria rested on a nearby
76
THE MOMEHT OF TBB MAGICIAN 77
branch. The blue-and-puce flying amphibian sat with
its mouth agape and head back as it collected rainwa-
ter in the flexible sac attached to its lower jaw. It
would carry the fresh water back to the clay-sealed
nest it had made in the trunk of some hollow tree
and add it to the growing basin therein. In time the
female of the species would lay her eggs in the nest.
The young flying amphibians would eventually hatch
and mature in the protected pool, remaining there
until they were old enough to fly and breathe air.
“Really, Mudge, don’t you think it’s about time you
gave some thought to altering your life-style?”
“And wot’s wrong with me life-style?”
“For one thing, you couldn’t exactly call it productive.
You’re a sharp guy, Mudge. Yet you choose to spend
your life as a wastrel.”
“I calls it freedom, mate. And it’s a challenge
walkin’ the fine line between the legal and the
debatable, leavin’ it to everyone else to guess which
side o’ the line you’re on, on any particular day.” He
winked broadly. “Of course, the trick o’ such livin* is
to ‘ave one foot on each side o’ the line at all limes,
and to be able to dance back and forth without
gettin’ caught on the one side or the other. Never a
dull moment.”
“I know it’s an exciting way to live, but it doesn’t
seem to have much of a future to it. I’ll bet you don’t
even have enough put aside to pay for a decent
funeral.”
“Funeral? Hell, mate, I know them that spends
their ‘ole lives worryin’ about ‘ow they’re goin’ to be
buried. The goal o’ their life is death. ‘Ardly seems
worth livin’ at all. Might as well slit your throat and
miss out on all the worryin’.”
“Go ahead and make light of it, but there’ll be no
one to cry at your funeral. No pallbearers, no
Alan Dean Foster
78
mourners. Or do you think your thieving acquain-
tances will take the trouble to show up?”
Mudge shrugged. “I don’t worry about it none,
but 1 do know there’ll be at least one there to weep
for me passin’.”
“Yeah, who?”
“Why, you, mate,” and the otter grinned up at him
so infectiously that jon-Tom had to turn away lest
Mudge see his own smile-
“Maybe, just maybe, but I still think you could do
more with your life.”
“Plannin’ takes all the surprise out o’ life, mate.
Me, I’d rather take it as it ‘its me, even if it some-
times *its kind o’ ‘ard.”
They marched on, arguing about life and mean-
ings and directions. Mudge cited chapter and verse
from personal experience—always frenetic, often foul,
but never dull. jon-Tom countered with quotes from
everyone from B. F. Skinner to Woody Alien. None of
his arguments had the slightest impact on the free-
living otter.
They passed the glade where the footprints of
M’nemaxa still showed as deep depressions in solid
granite; passed through dense, familiar woods; and
finally emerged on the banks of the river Tailaroam.
Westward the great river tumbled and churned on
its way toward the distant Glittergeist Sea, while far
off to the east lay the impressive range of mountains
known as Zaryt’s Teeth, which gave birth to the
Tailaroam’s tributaries.
Their immediate concern was the broad section of
fast-running river directly in front of them. It flowed
from east to west, and their course led due south.
“How do we get across?”
“As for me, mate,” Mudge told him, “I’d as soon
swim it in a couple of minutes- I’d enjoy it more than
these past days’ trek.” He glanced around, searching
THB MOMEMT OF THE MAWCUN
79
the shoreline. “If we can find a nice dry log, I’ll give
you a push across. Wouldn’t want ‘is nosyness to
think I weren’t takin’ good care o* you.”
They hunted for and found a suitable log. Jon-
Tom sat astride the fallen tree with his long legs
stretched out in front of him, clinging to the otter’s
clothing and his own belongings while struggling to
balance himself as Mudge pushed out into the river.
Fortunately, the otter’s sense of equilibrium was bet-
ter developed than his own. Every time it looked like
he was about to tip over, Mudge adjusted from
behind. They arrived on the opposite shore of the
Tailaroam without Jon-Tom’s getting his toes wet.
Mudge climbed onto the sandy bank, shook him-
self off, and then lay down in the sun until his slick
fur was completely dry. As soon as he’d dressed, they
started south along a well-trod and easy-to-follow
trail.
Soon they found themselves in the Lower Dugga-
kurra Hills, a landscape of rounded boulders worn
smooth by the action of wind and rain. Thick brush
thrived in pockets of dark soil between the rocks.
Already they were starting to leave behind the larger
conifers that dominated the expanse of forest called
the Bellwoods, and the tall tropical hardwoods of the
lake region would not put in an appearance for some
time yet.
Jon-Tom took his time breaking camp the follow-
ing morning, quenching the embers of their camp-
fire and scattering the ashes. Time was important,
but he didn’t want to arrive in Quasequa too exhausted
to think.
The trail had grown more and more obscure the
deeper they’d penetrated into the rocky terrain, so
he wasn’t surprised to see the confused expression
on the otter’s face when Mudge returned from scout-
ing the path ahead.
Alan Dean Foster
80
Or was there more there this morning than just
confusion? He rose,-kicked the last splinters of smok-
ing wood apart, and brushed dust from his hands.
“Something wrong? If it’s the trail -..”
” Tisn’t that, guv. It’s… well, you’d better come
and ‘ave a looksee for yourself.”
“A looksee at what?”
Mudge said evenly, “I think the ground ahead’s on
fire.”
Jon-Tom swallowed his ready retort as he saw that
the otter was in dead earnest. Hurriedly he slipped
into his backpack and followed his companion
southward. Mudge underscored the seriousness of
his claim by not talking as they marched.
Sure enough, as they topped a small pass between
the boulders, Jon-Tom could see vapor rising off to
the left. It was only after they’d hiked another mile
that he could be certain it wasn’t smoke-
Mudge could see the difference, too. “Sorry, mate-
1 turned back to camp before comin’ this far. That
ain’t smoke from no fire. ‘Tis steam.”
“That it is/’Jon-Tbm agreed, “but what’s the source?”
They found out when they crested the next rise.
Stretched out before them was a most wonderful
panorama. Hot pools of varying depth and hue
bubbled and growled in the cool of morning. Steplike
terraces of calcium carbonate climbed the rocks,
each one like the entrance to a sultan’s palace. Steaming
water cascaded down them from hot springs above,
constantly adding to and altering an already spectac-
ular sight. Brown-and-yeUow bands of travertine en-
closed emerald-green basins. Everywhere could be
seen the blue, green, and yellow of heat-loving algae.
“Just like Yellowstone,” Jon-Tom murmured. “1
feel privileged to see this.”
“And I feel like a moron,” muttered Mudge. ** ‘Earth
on fire’ indeed!”
THE; MOMENT or THE MAQICSAM
81
“Don’t feel bad. It could look that way from a
distance.” Jon-Tom removed his backpack, then his
shirt, and started on his belt,
Mudge eyed him curiously. “Now wot are you up
to?”
“I haven’t had a hot bath since we left Clothahump’s
tree.”
“A hot bath. Now there’s a novel idea.”
“Find yourself a cool pool tf you want to join me,*’
Jon-Tom told him, slipping his pants down his legs.
“I enjoy hot water, Mudge. Keep in mind that I
haven’t got your insulating layers of fur and fat.”
“Wot fat?” snapped the indignant otter. “I ain’t
fat”
“It’s a subcutaneous layer and it’s there to keep
you warm when you’re under water.”
“Sounds bloody disgustin*.” Mudge lifted a flap of
skin from his left arm, eyed it as though seeing it for
the first time. But he was damned if he was going to
sit and watch while Jen-Torn enjoyed himself. The
water in the pool the human had chosen was much
too warm for his taste, but another nearby was
pleasant enough. Stripping quickly, he dove into the
natural basin, found he had to float. The sand at the
bottom was too hot to touch.
“A hot bath. You ‘umans are burstin* with weird
notions”
Jen-Torn didn’t reply. He was too comfortable,
drifting on his back in the warm water, listening to it
bubble and tumble down the hillsides surrounding
them. There were no geysers in evidence, suggesting
that this was a relatively calm thermal area-
“Back where I come from,” he told Mudge lazily,
“there’s a tribe of humans called the Maori who live
in a place just like this. It’s called Rotorua and it
steams all year round.”
Mudge sniffed, paddling across the surface of his
Alan Dean Foster
82
own pool. “It ain’t for me, mate. Give me a nice
ice-cold mountain stream to go swimmin’ in any day.
Though this stuff does,” he admitted, “clear out your
sinuses.” He dove in a single flowing motion, a grace-
ful curve that belied the presence of a stiff backbone.
As he did, something struck the water just behind
him.
Jon-Tom stood, the heat of the bottom sand tick-
ting his feet, and tried to see what had entered the
water aft of the otter’s submerging backside. As he
stared, something went spang against the boulder
behind him and flew to pieces. Some of the pieces
floated. He picked them up and identified them
instantly.
When Mudge broke the surface again, it was to see
his companion huddled in a narrow cove formed by
overhanging rocks. He paddled toward the adjoining
pool. “Wot*s up, mate?”
“Didn’t you see?”
“See wot?” Mudge frowned, pivoted in the luke-
warm water.
“It went right over when you dove.”
“Wot went right over me when 1 dove?” Something
whizzed past his right ear and he jerked around
sharply in the water, his eyes wide. “Cor, somebody’s
shootin’ at us!” He ducked just in time, and a second
arrow struck the water directly behind him.
He emerged as if shot from some subterranean
gun, leaping completely over the stone barrier sepa-
rating the two pools, and swam over to huddle next
to Jon-Tom. Their weapons and clothes lay on a nice,
dry slope on the opposite side of the water, in a
sunny spot completely devoid of cover.
“We’ll ‘ave to make a run for it, mate.” Mudge spat
out warm water. “We can’t just squat ‘ere and let ’em
pick us off.” He took a deep breath and started to
submerge.
THB MOMENT OF THK MUMClAW
83
^
i >.
Jon-Tom grabbed him by the fur on top of his
head and pulled him up again. “Hold on a minute.”
A half dozen arrows whizzed past, far overhead.
“Listen”
High-pitched squeaks sounded from the far ridge.
More arrows went past. None landed near the ner-
vous bathers.
“Maybe they’re not shooting at us.” He paddled
out just far enough to see around the rocks beneath
which they were hiding, trying to follow the flight of
the arrows.
Sure enough, moments later other cries and shouts
came from that direction, and several small spears
arced past overhead, retracing the path of the mis-
siles which had initially panicked the two travelers.
The shouts and screams grew steadily louder, and
soon both groups of combatants revealed themselves.
The opposing war parties clashed in the middle of a
single natural causeway which wound its way across
the hot springs. Spears, stones, and arrows filled the
air, flying through the steam- Mudge and Jon-Tom
strove to make themselves as inconspicuous as possible.
There were a few gophers and moles among the
fighters, but the large majority on both sides were
prairie dogs ranging between four and five feet in
height. They slashed and stabbed with quick, short
movements, their high-pitched battle squeaks rising
above the hiss and rumble of the springs. They
fought with a determination and ruthlessness that
Jon-Tom found appalling in such, well, cute creatures.
There was nothing comical about the carnage they
wreaked on one another, though. Body after body
tumbled into the steaming water, limbs flew through
the air as swords made contact, and the perfect
clarity of the springs was soon stained dark by the
blood of the fallen.
This went on for the better part of an hour before
Alan Dean Foster
84
the war party on the left began to retreat. Their
opponents redoubled their efforts and in minutes
had gained complete control of the causeway. They
fanned out over the opposite hillside, dispatching
those of the opposition too weak or badly wounded
to join their comrades in flight. They did so with a
matter-of-fact bloodthirstiness that chilled Jon-Tom
despite the surrounding hot water.
Something pricked his shoulder and a voice sounded
from behind them.
“You two there. Out of the water!”
Jon-Tom turned. Four of the victors stood looking
down at them. The one holding the spear on him
wore a helmet fashioned from the skull of an
opponent. It was bright with beads of many colors,
trade trinkets, and dangling feathers. An elegant
barbarism, Jon-Tom mused. It was a perfect frame
for the expression beneath it.
“Hiya, guv’nor,” said Mudge cheerfully. He spread
his paws in a gesture of innocence. “See, we didn’t
know there was goin’ to be a punch-up ‘ere, we
didn’t. We were just ‘aving a spot o’ bath, and we—”
The one with the skull headdress shifted the point
of his spear so that the tip hung in the air an inch
from Mudge’s nose.
“Right you are, mate! We’re comin’, we’re comin’.”
He climbed out and Jon-Tom followed him.
Their captors backed off a bit, intimidated by
Jon-Tbm’s unexpected size, and allowed them to
march over the causeway to retrieve their clothes-
Eyes turned among the rest of the victors as the
peculiar pair passed among them. High-pitched que-
ries followed their progress.
“Where’d you find these?”
“Down in one of the pools.”
“What were they doing there, you suppose?”
“Spying, I wager.”
THE MOMBWT or THE MAGICIAHf
85
“A good place to spy from, if that was their
intention.”
“Mighty big human, isn’t it?”
“Doesn’t look so tough to me.”
This steady exchange between the four captors
and their colleagues continued until a cluster of
older prairie dogs clad in real armor approached.
The newcomers were led by one white-furred old-
ster who was taller than Mudge, His helmet was of
brass, with holes cut on top for ears and curved slats
to protect the bulging cheeks.
“I’m General Pocknet,” he said in a curious but
no-nonsense tone. “You two don’t belong hereabouts.”
Jon-Tom wasn’t about to argue with him. “We’re
travelers, just passing through on our way south.”
“South?” The general frowned. “There’s nothing
to the south of the hills.”
“The city-state of Quasequa,” Jon-Tom told him
helpfully.
“Never heard of the place,” replied Pocknet, shak-
ing his head. His jowls and whiskers quivered.
“Still, that’s where we’re headed.” He nodded to-
ward the bloodstained causeway. “Looks like your
troops won.”
“We won this day, yes.”
“Glad to hear it.”
“Don’t try and ingratiate yourself with me, man.
We have settled our differences with the Wittens for
another month. Then we must Fight again to see
who retains possession of the springs.”
Mudge was frowning as he tried to understand.
“Let me get this straight now, guv. You lot ‘ave this
same little argument regular-like every month?”
“Naturally,” said the officer behind Pocknet.
“You two honestly don’t know what is happening
here, do you?” said Pocknet. Man and otter shook
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86
their heads in unison. Pocknet gestured across the
water.
“Over there is my home, the land of Fault.” He
turned and pointed up the hill pimpled with the
bodies of the Wittens. “Beyond this rise lies the
territory of Witten, our hereditary enemy. We fight
the good fight on the first day of every month.”.
“For fun?” asked Jon-Tom hesitandy.
“A typically human conceit. Of course not for fun.
We fight for control of this.” He indicated the valley
of hot springs with a sweep of one hand.
“Wot do you want with a bunch o’ boilin’ water?”
Mudge wondered.
The general eyed him distastefully. “Civilized folk
know what to do with heat- It cooks our food, cleans
our clothing, pleases us in many ways. Whoever
controls the bridge controls the Mulmun, and who-
ever controls the Mulmun controls the springs.”
“Uh, pardon our ignorance,” said jon-Tom, “but
what’s the Mulmun?”
The general was shaking his head. “It’s true; you
two are ignorant, unsophisticated travelers, aren’t
you?”
“That’s us, your generalship.” agreed Mudge readily.
“Just a couple of innocent dolts bumbling our way
southward.”
“That remains to be determined. You’ve said where
you are going. Where do you come from?”
“From the north, from across the Tailaroam. The
forest known as the Bellwoods,” Jon-Tom told him.
“That would explain your evident ignorance of
civilized matters,” the general agreed. “But I suspect
this pretense of innocence is nothing more than a
clever ruse. Obviously you were spying for the Wittens.”
A circle of spears closed in tight around Jon-Tom
and Mudge.
“Hey, let’s ‘old on a minim ‘ere, guv’nor! We were
THE MOMENT OF THE BSAOICSAW
87
just ‘aving ourselves a spot o’ bath is all, wot? Didn’t
know shit about this Wittens-mittens-Smault business,
we didn’t!” One of the encircling soldiers touched
him with a spear, and Mudge turned to glare angrily
at him. “Poke me with that again, short whiskers,
and I’ll put it where the sun don’t shine.”
A senior officer leaned forward to whisper in the
general’s ear. “Your pardon, sir, but their stupidity
appears genuine to me. I honesdy believe they have
no idea what the Mulmun is.”
“Hmmph. Well…” General Pocknet nibbled one
curling whisker and squinted at the two strangers.
“You are an odd pair, no denying it. Too odd even
for the Wittens to employ, perhaps.”
“Oddest pair you ever set your bloomin* eyes on,
guv,” Mudge assured him readily.
“I may have erred in calling you spies. Yes, you
happened to be bathing in the springs, purely out of
ignorance of reality, only to find yourselves caught in
the middle of a battle.”
Jon-Tom let out a sigh of relief as the spears
withdrew slightly. “That, sir, is just about the size of
it.”
The general waved the spears aside completely.
“Let them have their weapons.” He moved to stand
close to Jon-Tom, staring up at the much taller
human. “Since you are not our enemies, I guess you
have to be our guests.”
“General, sir, if it’s all the same to you, we’d just as
soon… umph!” He grabbed himself and looked an-
grily at Mudge, who’d quickly elbowed him in the
ribs. Mudge beckoned him close, and Jon-Tom
restrained himself long enough to hear the otter out.
“Listen to me close, mate. I know these tunnel-
dwellers, I do. They can be real touchy about ‘avin’
their ‘ospitality turned down.”
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88
“Oh. all right.” He stood, still rubbing his side. “So
we’re your guests. What does that entail?”
“A good meal and friendly chatter,” the general
told him. “You can tell us of where you’re from and
where you’re going.” He turned and barked orders,
His troops began to regroup and to fall back across
the causeway. The general and his senior staff flanked
the visitors, Pocknet striding along briskly with both
paws clasped behind his back. An armor-bearer walked
behind him, carrying the general’s helmet and sword.
“Tell me now, how comes an otter and a man to be
traveling together in our country?”
“Let’s save that for dessert,” Jon-Tom told him. “If
you don’t mind, I have a couple of questions of my
own.” Mudge was making shushing sounds in his
direction. Jon-Tom ignored him.
“Can’t you share the hot springs with the Wittens?”
The general smiled up at him. “You are a dumb
stranger, so I will excuse the affront. You see,” he
said, as if explaining to a child, “there is but the one
Mulmun, the symbol of the springs. That is what we
fight for control of. Whoever possesses the Mulmun
has the right to control the springs.”
“But isn’t there enough here for both communities?
Can’t you share?”
“Why share,” replied the general, favoring him
with an odd look, “when one can have it all?”
“Because it makes more sense than slaughtering
your neighbors.”
“But we like slaughtering our neighbors, and our
neighbors feel exactly the same way about us,” said
the general easily.
“How do you know sharing wouldn’t be better?
Have you ever tried sharing?”
“Absurd notion. We could never trust the Wittens.
Wouldn’t dare to try. The minute our backs were
turned, they’d cut our throats and take control of
THE MOMBHT OF THE MAOJCIAW
89
the springs forever. If any of us survived, we’d never
see the Mulmun again. At least, not for another
month.”
“You only fight on the first of the month? Nobody
ever tries a sneak attack on the other side in the
middle of an off week?”
The general looked indignant. “Certainly not! What
do you think we are, uncivilized barbarians? What an
outrageous notion. Ah, we’re home.”
Ahead lay a hole in the side of a hill. The large,
ornately carved wooden gate had been flung wide to
reveal the well-lit tunnel beyond. A line of sentries
stood drawn up in review on either side of the
pathway. Other, much less spectacularly decorated
entrances were visible off to the left.
The general led Mudge and Jon-Tom inside. As
usual, Jon-Tom was forced’to bend in order to clear
a local ceiling. Once out of the sun, the gophers and
moles in the group were able to remove their protec-
tive sunshades.
Before long they began to encounter noncombatants,
citizens engaged in daily chores. Greetings were ex-
changed between civilians and soldiers. Cubs tagged
alongside, jabbering at one another and occasionally
pausing to engage in mock battles. Tunnels appeared
that branched off in all directions.
Eventually they turned right and entered a room
with a ceiling high enough to permit Jon-Tom to
straighten. He pressed a hand gratefully against his
complaining lower back. There were half a dozen
long tables in the room, each decorated with neat,
miniature place settings. Pennants Tiung from the
rock overhead, while spears and more exotic weap-
ons were attached to the walls. Fires burned in
several fireplaces whose chimneys had to reach all
the way to the surface above. Kettles and pots simmered
over the flames.
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90
“Officers’ mess,” General Pocknet informed them.
He directed them to the head table. Jon-Tom found
a cushion and tried to balance on it. The low table
made the thought of trying a chair out of the question.
Females brought out hors d’oeuvres, platters heaped
high with fruit and nuts. The general cracked one
between his front teeth, tossed the shell into a com-
munal basket in the center of the long table, and
gnawed on the nutmeat Soon the room was filled
with sharp cracking noises and Hying shells. Jon-
Tom felt like a kernel in a popcorn popper.
Mudge was trying to make conversation with one
of the waitresses, so it was left to Jon-Tom to engage
the general.
“This war of yours, it’s been going on like this,
month after month, for a long time?”
“As far as history tells,” Pocknet assured him.
“We’re quite comfortable with the arrangement, and
so are the Wittens. Gives our lives continuity. All
disputes between us are settled by control of the
Mulmun.”
“Exactly what is this ‘Mulmung’?”
” ‘Mulmun,'” the general corrected him smoothly.
He pointed toward one of the fireplaces as he cracked
another nut.
Resting on the mantel was a garishly colored,
three-foot-high blob of regurgitated ceramics, mostly
maroon, pink, purple and glazed with pearlescent
white. It was possibly the ugliest piece of sculpture, if
it could be dignified by such a description, that
Jon-Tom had ever seen.
“That,” said the general proudly, “is the Mulmun.
Whoever wins the battle on the first of each month
retains it. It is the symbol of the springs. While we
hold it, the Wittens may not come near or make use
of the warm waters. We’ve held it for six months
now, at great expense, but it’s been worth it.”
THB MOMENT OF TVS MAGICIAW
91
Jon-Tom considered as he chewed on the contents
of a long, thin nut. The meat was delightfully sweet,
which was good, because it had taken him at least
four minutes to break the tough shell.
“I think I understand. If you didn’t possess the
Mulmun, then you’d have to relinquish your absolute
control of the hot springs.”
The general nodded. “We carry it with us into
battle each month. Should the Wittens win, they
would take it back to Witten with them and dominate
the springs for a month.” He chuckled, obviously
relishing his opponents’ discomforts. “They must be
very filthy by now.”
“I didn’t see it during the fight.”
“Do you think we’d risk putting it in danger?” the
general asked him, aghast. “The possessors display it
in its special container, well out of the way of the
combatants’ arms but up where all can see it for
inspiration. It is quite irreplaceable, quite.”
“Ghastly piece o’ puke, ain’t it?” Mudge whispered
to his friend. The otter had found something alcohol-
ic to imbibe and was draining his mug as fast as the
dainty prairie lass nearby could refill it for him.
“Christ, watch your mouth!” Jon-Tom warned him
anxiously. He smiled at the general. “Being a strang-
er here, it’s not for me to criticize your customs.”
“Then don’t,” Pocknet advised him blandly. “Enjoy
your meal and be on your way- Now, tell me about
your plans.” He looked eagerly at his tall guest.
Jon-Tom regaled their hosts with tales of his many
adventures, and the underground citizens listened
politely, for all that they thought he was the biggest
Bar to come among them in many a moon. None,
however, denied the amusement value ofJon-Tom’s
rambling prevarications, and they applauded politely
at the conclusion of each anecdote.
The dinner also featured some live entertainment.
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92
Several captive Wittens were dumped in the center
of the room, hauled erect, and tied to stakes so that
the ladies, when not serving the tables, could pull the
unfortunate prisoners to pieces. Jon-Tom found that
this diminished his appetite considerably. His hosts
seemed to find it uproariously amusing.
Several times Mudge had to lean over and warn
his friend to keep his opinions to himself. You don’t
insult true believers in the middle of their own
church. Besides, hadn’t they seen worse outrages in ^
their travels? Tomorrow they could leave, none the ^
worse for the experience. ^
So Jon-Tom smiled thinly and made a show of ^’
enjoying himself. There wasn’t a damn thing he ^
could do about it anyway. The “entertainment” over. ^
everyone repaired to their respective bedchambers. ^
Their hosts even managed to rig a bed of sufficient
length for Jon-Tom to stretch out upon.
Comfortable though it was, it didn’t lull him to
sleep. Instead, he lay wide-awake, thinking hard
about all he’d seen and heard during the day.
The situation existing between Witten and Fault,
two communities of similar size and population, was | \,
intolerable to a civilized human being. It was worse
than intolerable: it was sickening, disgusting, a sin
against common sense! It ought not to exist. It must
not be allowed to continue.
Since no one else seemed to give a damn, Jon-Tom
resolved quietly to do something about it himself.
VI
It was pitch-black inside the burrow when he de-
cided it was safe to move. A good five hours had
passed since they’d retired, and, Jon-Tom reasoned,
most of the underground community should be rest-
ing soundly.
He fumbled along the wall until he encountered
one of the ubiquitous oil-soaked torches each hall
and room was equipped with, struggled with his flint
until it sprang to life.
“Mudge.” He moved quietly toward the otter’s bed.
“Let’s go, move it. We’re getting out of here. We’re
going to help these people whether they like it or
not. Mudge?”
He put out a hand, feeling for the otter’s shoulder
in the dim light provided by the torch. It went all the
way down to the mattress. The covers came away
with a yank.
“Well, shit,” he muttered, swinging the torch to
inspect the rest of the room. No sign of the otter
sprawled unconscious on the floor. Nor was he asleep
in the bathroom, or in the hall corridor outside.
No one bothered him as he stood thinking furiously
in the passageway. Could the reluctant water rat have
run out on him this early in their journey? Knowing
93
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94
Mudge, that kind of desertion couldn’t be ruled out.
Or was he off somewhere within the subterranean
town, carousing with newfound buddies or gambling
his shorts away?
Tough. He should’ve stayed with his companion.
Anyway, the otter was a superb tracker. Jon-Tpm was
willing to bet he could find a vanished friend with
ease. Let him stay behind if he wanted to and do his
own explaining. What Jon-Tom had in mind was
bigger than either of them, something that should
have been done in this part of the world a long time
ago. Fortunate chance had given him the opportuni-
ty to correct a monstrously maintained wrong.
In the darkness he struggled to retrace his steps.
Down a hall, and sure enough, there off to the left
was the dimly lit and now-deserted officers’ mess.
The dishes had been cleared from the long tables.
Lingering embers still glowed and popped in the
three fireplaces, sending smoke up to the surface
world above. Not a soul in sight.
He tiptoed across the floor between two of the
tables until he stood before the central fireplace.
None of the locals could reach the mantel, but it was
an easy stretch for him. The Mulmun was heavier
than it looked.
Back quickly out to the hall, and then he was
running at a steady pace up an ever-ascending slope,
the Mulmun tied to his belt and concealed by his
flapping green cape.
There were sentries on night duty, a pair of wide-
eyed and fully awake gophers. They recognized the
guest.
“Evemn’, sor,” said one courteously. “You’re bein’
up kind o’ late for a day-dweller.”
Jon-Tom tried to bend to his right to hide the
bulge at his waist. “Can’t sleep.”
TVS MOMENT OF THK SSAOICtAS
95
**A sensible attitude,” commented the other guard
approvingly.
“Thought I’d go for a walk.” How convenient, he
thought, that the voluminous cape also hid his
backpack. Its presence wouldn’t square with a brief
evening stroll.
The guards weren’t in the least suspicious, however.
Jen-Tom backed around them, smiling brightly. “Just
a quick little look around. Got to be back early to
wake my friend.”
The sentries exchanged a glance. “That’s funny,
sor. Your companion went off toward the springs
“bout an hour or so ago.”
“What? My friend? Are you sure?”
“No otters livin’ in Faulty” said the first sentry.
“Had to have been him, right?”
**I guess so. Yes, it must’ve been him. That’s certain-
ly interesting. The sly little cuss neglected to mention
it to me. I will have to remonstrate with him, yes
indeedy. 1 know. I’ll bet he went for a moonlit swim.
Sure, that’s it.”
“He didn’t say anything to you?” Suddenly the
second sentry seemed more than casually curious.
“That is odd.”
“Oh, no, no, not really,” Jon-Tom assured him as
he continued backing toward the exit, now tantalizingly
near. “He does things like this all the time.”
“Funny time o’ night for a day-dweller to be takin*
a bath,” the guard went on.
*’You know these water rats.” Jon-Tom’s smile was
frozen in place- “So damned unpredictable.” He turned
2nd Jogged out onto the surface, leaving the puzzled
Sentries conversing noisily behind him-
Once out of sight he increased his pace to a run.
Puzzled guards could be dangerous guards, especial-
ly if their curiosity matched their confusion.
More important, what the hell was the otter doing
Alan Dean Foster
96
at the springs in the middle of the night, and why
didn’t he see fit to tell his traveling companion about
his plans for a nocturnal excursion? It didn’t make
any sense, which meant it was perfectly in character
for Mudge. He paused only briefly to catch his
breath and rede the awkward burden of the Mulmun.
It was certainly a lovely night for a swim. The
moon was high, and pale silver light bathed the
boulders and rising mist. Of the otter there was no
sign, and the only sounds came from the bubbling,
hissing springs.
Or was there something else? It rose and fell, but
it didn’t sound like water bubbling or steam venting.
It issued from behind a cluster of granite spires.
Jon-Tom approached them cautiously- The sounds
were familiar and yet alien. Invading Wittens, perhaps,
scouting out the terrain in preparation for next
month’s carnage.
He peered over the top of the rocks. It was Mudge,
all right. Only, he wasn’t alone. Jon-Tom thought he
recognized the prairie dog lady who’d been serving
them during the ceremonial meal. Coquettish little
sprite. She was being anything but coquettish at the
moment, however. Mudge was moaning softly and
she was emitting a rapid sequence of high-pitched
squeaks and bleats. Some were undoubtedly too high-
pitched for Jon-Tom’s human hearing, but he got
the idea fast enough. They weren’t talking about the
weather. Matter of fact, they weren’t talking at all.
“Mudge!” he whispered.
“Wot the bloody ‘ell is that?” The otter withdrew,
only to lose his footing on the round scones and
stumble head over heels. His paramour scrambled in
the direction of her clothing.
The otter’s sharp eyes quickly found Jon-Tom
staring down at him from atop the ring of boulders.
He let out a tremulous sigh.
THE MOMENT OF THB MAGJCUJV
97
“Bless me bottom, mate, ’tis only you. Wot are you
tryin’ to do. give me ‘eart failure?”
“No” Jon-Tom wondered why he was still whispering.
The little lady cowered off in a corner. “Get dressed.
We’re getting out of here.”
Mudge shifted rapidly from relieved to startled.
**Wot, now?” He began gathering up his clothes and
weapons. “Ain’t you got no sensitivity at all, mate?”
“I’m sorry, 1 didn’t know. If you’d bothered to tell
me your plans for the evening…”
‘.,/ **… You’d’ve tried to talk me out of ‘cm, guv’nor. I
know you. Wot’s the bleedin’ ‘urry, is wot I wants to
linow?”
: “Mudge, I saw these people fight today, brother
against brother, more or less. I listened to their talk
Cgnd learned their sordid local history. What we’ve
^fyot here are a bunch of people so immersed in an
.ingoing bad habit they haven’t the foggiest notion of
:\how to cure themselves of it.”
; “Your pardon, mate,” said the otter as he slipped
,;into his shorts, “but wot we ‘ave ‘ere is a bunch of
^people who are perfectly ‘appy with their lives just as
they are.”
“That’s because they can’t break out of this cycle
they’ve slipped into. Mudge, there’s plenty of hot
water in these springs, more than enough to supply
all the needs of both towns. It’s not like they’re
Fighting over a limited resource.”
“Jon-lbm, I’m beginning to think that your brains
are a limited resource, wot? If they ‘aven’t been able
to make a peace stick between them for ‘undreds of
years now, wot makes you think you can suddenly up
and create one?”
Jon-lbm grinned at him, fumbled beneath his
cape. “Because as a third party, there was nothing to
stop me from taking this.”
98 Alan Dean roater
The lady inhaled sharply at the sight of the re-
vered Mulmun.
“This isn’t a symbol of the springs or of communal
contentment,” Jon-Tbm told him in an angry whisper,
“but of stubbornness and calcification in the body
politic. Now that we’ve taken it, they won’t have a
symbol, a totem, to fight for. They’ll have to make
peace.”
The otter said nothing for a long time, just stared
at his patently insane companion out of wide,
disbelieving eyes.
“You pinched their Mulmunk, or whatever the ‘ell
they call the bloody monstrosity. You pinched it.”
“Exactly,” Jon-Tom said smugly.
“Oh, mate, ‘ow I do wish you’d talk with poor oF
Mudge before embarkin’ on these pet projects of
yours.”
“They went this way, sor,” said a not-distant-enough
voice. One of the guards from the entrance to Fault.
The next voice they heard was also familiar. It
belonged to General Pocknet.
And he wasn’t alone.
“Come on!” Jon-Tom turned and raced for the
causeway that crossed the springs.
“Later, luv,” said Mudge hurriedly, bestowing a
brief, parting nose-rub on his betrayed lover. Then
he was flying over the rocks in pursuit of his certifi-
able companion.
Armed prairie dogs, some only half-clad, others
wearing odd bits and pieces of armor, soon appeared
in their wake. They were squeaking bloodcurdling
threats and waving swords and spears over their
heads.
“Wait, listen!” Jon-Tom held the Mulmun in both
hands, raised it over his head. “Give me a chance to
explain!”
“Shut up, mate!” Mudge snapped, trying to in-
THE MOMEMT OF THE MAOICUW
99
crease his short stride and secure his vest simul-
taneously. He prayed he wouldn’t stumble in his
hastily donned boots. “You can’t talk to this lot”
“I have tol I’m sure once they hear what I have to
say, they’ll see that I’m only doing this for their
benefit, so that they and their neighbors can begin to
five together in peace and harmony.”
“Snakeshit! I’m telling you they won’t listen to
you”
“They’ll have to. I’ve got the Mulmun”
“Well, ’tis not just that which I fear disinclines
them to sweet reasonableness, mate.” Mudge looked
Suddenly uncomfortable. “See, that sweet little
powderpuff I was dallyin’ with back there amongst
die mists ‘appens to be the good general’s daughter.”
“Mudge! How could you? After all the hospitality
they showed us, the food and the room and—”
“Don’t get sanctimonious on me, you naked baboon,”
Mudge snapped up at him. “You’re the one who
atole their fuckin’ symbol. If you’d been decent enough
to ‘ave let me in on your private reformation, maybe
we wouldn’t be in this little fix.”
“And if you’d told me about yours…”
“You’d ‘ave wot, mate? ‘Ave concurred in and
blessed the assignation? Not bloody likclyl Corl” He
pointed ahead. “Too late, they’ve gone and cut us
off. We’re finished. That’s about right, it is. Me ardor
gets cooled before me body’s t’ get boiled.”
“Wait, won’t you listen? Listen to me!” Jon-Tom
waved the Mulmun, prompting a roar of outrage
from their pursuers.
, **That*s it, mate,” said Mudge sarcastically, “stir ‘cm
up good. We wouldn’t want to put ’em in a position
to grant us mercy or nothin’ like that.”
“We’re not done for yet. Look!” He nodded ahead.
“Troops from Witten. Their sentries must have heard
the noise and sent for reinforcements ”
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100
“Snatched from the jaws o* death at the last instant.”
said Mudge, relieved. “You cut it too close for com-
fort sometimes, mate- We ‘ave their bloomin’ symbol.
We’ll be treated like ‘eroes in Witten, we will.
Mate… where are you goin’?”
Jon-Tom had turned right. Instead of running
toward the succor and safety offered by the Witten
soldiery, which quickly forced its way across the
causeway, the spellsinger was racing up a side path
that led to the top of the highest hill in sight. They
climbed as they ran, leaping boiling waterfalls and
mudpots. Wittens and Paultines glared at each other
in the darkness, but they were too busy to fight one
another now. Besides, it wasn’t the first of the month.
“Mate, slow down, wot are you doin’?” Mudge was
trying to comprehend his friend’s seemingly wild,
random flight while keeping an eye on their pursuit.
“We can’t-outrun ’em all. Turn it over to the Wittens
and we’ll be bloomin’ ‘eroes. Or give it back to the
ruddy Paultines, but do something with that ceramic
abomination!”
“I intend to, Mudge,” said Jon-Tom grimly. “That’s
why I stole it. I’m going to use it to show both groups
the error of their ways.”
“We’ll be feelin’ the arrows o’ their ways in a
minute. I don’t know why they ‘aven’t tried to bring
us down already.”
“They’re afraid I’ll drop the Mulmun,” Jon-Tom
told him-
“Right.” Mudge relaxed a little. “I ‘adn’t thought o*
that. That ghastly thing’s our insurance, wot?”
The slope increased just ahead. Water vented from
a cleft in the modest cliff. Jon-Tom started climbing
with Mudge right behind him.
By the time they reached the top the opposing
soldiery had reached the base. Wittens and Paultines
eyed one another by the light of their torches, unde-
THB MOMSJVT Or THE MACUCSAN
101
cided how to react to this unprecedented situation.
Some wanted to fight, but for what? For the first
time in memory, the all-important Mulmun rested in
the hands of an outsider.
“Now, you listen to me, all of you!” Jon-Tom held
the sculpture over his head. The significance of the
gesture was not lost on his pursuers. In an instant,
he had absolute quiet save for the hiss of water and
the crackle of torches.
“I know what this is and what it stands for. So do
all of you, or rather, you think you do. You believe it
stands for honor and dignity and victory in battle.
You’re wrong. It doesn’t stand for a damn one of
those things. Where I come from we’ve had to deal
with this kind of internecine stupidity a little longer
than you have, and I think we’ve learned a few
things about peace and about the futility of war.”
“Give it back to us!” shouted a voice from the
crowd of Paultines- It was General Pocknet. “Give it
back to us and we’ll let you depart with your genitals,
man! As for that one”—and he gestured toward
Mudge—”him I want!”
The otter made an obscene gesture in the general’s
direction, concealing himself as he did so behind
Jon-Tom’s bulk.
“No, give it over to us!” shouted the leader of the
Wittens. “Give it to us and you can name your
reward, man. You can wipe out the memory of six
months of shame for us.”
“I’ll win the day for no group,” Jon-Tom held the
Mulmun firmly in one hand and used the other to
encompass the valley of the springs in a single sweep-
tog gesture.
there’s enough warmth and water here for all to
enjoy. There’s no need to go through this mad
bloodletdng once a month. At heart I believe all of
you are good, but you’ve been suffering from a
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102
communal illness for a long time, so long that you’ve
no idea how to treat it. Well, I do, and I’m going to
cure the lot of you right now.”
A collective gasp and not a few screams came from
the mass of fighters gathered at the base of the cliff
as Jon-Tom drew back his right arm and heaved the
Mulmun as far out into the night as he could. One of
the screams came from Mudge.
Every face turned to follow the Mulmun’s descent.
It seemed to fall in slow motion, turning over several
times in the moonlight. It landed on an outjutting
rocky snag in the center of a large hot pool and
shattered noisily. The pieces disappeared instantly
beneath the superheated surface.
“Therel” Jon-Tom put his hands on his hips and
glared down at them. “See how easy that was? Aren’t
you ail ashamed? Now you can shake hands with
your neighbors for the First time in years. Do you
realize what this means? It means that yesterday was
the last day any of you had to die for the use of the
springs. Now you can share in its bounty equally, as
you should have from the beginning.” He smiled
beadfically down at his audience. “Blessed are the
peacemakers.”
The silence he had requested before his polemic
continued after he’d concluded. Soldiers from Witten
glanced uncertainly at hereditary enemies from Fault.
Conversation between them was hesitant at first,
uneasy, but soon blossomed into earnest discussion.
General Pocknet made his way through the crowd to
greet his opposite number from Witten. They talked
rapidly and with passion before finally snaking hands.
Then Pocknet turned to gaze upward and said
clearly, with the obvious concurrence of the other
commander, “Tear out their eyes!”
The cry was taken up with great enthusiasm by
both groups of soldiers, who began scrambling
THE MOMKfiT OF THE MAGICIAN
103
detenninedly up the steep but short cliff. Jon-Tom
ducked as arrows flew over his head and spears
began to land uncomfortably close.
Mudge led him down the opposite slope. “But I
don’t understand,” Jon-Tom muttered dazedly as he
ran.
“I understand, mate.” Mudge spared a backward
glance. “I understand that we’d better get a decent
*ead start out o’ that steep spot or there won’t be
nothin’ left to worry about understand in’.” The cries
and shouts of their enraged pursuers were loud
behind them.
“Cheer up, guv.” Mudge held onto his hat with one
hand as he ran. “At least you got *em to agree on
somethin’.”
“But I still don’t understand,” Jon-Tom murmured,
also checking behind them to make certain the recipi-
ents of his helpfuiness weren’t getting any closer. “I
did what was best for them, for all of them.”
“You did wot you thought were best for them,
‘ mate, and there’s a small but important difference
there. But I ‘ave to ‘and it to you, you did get ’em
workin’ together. Now, shut up and run.”
Utterly downcast and defeated, Jon-Tom allowed
,.his legs to carry him along. – – –
Night and mist helped them to shake the deter-
mined pursuit, though for a while it seemed as
:’though the prairie dogs were going to chase them to
“the ends of the world. In addition, the Duggakurra
Hills had given way to a low-lying marshy region
thick with moss-draped trees and long-petaled flow-
ers that moaned when the slightest breeze disturbed
‘.Aem. Not good country for civilized folk to be
^prowling around in at night, and so the Wittens and
Paultines reluctantly abandoned the chase.
Insects and tiny amphibians filled the air with a
steady humming and buzzing. By the time Mudge
Alan Dean Foster
104
located a little hillock that was reasonably dry, Jon-
Tom was soaked to the skin from wading through
murky water and clinging muck. He watched as
Mudge started a fire.
“Think we ought to risk that here?” He glanced
nervously into the darkness. He wasn’t fearful of
catching cold. The night was warm and humid. But
the marsh might be alive with disease-carrying insects,
and he conjured up disturbing images of plague-
carrying water bugs and giant leeches-
“We’re safe enough now, mate, I think.” The otter
added a few more twigs to the fire. The green wood
sputtered in protest, burning only reluctandy. Mudge
eyed the surrounding landscape. “One o’ your men-
tor Clothagrump’s balmly tropical paradises, wot?
This country’s bloody sickenin’, it is. Not that I mind
the water, mind. I’m as at ‘ome in it as out, and well
you know it.” He plucked distastefully at his filthy
vest. “But it plays ‘ell with a gentleman’s wardrobe.”
Jen-Tom sat down next to the fire and clasped his
arms around his knees as he stared into the flames.
He was too tired even to eat.
“I just don’t understand what happened. All I
wanted to do was bring them peace and harmony.”
He glared suddenly across the flames. “And all you
wanted was a piece.”
Mudge was chewing reflectively on a strip of fish
jerky. “Somethin’ you need to learn bad, guv, is to
stop messin* in other folks’ business. Ain’t nothin’
most folks hate worse than good intentions. Might be
they’ll be better off now for wot you’ve done this
night, but that doesn’t mean they’ll be any ‘appier.
“Seems to me they ‘ad their relationship pretty
well worked out. If you’re goin’ to *ave a war with
your neighbors, you might as well do it on a regular
schedule. Everyone’s prepared and ready and there
ain’t no nasty surprises sneakin’ up on you in the
Tm MOUKHT OF THE MAGICIAN
105
middle of the night. Me, I wouldn’t care for the lack
o’ spontaneity, but I’ve ‘card tell o’ far less civilized
ways of settlin’ differences between folks.”
“There’s nothing civilized about it,” Jon-Tom
grumbled, “but I guess I shouldn’t be surprised.
That’s typical of this whole stinking world.”
It was quiet for a long time around the fire.
Mudge Finished his jerky, rummaged through his
pack until he found another. Like any incorrigible
philanderer, he always went to his assignations pre-
pared to travel in a hurry. He waved the piece of
dried fish at his companion as he spoke, using it the
way a schoolmaster might use a ruler.
“Well now, mate, ’tis true 1 can’t comment on that
without ‘avin’ ever ‘ad the dubious privilege of visitin’
your world, but for the sake of argument let’s just
say that you ‘appen to be accurate in your presump-
tions and that this world is stinkin* and uncivilized.
That accepted, it also ‘appens to be me ‘ome. I ‘ave
to live ‘ere, and the sad fact o’ the matter is that you
do too. So maybe you ought to climb down off your
pulpit and quit prejudgin’ folks accordin’ to other-
worldly standards. You might get along a mite better
and you’ll certainly save yourself a lot o’ discomfort.”
“I can’t help it, Mudge,” Jon-Tom replied softly,
staring down at his hands. “It’s my legal training, or
maybe just my natural disposition, but when I en-
counter pain and unhappiness and suffering, I have
to try to do something about it.”
Mudge nodded back in the direction of Witten
and Fault. “There were pain in that relationship,
that’s for sure, but there’s a certain dollop o’ pain in
everyone’s existence. Maybe even in your world. As
for un’appiness, I suspect that those folks were just
as ‘appy and content as could be until you busted in
on *em.”
Alan Dean Foster
106
Jon-Tom looked up at the otter. “But it was wrong,
Mudge.”
“Only by your standards, mate. Mind now, I ain’t
saying yours ain’t better; only that they’re yours and
maybe nobody else’s, and you’d better quit tryin’ to
impose *em on every bunch you feel sorry or compas-
sionate for.”
Jon-Tom sighed, moved the duar onto his knees.
When he flicked the strings, lonely notes drifted out
over the surrounding water.
“Now wot? You goin’ to try and spellsing me over
to your way o’ thinkin’?”
Jon-Tom shook his head. “I don’t feel tike spellsing-
ing now. If you don’t mind, I’m going to indulge in a
little musical sulking.”
He began to play without an eye toward any particu-
lar end, to play just to amuse himself and take his
mind off their present predicament. Where was the
benign tropical land Clothahump had told him about,
the land alive with friendly people and ripe strange
fruits waiting to be plucked from low-hanging branches
and brilliant hothouse flowers? Not within walking
distance, that was for sure. They were going to have
to find a boat.
Unless he could spellsing one up- Sure, why not?
His spirits rose slightly. He’d done it once before.
This time he’d be able to avoid the mistakes which
had plagued them on their previous water journey.
He strained for the right song, a safe and proper
boat song. Mudge had been lying on his back, his
paws behind his head. Now he sat up sharpty, his
nose twitching.
“I thought you weren’t goin1 to try any magic-
makin’.”
“We need a boat. Remember how 1 did it before?”
“Oi, I remember. I remember it made you fallin’
down drunk for nearly a week.”
THE MOMENT OF TOK MAGICIAN
107
“It won’t happen again,” Jon-Tom assured him.
“I’ll be more careful this time. I’ve reviewed all the
lyrics in my mind and they’re perfectly innocuous.”
“That’s wot you always say.” He retreated behind a
large tree to watch as Jon-Tom began his song.
His first thought had been of “Amos Moses,” but
there was no boat directly mentioned and the song
possessed disquieting overtones. Another Jerry Reed
ditty served fine, however- He modified the lyrics
slightly, confident he could call up a fully stocked
Everglades-style swamp skimmer to carry them speedily
southward through the marsh to distant Quasequa.
Sparkling, dancing motes appeared in the air around
him. Gneechees, the best indication that his spellsinging
was working. A different light, yellow and brown,
began to form a sheet just above the surface of the
water.
“See, no trouble at all.” He concluded the song
with a Van Halenish flourish not exactly appropriate
to Jerry Reed, and waited while the object solidified
and took form.
It had a flat deck and bottom, just like the swamp
skimmer Jon-Tom had hoped for. But as he peered
into the night he frowned. There was no sign of the
airplane prop that should have been mounted aft.
He shrugged. A small oversight in the magic. Maybe
he’d confused a verse or two. An outboard would
serve adequately.
The craft bumped gently against the shore. Mudge
walked down to pick up the rope attached to the bow
end.
There was no inboard. There was no outboard.
There wasn’t even a rudder. But there was plenty of
board.
The raft was fashioned of split logs. It was eight
feet wide by ten long. Mounted on each side was a
Alan Dean Porter
108
large, split-bladed oar that could be used to propel it
slowly through the water,
“An elegant example o’ otherworldly technology,”
Mudge observed sarcastically.
“I don’t understand. I tried so hard, I was so
careful.” He strummed the duar. “Maybe if I tried
again…”
“No, no, mate!” said Mudge hastily, putting his
paws over bare fingers. “Leave us not push our luck.
So it ain’t elaborate and it ain’t fast and it ain’t
labor-savin’. But it floats, and it beats cuttin’ down
green trees to try and make one ourselves.”
“But I can do better than this, Mudge. I know I
can.”
“Best not to get greedy where magic’s involved,
guv. You might make it better, ’tis true. Then again,
you might sink wot we ‘ave, and we’d be back to
walkin’- A bush in the ‘and’s worth two in the bird,
right? No tellin’ wot you might call up a second
time.”
As if to emphasize the otter’s concern, the water at
the raft’s stern began to froth and bubble. Mudge
raced up the sand to grab for his bow and arrows
while Jon-Tom backed slowly away from the water’s
edge. Something was materializing at the back of the
boat that had nothing to do with its locomotion or
seaworthiness.
Eyes- Eyes the size of plates.
VII
They glowed bright yellow against the night, and
each was centered with a tiny, bright black pupil.
Then there were two more emerging from the water
nearby, and another pair, until ten hung staring
down at the little islet.
Trouble was, they all belonged to the same creature.
Nor did they operate always in pairs. Instead they
drifted with a sickening looseness on the ends of
thin, flexible strands that protruded from a smoothly
rounded, glowing skull. Arms and tentacles rose
from around the raft. Two of them seemed to be
holding the bald yellow skull in place, lest it drift off
on its own.
There was a long thin slit of a mouth, dark against
the glowing bulbous head. It was a strip of solidity in
a mass of insubstantial semkransparent yellow lumi-
nosity- You could see swamp water and the raft and
trees right through it.
“Go away!” Jon-Tom stuttered. “I didn’t sing you
upl Mudge, I didn’t sing this up.”
“Right, mate,” said Mudge, his tone indicating
what he thought of his companion’s disclaimer. He
held his bow at the ready, but what was there to
109
Alan Dean Foster
110
shoot at? He was confident his shafts would pass
clean through the apparition.
“I know wot it is. mate. ‘Tis a Will-o’-lhe-Wisp, for
certain. I’ve heard tell of them livin’ in swamps and
marshes and such places, if you can call that livin’.”
“There is no such thing as a Will-o’-the-Wisp.”
Jon-Tom held tight to his duar as though its mere
existence might protect them. “They’re not living
things, just floating globes of swamp gas.”
“And what are you?” said the Will-o’-the-Wisp in a
surprisingly resonant tone for such an insubstantial
creature. “An earthbound sack of water with a few
brains floating around inside one end.” It nudged
the raft, which was shoved halfway up onto the tiny
beach. Swamp water sloshed over Jon-Tom’s boots.
“You hit me with this,” the wraith said accusingly.
“Now, why would you go and say a thing like that,
mate?” said .an injured Mudge. “Wot would we be
doin’ with a bunch o’ dead logs like that when we ‘ave
this nice, dry little island to spend our lives on?”
“Don’t lie, Mudge.” The otter threw up his hands
and looked imploringly heavenward.
The Wisp floated out of the water, hovering above
the tallest trees. Glowing eyeballs focused on Jon-
Tom, all ten of them. Then they shifted to stare
down at Mudge.
Mudge smiled ingratiatingly up at the ghostly horror.
“‘E’s not with me, guv’nor. I’m goin’ this way, ‘e’s
goin’ that way- Now if you’ll just excuse me…” The
otter turned to dive into the water.
“I mean you no harm,” the Wisp told them. “I was
only curious because this”—and he nudged the raft
all the way out of the water—”seemed to appear
from Nowhere. Nowhere is a land my kind usually
have to ourselves, except for the occasional tourist.”
“It was an accident,” Jon-Tom explained. “We needed
some transportation, so 1 called this up. I didn’t
THB MOMENT or TSB M^OICIAM
111
know you were anywhere around.” He hesitated,
asked, “Are you sure you aren’t just swamp gas?”
“I should be insulted,” replied the Wisp, “but I am
not, because the fact is that I am largely swamp gas.”
To demonstrate this truism, several tentacles broke
free and drifted off into the distance. They were
rapidly regenerated.
“I just don’t like being called swamp gas, that’s all”
“No harm intended,” said Jon-Tom. “We ail have
pet names that we dislike. For instance, not long ago
someone called me a preppie. Say, maybe you can
help us out. We’re heading south from here for a
place called Quasequa. Anything about the country
between here and there you can tell us about?”
“1 linger longest in Nowhere,” the Wisp informed
him. “Does this Quasequa lie in that region?”
“I hope not,” Jon-Tom confessed.
“Then I do not know of it. But this I do know. If
you go south from here, you have the great Wrounipai
to cross, and that is very near to Nowhere.”
**\bu mean there’s much more o* this filthy disgustin*
‘ell ahead o’ us? I want to be sure,” Mudge added
pleasantly, “before I slit me friend’s throat.”
The water glowed where it foamed around the
Will-o’-the-Wisp’s body.
“A great deal more, travelers. Even I do not know
its full extent.”
“Tropical flowers.” Mudge was staring forlornly at
the dark water. “Compliant lasses waitin’ to greet you
with open arms.” He turned angrily on Jon-Tom.
“You know wot, mate? I always did ‘ave a ‘ankerin’ to
try some turtle soup.”
Jon-Tom smiled up at the Wisp- “We thank you for
that information, even if it’s not quite what we wanted
to hear.”
“We don’t always get to hear what we want to, do
we?** The energetic phosphorescence curled about
ALut Dean Porter
112
itself. “Now, I”—and the mulli-eyed skull floated
frighteningly near to Jon-Tom—”happen to like music.
I heard yours. Could you sing me a little more?”
“Why, I’d be glad to”
Mudge put his paws over his ears. “Saints preserve
us, not another music lover, and this one ain’t even
got the decency to ‘ave proper ears.”
The unfortunate otter was kept awake all that
night as Jon-Tom sang every old Halloween song he
could remember. The eerie chords drifted out over
the calm swamp water while the WilI-o’-the-Wisp
danced delightedly in the air, tossing off sparks and
glowing splinters of its gaseous self and making lowly
lichens and algae flare with rainbows.
Jon-Tom couldn’t remember the last time he’d had
such an appreciative audience. Sadly, when the Will”
o’-the-Wisp’s interest finally evaporated, it did, too.
The otter’s mood hadn’t improved much by the
time morning dawned. “Wonder if this wondrous
Quasequa even exists,” he grumbled. “Probably some
poor fallin’-down mud-town if it does. Wouldn’t be
the first time ‘is sorcererness ‘as lied to us.”
“He doesn’t lie, Mudge. It’s against the wizard’s
code to lie. He told me so.”
Mudge sighed and looked disgusted. “The com-
panions fate ‘ands you” His voice rose. “Suppose this
bloomin’ paradise do exist? Suppose ’tis everything
your ‘ard-shelled instructor says it is? Wot ‘e neglected
to tell us before we set out on this little stroll is that
there’s a thousand leagues o’ swamp between ‘ere
and there, wot? Wot a load o’ wizardly crap!”
Jon-Tom looked unhappy. “He wasn’t too specific
about the distance to be crossed. I admit I didn’t
press him on the point.”
“I’d like to press ‘im on the point,” Mudge said
grimly, savoring the thought as he fingered his short
THE MOMKNT OF THE MAGICIAN 113
sword. “I’d like to press the point right through the
back o’ ‘is deceiving shell and use the ‘ole for a—”
“Careful, Mudge,” Jon-Tom said warningly. “It’s
not healthy to be disrespectful of a sorcerer’s powers
even if he’s a fair distance from you.”
“Frog farts! I tell you, mate, I’m gettin’ fed up with
these bloody surprises o’ yours. For ‘alf a gold piece
I’d leave you now and ‘ead back to the good ol’
Bellwoods.”
“Back through Witten and Fault? By yourself?”
“You broke their bloomin’ totem, not me- Besides,
I’ve got some unfinished business back in Fault I
wouldn’t mind taking care of.”
“If General Pocknet gets his paws on you, he’ll
finish your business.”
Mudge shrugged. “So I’d circle around both towns.
Then ’tis back to the Bellwoods for me, back to
Lynchbany and Timswitty and Dornay and real
civilization. Back to.. -”
Even had Mudge not rambled on, it’s unlikely
either of them would have seen the shadow. The
swamp was a world of shadows, and one more was
easily lost in the shifting, diffused light. The shadow
blended in completely with trees and creepers.
But this shadow was different. It moved indepen-
dently of those which blanketed the island, moved
with purpose and exceptional speed. They didn’t see
it until it was directly over them, and then it was too
late.
Mudge yelled a warning white Jon-Tom dove for
his ramwood staff. The otter reached for his sword:
no time for bow and arrows.
Then it was gone, as quickly as it had appeared-
Mudge lay panting hard on the sand, eyes wide, his
sword held defensively in front of his chest even
though there was nothing left to defend against. The
danger had vanished along with the shadow.
Atan Dean Foster
114
In its place it left three things: Jon-Tom’s ramwood
staff, his sword, and a single steel-gray feather. The
feather was four inches wide and two feet long- It lay
motionless near the otter, the only hard evidence of
something which had come and gone with blinding
speed.
Mudge picked it up, ran it through his paws. The
quill was as thick around as his finger. He straight-
ened his cap, which somehow had stayed on his head
during the seconds-long fight, and gazed eastward.
The shadow had disappeared in that direction, carry-
ing Jon-Tom in a single brace of impossibly big
talons.
The otter considered his situation in light of his
recent declarations. The raft was intact, and in addi-
tion to his own weapons and supplies, he also had
the spellsinger’s. He was uninjured.
Well, that was that, then. So much for one brave,
ignorant, meddling, exasperating, immature spellsing-
er. There was no shame now in returning home.
He would even report the debacle to the wizard
Clothahump. Sure, he owed the unfortunate Jon-
Tom that much. At least the youth wouldn’t be
worrying about returning to his own world anymore.
As for the wizard, he would accept his student’s
demise philosophically, and there was no way he
could blame it on the otter. It had happened too
fast.
One minute Jen-Tom had been sitting there next
to him, listening politely to his complaints, and the
next he’d been carried off by a dark cloud. Not
Mudge’s fault, no sir. Couldn’t have been prevented-
He loaded the raft and stepped aboard, then pushed
out into the water. At last he could start living his
own life, without fear of being conscripted for some
lethal journey halfway across a hostile world. He
could get back to living like a normal person again,
THE MOWSHT OF THE UAWCIAH
J.IS
could sleep soundly once more without listening for
strange sounds in the night.
Certainly there was nothing he could do. There
wasn’t, was there? He pushed angrily against the
shaft of the split-bladed paddle and wondered why
his thoughts were so damn troubled….
Jon-Tom hung in the grasp of the powerful talons
and did not struggle, hoping the enormous eagle
. which had carried him off preferred live food to
dead. Because dead he’d certainly be if the bird let
him fall. The Wrounipai flashed past far below.
He twisted as best he was able in the unyielding
; grip and examined his captor. The eagle had at least
‘ a twenty-foot wingspan. It carried him effortlessly.
Like the much-smaller feathered inhabitants of this
world, it wore a kilt which trailed backward over hips
^ and tail and a vest with a peculiar zigzagging pattern
of black on gray. The pattern was almost familiar to
Jon-Tom, but he didn’t pursue it through his memory.
^ At the moment he was not in a position to spend
tmuch time doing a detailed analysis of another
creature’s clothing.
\ Since the bird showed no sign of stopping, Jon-
^ Tom tried to make a detached survey of the terrain
^ below. It was much as the Will-o’-the-Wisp had
|f described: endless swamp and water stretching off in
^ all directions spotted here and there with tiny islets.
^ A short while later their apparent destination hove
ff into view. Some powerful tectonic disturbance had
{thrust a vast mass of black basalt straight up out of
the earth. It was thickly overgrown with climbing
I. trees and vines as thick as a man’s body.
^ An opening showed in the rock two-thirds of the
^ way up its side. The eagle dove straight for it. For an
^ instant Jon-Tom didn’t think those huge wings would
^’ make it, but the eagle just managed to squeeze
Alan Dean Foster
116
through the opening without bashing Jon-Tom’s head
or legs against; the rock betow.
The opening was not a cave. It was a tunnel
leading to the interior of the butte. The inside was
hollow.
The eagle flapped its wings twice before touching
down on one foot. It flicked its prize away, almost
contemptuously.
Jon-Tom rolled over several limes, feeling gravel
cut into his face. He suffered the pain and chose
instead to do his best to protect the duar strapped to
his back. When he finally rolled to a stop he was
bruised and scratched, but otherwise in one piece.
Keeping one eye on the eagle, he rose to examine
his surroundings.
The hollow place was not a volcanic throat, but
rather the result of some convulsive fracturing. Six-
sided stone columns rose toward the distant sky.
Jon-Tom had seen them before, in pictures of the
Giant’s Causeway in Scotland and the Devil’s Postpile
in California’s High Sierra.
Where each column had broken, a natural perch
was formed. These were occupied by numerous nests
and homes. The floor of the great open shaft was a
charnel house full of bones picked clean by razor-
sharp beaks.
The occupants of the homes and the owners of the
beaks were normal-sized avians. Not one stood more
than four feet in height. With increasing interest, he
noted kilts belonging to hawks and falcons, ospreys
and fish hawks and vultures- They soared and swam
through the air of the shaft, coming and going
through the opening above and, less often, through
the tunnel that had served as his own entrance. They
all seemed to be talking at once. The multiple screech-
ing was deafening.
Several of them walked or flew by to greet the
THE MOMENT OF THE XAdTCUM
117
giant who had brought him with a spirited, “Hail,
Gyrnaught!” Each raised a right wingdp in salute.
That also struck Jon-Tom as somehow familiar, but
he didn’t pay overmuch attention to it. There were
too many other things to try and absorb simultaneously
and he was too disoriented for deep thought.
For one thing, he was far more concerned about
his immediate fate, since the giant eagle didn’t ap-
pear particularly interested in eating him. Not yet,
anyway. The mountain of bones which covered the
floor of the shaft was anything but reassuring.
The shadow towered over him again. The eagle
was not quite as impressive as it had been with its
wings outspread, but it was just as intimidating.
“Stand up straight!” the eagle commanded him.
Still sore and cramped, Jon-Tom fought to comply
with the request.
“They say, ‘Hail, Gyrnaught.’ You’re Gyrnaught?”
A minuscule nod of head and beak. The eagle was
big enough to bite him in two without straining
itself.
“What do you want with me?”
“Not dinner. Flesh is cheap.” He gestured with a
wing. “Welcome to the Raptor’s Lair. You have been
brought here to serve, not to be served. If you prove
yourself.”
“I don’t understand.”
Again the beak dipped, this time to gesture toward
the duar. “An instrument. You are a musician?”
“Uh, yeah.” Somehow Jon-Tom felt this wasn’t the
most opportune time to explain that he was also a
spellsinger. He might want to demonstrate that tal-
ent later. In fact, it was all but a certainty. The
longer he could keep that fact a secret from his
captor, the better Jon-Tom’s chances of catching him
unawares.
Alan Dean Foster
118
“I thought as much,” said Gyrnaught. “I have
need of a musician.”
It was in Jon-Tom’s mind to comment that the
eagle didn’t look much like a music lover, but he kept
his thoughts to himself. Trying to still his trembling,
he struggled to put up a bold front. The fact that he
wasn’t on the evening’s menu helped-
“Quite a place you’ve got here.”
“Ah, this is but the beginning.” Gyrnaught was
pleased. Good, Jon-Tom thought, gaining a little
confidence. He can be flattered. To what extent
remained to be seen. “This is only a temporary lair
for my troops and myself. They are but the foam of
a wave which will fly forth to dominate the whole
world. Today this mountain, tomorrow the Wrounipai;
later the world! The nest will reign for a thousand
yearsi” The eagle’s eyes flashed as if focusing on
something .only it could see, and (hat, too, half
reminded Jon-Tom of something.
“I don’t think I recognize the pattern on your kilt
and vest.”
“You could not, for it is not of this world. I
brought it here from another place many years ago.
It has taken me this long to organize just this small
striking force.” He made a disgusted noise. “The
raptors of this world are difficult to convince of the
truth”
“Really? Another world? That’s interesting. See,
I’m from another world myself.”
The eagle’s eyes narrowed. “Say you so? What
were you in your world?”
“A student of law and a singer of songs,” he
admitted truthfully.
“I have need of song. As for law, I make my own”
“What were you?” Jen-Torn asked hastily, to change
the subject.
“I?” The eagle gazed down at him proudly. “I was
THE MOMENT OF THE MAOfdJUr
119
a symbol. I was everywhere, in thousands of replica-
tions. In stone and steel and brass. In symbols as
small as this”—and he held the two great wingtips
barely an inch apart—”and in granite monoliths big-
ger than you can imagine. I was a symbol every-
where and all people bowed down to me.
“But,” he went on angrily, “they saw me only as a
symbol. They did not stop and pause and consider
when they chose one of their own to be a symbol
over me. From that moment on my powers were lost.
I could not manifest my true self. When their substi-
tute symbol was ground into the dust, only I. of
many thousands of me, escaped destruction. While
in symbols I was destroyed, in this world I found
myself set free. Here I am whole again and can start
the work properly, myself.” He gestured at the rap-
tors swarming through the shaft, the light dancing
on their wings,
“My soldiers will rule above all others. It is des-
tined to be so, destined for the strong to rule over
the weak. We of beak and claw shall dictate to those
who only can walk. It is right- It is destiny.”
It all came together in Jon-Tom’s mind. He’d
studied too much history for it to escape him for
long.
He’d seen Gyrnaught before, in metal and stone
standards. Just as the eagle said. Seen him in pic-
tures rising above obscene parade grounds, atop cold
inhumane structures, a frozen caricature of evil.
“1 know you,” he said. “It was before my time, but
I know what you stand for.”
Gyrnaught looked pleased. “A historian as well as a
musician. You wilt prove even more valuable to the
nest. Tell me, then, do you know the Horst Wessel
song?”
“No. Like I said, it was before my time. But I know
the kind of music you want. What I want to know is,
Alan Dean Foster
120
why should I sing for you? Why should I help you
spread your old evil to this new world when your
infection has already been cleared from mine?”
“Because if you don’t, I will bite off your head and
swallow it like a pumpkin.”
Jon-Tom moved the duar around in front of him.
“Can’t argue with that kind of logic.”
“Ah, you are going to be reasonable, then. That is
good. If you continue to be reasonable, you will
continue to live. Besides, you should be proud that
the nest has need of your services.”
“What is it, exactly, that you want?” Jon-Tom sighed.
Gymaught gestured at his fellow avians. “These
are difficult to inspire. I have not yet been able to
convince all of them that they are destined to rule all
others, that they belong to the master race.”
“Why? Because they have wings and the rest of us
don’t?”
“Naturally. It is only right for the higher to rule
the lower. I will see to it that alt the raptors of this
world flock to my banner.”
“There aren’t enough of you. You’re just a few
species among many.”
Gymaught looked smug. “We will enlist others to
serve under us, and they will do the heavy dying.
They will be proud to when they see what the new
order is to be.”
“You haven’t got a chance, any more than your
human counterpart did.”
“He was a fool, and only a human. I am confident.”
That beak moved dose, but Jon-Tom stood his ground.
There was no place to retreat to anyway. “And now
we shall see if there is truth to your words. Sing, stir
(he hearts of my followers, and you will live long.”
Jon-Tom did so, though it stung badly. He rational-
ized his efforts by assuring himself he was only
stalling for time. Stalling until Mudge arrived to
THE MOMEJVT OF THE MAGICIAN 121
spirit him out of this place. Then they’d figure out a
means of stopping this disease that had crossed over
from his own world before it could spread.
He sang all the marches he could think of. The
raptors were drawn to the music, dipping low to
listen. There was a screech of approval at the conclu-
sion of each martial melody.
WhenJon-Tom’s lungs Finally gave out, Gymaught
put a friendly wing over him. Jon-Tom felt suddenly
unclean.
“You did well, musician! Put aside your otherworldly,
primitive moral conceits and join me. I am not
ungrateful to those who pledge their lives to me.”
Jon-Tom wanted to tell the eagle precisely what he
thought of him and his totalitarian philosophy, but
he had sense enough to shrug and say instead,
“Maybe you’ve got something here. Maybe it could
work in this world if not in the one we’ve left
behind.”
“That’s the spirit.” Gymaught patted him on the
back, nearly knocking Jon-Tom down. “The others
moved too fast and became insane. But 1 am not
insane, and I will not force my wing. Our advance
and conquest will be patient, but inexorable. This
time the cause will not fall.” He looked around.
“Over there is a small cave. A good place for you,
unless you would prefer a higher perch.”
Jon-Tom let his gaze travel up the vertical walls of
the shaft. “I’d never get up or down. I think I’ll stay
close to the ground.”
“A poor, earthbound creature. But you see, with
me, you can fly! In truth, good singer, you will be
able to lord it over your fellows. Think on that.”
Another crushing pat and Gymaught walked off
to talk with his underlings.
Smooth, Jon-Tom thought. He has the charisma
down pat. The odor of the charnel house was power-
Alan Dean Foster
122
ful in Jon-Tom’s nostrils, an echo of similar, greater
slaughterhouses from his own world’s recent history.
That could not be repeated here, must not be repeated.
But he had to be careful. Gyrnaught was ,no fool.
He would listen carefully to anything Jon-Tom might
sing until he was more confident of his pet human’s
loyalty. So he had to be careful until he could do
something.
He just wasn’t sure what.
One thing struck him forcefully as the days passed
within the shaft: the ease with which Gyrnaught had
taken control of the minds and spirits of this world’s
raptors. They drilled efficiently on the ground and
in the open air overhead, seemingly having readily
abrogated their traditional independence in favor of
Gyrnaught’s rule. It just wasn’t like them, according
to those Jon-Tom had met in his travels.
One day he asked an osprey about it. To his
surprise, the bird informed him that when left to
themselves, the hawks and falcons and other birds of
prey often questioned the wisdom of Gyrnaught’s
philosophy. They weren’t sure they really wanted to
conquer the world- But in his presence they were
helpless. The force of the eagle’s personality and the
strength of his arguments overwhelmed any hesitant
opposition. Furthermore, anyone who questioned it was
never seen again. So there was no organized opposi-
tion to his plans.
The osprey left Jon-Tom much encouraged. May-
be they weren’t confident enough to oppose him, but
at least not all of the raptors had signed over their
souls to Gyrnaught. That uncertainty could be
exploited, but not gradually. Gyrnaught would sure-
ly trace any such dissension to its source, and that
would be the end of Jonathan Thomas Meriweather.
No, it would have to be fast, a sudden collapse of
will if not outright opposition. Trouble was, all the
THE MOMENT or THE MAOICLW 123
songs he knew were full of life and delight and fun.
He didn’t know any music darker than the martial
bombast Gyrnaught himself favored. Nor could he
think of anything potentially disruptive which would
work fast enough. And he didn’t think he had much
time. His renditions of old marches were quickly
•bang their edge as his own disenchantment manifested
itself, and Gyrnaught was getting suspicious. One
day soon the eagle might decide to go hunting for a
new musician.
He was sitting in his private alcove on the bed of
straw that had been provided for his comfort, chat-
ting with a small falcon named Hensor.
“Tell me again,” he asked the raptor, “why you all
follow Gyrnaught so blindly and willingly. Because
he’s bigger than the rest of you?”
“Of course not,” said Hensor. “We follow because
he is smarter and knows what’s best for the rest of
us. He knows how to make us act as a single talon
able to strike death into the hearts of any who
oppose us.”
“Yeah, but nobody’s opposing you.”
“All oppose us. All who do not bow down to the
rule of the master race.”
“Well, suppose everyone else did bow down to
you?”
*They won’t.” Hensor spoke with confidence. “We’ll
have to knock it into their heads. Gyrnaught says so.”
“I’m sure he’s right, but just suppose, just for a
moment, that everyone did bow down to you. Then
what?”
“Then we would rule without bloodshed. Except
for the inferior races, of course, who would have to
be disposed of.”
Jon-Tom felt a chill but continued politely. “Who
would rule?”
Alan Dean Foster
124
“We would, the raptors would. Under Gyrnaught’s
enlightened leadership, of course.”
“I see.”Jon”Tom shifted on the straw. “Suppose all
this comes to pass, suppose you conquer the whole
world under Gyrnaught’s direction. Then what
happens?”
“Well…” Hensor hesitated. Evidently Gyrnaught’s
orations hadn’t sought that far into the future. “We
wouldn’t have to work. Others would do our fishing
and hunting and gathering for us.”
“Then what will you do?”
“Why, we will rule, naturally.”
“But you already have everything you require.”
“Then we’ll get more.”
“More what? How much food can you eat? How
much wood do you need for a house or traditional
nest?”
“I… I don’t know.” The falcon shook his head,
rubbed at his eyes with the flexible tip of one red-
feathered wing. “Your questions hurt my thoughts.”
“I know what you’ll do, and I’ll tell you.”Jon-Tom
peered quickly outside. Gyrnaught wasn’t around.
Probably off drilling troops somewhere. “You’ll get
bored, that’s what you’ll do. You’ll sit around doing
nothing until your feathers fall out and you can’t fly
anymore. You’ll look like a bunch of chickens.”
“Take care,” Hensor warned him. “Some of my
best friends are chickens.”
“Well, you know what I mean. Laziness will result
in flighdessness.”
Hensor’s confidence returned. “No it won’t. Gyr-
naught’s drills will keep us strong.”
“Strong so you can do what? No, once you’ve
conquered everyone else, you’ll get bored and soft
because you won’t have anything else to fight for.
and defeated people will see to all your needs. Rap-
THE MOMENT or THE MAGICIAN 125
tors are born to hunt. Without any need to do that,
you’ll all get flabby and flightless.”
“You confuse me.”
“Oh, I don’t mean to do that,” Jon-Tom assured
him immediately. “Heavens no. I’m just concerned,
that’s all. You’re all such strong fliers now, I’d hate to
see you waste away.”
“What do you suggest?”
Jon-Tom moved close, spoke in a conspiratorial
whisper. “There’ll be one of you who’ll never get fat
and lazy because he’ll be too busy making sure the
rest of you stay in line. Those that don’t, of course,
are liable to end up on his dinner table.”
Hensor looked shocked. “No, that would never
happen! Gyrnaught would never do that.”
Jon-Tom shrugged. “He’d only be following his
own philosophy. The strong rule, the weak perish.”
He hoped he was having some impact on Hensor
because the convoluted reasoning was beginning to
make him a little dizzy himself. “There is a solution
to the problem, though.”
“What?” asked Hensor eagerly.
“It’s simple. Everyone must be equal. None of the
master race must be any less the master than his
neighbor. That’s only fair, isn’t it? That way every-
one will have to maintain himself in optimum condi-
tion for lighting.”
Hensor’s expression showed that this notion of all
chiefs no Indians was new to him. “Gyrnaught wouldn’t
like it,” he replied slowly.
“Why not? If you’re all members of the master
race, shouldn’t you all have an equal part in ruling
the lesser races? He’d still be the prime leader, but
you’d all be leaders together. Isn’t that how it’s
always been among the raptors?”
“Yes, that’s true,” Hensor agreed excitedly. “We
could all be leaders. We are all leaders.” He turned
Aim Dean Foster
126
and spread his bright red wings. “I must tell the
others!”
Jon-Tom retreated to the depths of his alcove and
went through the motions of rearranging his few
belongings. Before too much time had passed his
attention was drawn outside by a rising din. He
smiled to himself as he turned to peek out of the
cave.
Something a mite stronger than an animated dis-
cussion was taking place among the soldiers of the
master race, high up in the air of the central shaft- It
appeared to involve a majority of them, in fact. In
the midst of the discussion was a large gray shape,
dipping and swinging its wingtips in what looked
very much like fury.
Soon it was raining feathers. They were of many
sizes and colors, and Jon-Tom amused himself by
gathering a few and stuffing them into the lining of
his cape. As the screeching and angry squawking
continued, he casually picked up his duar and strolled
toward the path leading to the tunnel. No one paid
him the slightest attention, since everyone was fully
involved in determining who was qualified to be a
leader and who was not.
Apparently Gyrnaught was having some difficulty
sorting out this business of multiple leadership, and
the offer to make him prime leader wasn’t sufficient
to satisfy his ego. There was only one leader here,
one master! His heretofore obedient soldiery was
vigorously disputing this position.
Jon-Tom reached the lip of the tunnel, spared a
last backward glance for the argument which had
freed him, and then hurried into the passageway. He
was almost to the exit when a very large hawk
swooped down from a hidden perch near the ceiling
to challenge him.
Jon-Tom hadn’t expected a guard. This one had
TtSS MOMENT OF THE MAOICSAN
127
an eight-foot wingspan and gripped a long \w\e
tipped with four sharp points in both flexible wingdps.
Jon-Tom was more fearful of its natural weapons.
Beak and talons could tear him apart.
“Where are you going, musician?”
i “Just getting a little air,” Jon-Tom told the guard,
smiling thinly. He glanced over his shoulder, eyed
the hawk significantly. “Aren’t you going to join the
discussion and put your application in?”
“What discussion?” The hawk’s bright eyes never
left him.
“The one where everybody’s going to determine
who’s a proper member of the master race and who
isn’t.”
“I am the sentry,” the hawk told him. “That is
enough for me to be.”
“But everyone else is—” The hawk cut him off by
taking a step forward and jamming the sharp spikes
against Jon-Tom’s belly. Jon-Tom retreated. The hawk
followed, prodding him backward.
“Haven’t you heard about the discussion?” Jon-
Tom asked lamely-
“I’ll find out later.”
“But everyone’s a master now, everyone’s a leader.”
“I’m only a sentry. I think maybe we’d better talk
to Gyrnaught about this. I don’t think you’re allowed
out to ‘get a little air.’ There’s plenty of air in the
lair.” Again the spikes pricked Jon-Tom’s gut, forcing
him back another couple of steps.
He was on the verge of panic. Unarmed, there
wasn’t a chance he could overpower this determined
guard. In a little while Gyrnaught might whip his
fracturing reich back into shape. When he did, Jon-
Tom had a hunch the eagle would do some interrogat-
ing. Then he’d come looking for his pet musician,
whose clever songs wouldn’t save his skin from being
slowly peeled from his clever body.
Atan Dean Foster
128
“Can’t we talk this over?” he pleaded.
“Nonsense. I can’t discuss things with a member of
an inferior race because it would—” The hawk stopped
in mid-sentence. He pivoted slowly, and as he did so,
Jon-Tom saw something like a quill protruding from
the back of his skull. It wasn’t a quill and it had
feathers of its own. An arrow.
The guard fell on his face, a heap of dead feathers,
“Are you goin’ to stand there gawkin’ all day,”
snapped Mudge as he notched another arrow into
his longbow and tried to see down the tunnel, “or do
you think it’d be too much of me to ask that you
move your bloody aggravatin’ arse?”
VIII
t “Mudgel”
^ “Oi, I know me name and you know yours.” The
^Otter was starting to back toward the exit. “Now, if
^your legs are still connected to your feeble brain, I’d
^appreciate it if you’d get the latter t’ movin’ the
^’former.”
^ Mudge led him outside, then down the tree-choked
i^ope to the water’s edge, where their raft was beached.
Jon-Tom had been disappointed when he’d called it
; Up, but now it was as beautiful as a forty-foot motor
| yacht. They pushed off and began rowing furiously
|^fith the paddles.
^ From time to time Jon-Tbm could see several shapes
“rise from the hollow interior of the island only to
dive back inside.
“Beginnin’ to think I’d never run you down, mate,”
‘ Mudge was saying.
“Why’d you bother, after what you were saying the
last time we talked? There were plenty of good
reasons for you to forget about me, and none for
coming after me.”
“Well, let’s call it curiosity and leave it at that,
mate. If I think on it much I’m liable to get sick.
Maybe I was just interested in seein’ if you’d ended
129
Alan Dean Foster
130
up as bird food or wotever. Or maybe I’m crazier
than a neon worm.”
“1 don’t care why you did it, I’m just glad that you
did”
Mudge jerked his head in the direction of the
rapidly shrinking island. “Wot ‘appened in there,
anyways? Never ‘eard a screekin’ and yowtin’ like that
in me life. You put a spellsong on ’em?”
“Not exactly. I just sort of convinced them to
engage in a dialogue aimed at preventing the spread
of injustice while maintaining equality among them-
selves.”
“Cor, no wonder they was ‘avin’ a bloody mess of
it! The poor flap-faces. Think they’ll come after us
after they get things sorted out among themselves?”
“Not right away, if then. If their leader survives
this little debate, he’s going to be too busy trying to
put his organization back together again to worry
about my whereabouts for a while. It probably wouldn’t
be a bad idea to keep a close watch on the sky for a
few days, though”
“I follow you, mate. We won’t be surprised from
above like that again.”
“Damn right we won’t.” He turned thoughtful.
“I’m hoping that Gymaught… that’s the eagle who
snatched me… Finds out what happens to the kind
of system he espouses, finds out that it’s doomed to
self-destruction. I hope he learns that power cor-
rupts absolutely. That greed quickly overtakes loyalty
in the minds of supposedly obedient followers.”
“Why ‘e grab you anyways, mate, if not for
munching?”
“He needed a musician.”
“Teh. All ‘e ‘ad to do was ask, and I’d *ave told him
as ‘ow *e was wastin’ ‘is time.” He grinned. “Sounds
like a fowl business all the way ’round, mate.”
THE MOMENT OF THE MAGICIAN
131
If he hadn’t just saved his life, Jon-Tom would
have pushed him overboard.
The further south they rowed, the more relaxed
I Jon-Tom became. Clearly Gyrnaught had his wings
t full with his newly enlightened flock, and even if he
» did Find the time to wonder where his musician had
jf gone to, he had no way of knowing which way
xJon-Tom had fled. As days slipped by, he was more
^and more convinced he’d seen the last of the eagle.
| His relief was tempered by their surroundings,
Iwhich grew thicker and more humid than ever.
‘^Clothahump’s “pleasant tropical country” was closing
|in on them with a vengeance. The trees of the
^W^nnipai towered above their frail raft, supported
d|»y labyrinthine root systems which sometimes choked
|E?ff their chosen route, forcing them to detour to east
|or west. Occasionally the roots themselves grew so
||tall it was possible to paddle beneath them. Shelf
fungi and toadstools clung determinedly to the bases
|»f the smaller trees.
? What little dry land they did encounter was so
thickly overgrown with brambles and thorn thickets
Ithat they had to hunt carefully to find campsites for
jtfie night. Mudge insisted they do this because the
jl-egular evening concert of eerie squeals and groans
Hnnade him leery of anchoring out on the water.
^. Man and otter would huddle close together in
front of their small fire for a long while before
drifting off into an uneasy, disturbed sleep. But
while both found the nocturnal noises unnerving,
nothing slouched out of the muck to devour them as
they slept.
Still, the dark, dank gloominess was all-pervading.
Not quite as Clothahump had described it.
Mist clung to them day and night, rising from the
, steaming surface of the water- When it rained, which
| was often, the heat abated somewhat, but it became
Alan Dean Foster
132
almost impossible to judge direction. This forced
them to seek shelter beneath the towering roots ot
the larger trees. After a couple of weeks, jon-Tom
was certain the morning growth that covered his face
was more mildew than beard.
Everything in the Wrounipai waff slick with moss
or rough with fungi. The intense humidity threat-
ened to rot the clothes otf their backs. .It also seemed
to penetrate to work on their minds, disorienting
them and making identification of the most ordinary
objects difficult.
They had beached the raft on a sand bar beneath
the natural roof formed by several interlocking aii
roots, sharing it with freshwater crustaceans and
other inhabitants of the brackish environment. Their
campfire crackled Fitfully, the flames struggling against
the cloying atmosphere. It was a pitch-black night
Trees blocked out the clouds, and the clouds shuttered
the moon. Their only light came from the fire.
But he could still hear, and something sounded
very peculiar indeed.
Jon-Tom roused himself, his eyes heavy from lack
of sleep. Nearby, Mudge lay rolled up in his thin
blanket, snoring on, oblivious of the strange rushing
noise which had awakened Jon-Tom.
The spellsinger listened for a long time before
donning his cape and walking to the edge of the
water. The sound was an unnatural one, steady and
moist, like a rushing in a vacuum. He put his hand
out into the rain, jerked it back as if he’d been stung,
then slowly extended it a second time. He stared at it
in wonder, shook his head to clear it. The phenome-
non persisted. So he wasn’t crazy.
Water beaded up against his extended hand. It felt
like normal rain. It looked like normal rain. He drew
back his hand again and tasted of it. A pungent, salty
flavor that wasn’t normal. He was relieved for that. It
THE MOMENT OF THE MAOICIAH 133
meant his senses were functioning properly, and he
was relieved that it was the precipitation that was
deranged and not himself.
He watched it until he was completely awake, then
walked back to wake Mudge.
“Huh… wuzzat, wot?” The otter blinked up at
him. Jon-Tom’s face must have presented a less than
pleasing sight, lit only by the feeble glow of their
campfire. “Wot is it, mate? Cor, ’tis black as a
magistrate’s thoughts out.”
“It’s still night. The sun’s not up yet.”
“Then why,” asked a suddenly irritated Mudge,
“did you wake me?”
“It’s raining, Mudge.”
, The otter paused a moment, listening. *T can hear
it. So wot?”
“It’s not raining right.”
“Not right? ‘Ave you gone daft?”
“Mudge, it’s raining up.”
“Gone over the edge,” the otter muttered. “Poor
‘ bugger.” He slipped free of his blanket and staggered
sleepily toward the water’s edge. A paw reached out
.into the rain. Water beaded up against the back of
‘his hand while the palm stayed dry.
^ “I’ll be corn’oled, so it is.”
! Jon-Tom’s hand reached out parallel to the otter’s.
“What does it mean?” It was fascinating to watch the
droplets strike the back of his hand, crawl around
the fingers, and shoot up into the dark sky.
“I guess it means, guv, that ‘is wizardness wasn’t
kiddm’ when he told us this part o’ the world was
tropical. My guess is that the land ‘ereabouts gets so
wet from the ‘umidity that it ‘as to give back some o’
the water to the sky from time to rime. Not such an
improper arrangement, if you thinks about it. Keeps
everythin’ in balance, wot? Up, down, up, down: a
body could get confused.”
Alan Dean Foster
134
**1 can see what it’s doing, but what does it mean?”
Mudge pulled his paw out of the upside-down
storm and licked the fur on his wrist to dry it as he
strolled back toward his makeshift bed.
**It means that the world’s a wet place, mate.”
Jon-Tom watched the up-pour a while longer be-
fore rejoining his friend. He curled up underneath
his cape but lay wide-awake, staring out into the
storm. The steady rush of sky-bound water was
soothing.
“Actually, it’s kind of neat. I mean, there’s a won-
derful symmetry to it, a kind of meteorological poetry.”
“Right, mate. Me thought exactly. Now go to sleep.”
Jon-Tom turned to him. The otter’s silhouette was
barely visible against the fading fire. “You live too
fast, Mudge. Sometimes I don’t think you have the
slightest appreciation for any of the world’s natural
wonders.”
“Wot, me?” He blinked sleepily at Jon-Tom. ” ‘Ow
can you say that, mate? Why, this upside-down drizzle,
it revises me ‘ole estimation o’ ‘ow the world’s
constructed.”
“Does it? Then maybe there’s hope for you yet, if
it enables you to appreciate the strangeness and
beauty of nature, the astounding surprises that it has
in store for all of us. There is magnificence in a
slightly altered natural phenomenon like rain.”
“Actually, mate, 1 see it a little differently. See, I
always thought the world was a toilet. ‘Tis nice to
learn that it can function as a bidet also.” Whereup-
on he rolled over once more and went back to sleep.
Jon-Tom resigned himself to the fact that his com-
panion was, aesthetically speaking, a primitive. He
contemplated the upside-down rain thoughtfully. It
was disorienting, but lovely and not at all dangerous.
If naught else it was a welcome change to their
monotonous surroundings.
THB MOMENT or THE MAGICMIV 135
It continued to pour upward for a good part of
the early morning. Standing on the raft, they remained
clean and dry as they paddled through a sheet of
rising precipitation. The raft was a little cube of
dryness sliding across the plant-choked waters of the
Wrbunipai.
Eventually the humidity fell below a hundred per-
cent and they left the region of constant rain behind.
The water had become a narrow, lazy stream, one of
many cutting through parallel ridges of upthrust
granite and schist. It was an improvement over the
country they had crossed, but not the balmy paradise
Clothahump had described. Dense undergrowth still
crowded for space among the stone and water. They
found themselves paddling down a green tunnel lit
by intermittent sunlight.
On one rocky outcropping Mudge located bushes
which produced delicious green-black berries shaped
like teardrops, and the two travelers spent a whole
afternoon gorging themselves. The stony island provid-
ed a clean, dry resting place as well, and they de-
cided to spend the night.
Jon-Tom awoke the following morning, stretched,
and was awake in an instant. They were surrounded.
Not by Gyrnaught’s minions, nor by the faceless
demons of Markus the Ineluctable.
There were thirty otters staring back at him, and
every one of them looked exactly like Mudge. Jon-
Tom had experienced his share of oddities recently,
but nothing to match this.
“Good morning, Jon-Tom!” the thirty chorused in
unison.
He tried to rein in his panicky thoughts. Was he
seeing some kind of multiple mirror image fashioned
by someone well versed in the wizardiy arts? No- If
that were the case, they should all move as well as
talk simultaneously. But some were bending over in
Alan Dean Foster
136
laughter, others talking to their neighbors, still oth-
ers doffing their hats by way of greeting. Each moved
independently of the other.
There was a simpler explanation, of course. This
world had finally sent him over the edge.
One similarity stood out on careful inspection. It
was enough to convince him he hadn’t tumbled
down some metaphysical rabbit hole. While each
duplicate of the otter moved independently of the
others, displaying different expressions and making
different gestures, every one of them stayed in one
spot. None retreated and none approached.
Until one stumbled into him from behind and
nearly scared him to death. He grabbed this sole
mobile by the shoulders and shook it violently.
“Mudge, is it you?”
The otter’s eyes were glazed. “I ain’t sure no more,
mate. I used to think I were me. Now I ain’t so sure.
I was out gatherin’ breakfast berries when I came
back to see this lot.” He gestured at the circle of
Mudges enclosing their campsite. “Maybe I ain’t me.
Maybe one o’ them is me.”
“We’re all you,” said the otterish chorus, “every
one of us.”
“Yes, but I’m a better you,” insisted a pair of
Mudges off to the right.
“Not a chance,” argued three across the circle.
“We’re the best Mudges, we are.”
“Oi, you couldn’t fool your own real parents,”
declared a quartet of Mudges from the right flank.
“There has to be an explanation for this,” Jon-
Tbm said quietly, “A sensible explanation”
“Sure there is, mate,” said the Mudge standing
next to him. “I’ve been ‘angin’ around you too long,
and now I’m as loony as you are”
“Neither of you is loony,” said *the two Mudges
directly in front of them.
THB MOMENT or TOE MAGICIAN 137
As Jon-Tom blinked, or thought he blinked, the
Mudges disappeared. They were replaced by some-
thing much worse; a pair of six-foot-two-inch-tall,
indigo-and-green-clad Jon-Toms. He stared at the
perfect duplicates of himself.
^”A trick, it’s a trick of some kind. An optical
illusion.” Sure it was, but who was doing it, and why?
They’d heard nothing during the night, and the
sensitive Mudge would surely have been alerted by
the encroachment of so many intruders. He turned
to the otter.
“You haven’t heard anyone on the island besides
us?”
“Not a soul,” the otter assured him. “But we sure
‘as ‘ell ‘ave acquired some company.”
“There has to be more than one of them at work
here,” Jon-Tom muttered. “There’s too much hap-
pening simultaneously for a single creature to be
responsible.”
“You’re right there.” He turned on the voice, only
to see three more Jon-Toms chatting amongst them-
selves. One leaned against his ramwood staff, an-
other pointed, while the third studied his hands. But
they stayed rooted in three spots. In fact, it seemed
asif… yes, he was positive. The three new Jon-Toms
occupied the same locations as three now-vanished
Mudges. The otters had turned into Jon-Toms.
“I don’t know who you are or what you are, but if
you’re trying to frighten us, you’ve failed.”
“Speak for yourself, mate,” Mudge mumbled un-
der his breath.
“Frighten you? Why should we want to frighten
you?” inquired a trio of Mudges off to their left.
Once more Jon-Tom’s mind underwent an unsettling
shift in perception. The Mudges vanished, to be
replaced by three trees. Each consisted of a trunk
which topped out in a weaving, flexible point- Flow-
Alan Dean Foster
138
ers grew from the base of the trunk. In the center of
each was an indistinct, puttylike face. Jon-Tom could
see eyes and mouths but no nose or chin. An ear
protruded from each side, and a single thick, tapering
vine grew from the top of the tree. Or maybe the
trunk became the vine; Jon-Tom couldn’t teil where
one ended and the other began. Maybe there was no
tree: Just the single tall vine.
“We don’t want to frighten you- We’re just practic-
ing our art. It’s rare that we get an audience.”
Jon-Tom turned and looked behind him. Three more
Mudges had disappeared. They had been replaced
by another pair of trees and a single giant butterfly.
It fluttered but didn’t stray from its Fixed position-
“That’s so true,” the butterfly declaimed. “Our
audiences are few and far between.”
“Your art?” Jon-Tom murmured.
“We’re mimics, imitators, mimes,” said one of the
vines. “It started as a defense against the plant-
eaters. Our trees are actually below the surface.” So
these were vines he was looking at, Jon-Tom mused.
“We protect our buried trees by imitating things the
plant-eaters are scared of.”
“It works very well,” said a giant caterpillar. “It’s
hard to try and eat something that looks like you.
Personally, being into photosynthesis, I never could
understand the motile digestion cycle,”
“Anyways,” said a couple of Daliesque nightmares,
“it gets dull just sitting around waiting for something
to try and dig up your tree. So we stay in shape by
practicing different duplications. That gets boring,
too, unless we get a new audience with a fresh
perspective.” The nightmares vanished, were replaced
by twenty pairs of applauding hands.
“Come now,” said something like a small dinosaur,
“what would you like to see us mimic? We’re the best,
on this side”
THE MOMBATT OF THE MAGICIAN 139
“Not quite the best,” insisted a quartet of upside-
down birds across from the boaster. “You could
never do this.”
“Fertilizer!” snapped the other vine, immediately
becoming an astonishingly colorful assortment of
dangling avians.
“The feathers don’t run the right way.”
“They do too'” The reversed birds all stared at
Jon-Tom. “Tell us, human, do they look right to
you?”
He was slowly repacking his kit. “It’s hard for
me to say. Not really my area of expertise. I guess
they’re okay, for feathers.” He started toward the
beach where they’d left their raft the night before.
Mudge was right behind him.
“Oh, you don’t have to be an expert.” Three vines
interlocked to block their retreat. “All you have to do
is bring a fresh perspective, to be a new audience.
You’re the best we’ve had in a long time. Much too
long. We can’t let you go now. We have so many
imitations stored up. We need someone new to evalu-
ate them for us”
Jon-Tom eyed the intertwined vines and took an-
other cautious step forward. The vines sprouted
clusters of six-inch-long, poisonous thorns.
“What do you think, Mudge?”
“I don’t know, mate. 1 ‘aven’t judged any contests
in a day or so,”
“It won’t take long,” several other vines assured
them.
“Our repertoire isn’t infinite.”
“We should Finish in a couple of years,” said four
giant rats.
The rapid changes were making Jon-Tom slightly
queasy as his brain struggled to keep up with his
eyes.
“We’d love to watch you perform,” he said slowly,
Alan Dean Foster
140
“but we have important business of our own to attend
to and I’m afraid we can’t quite spare a couple of
years.”
“Oh, come on,” said two versions of himself, using
their ramwood staffs to push him back toward the
center of the circle, “you’ll enjoy it. Be good sports.
We’d go hunting an audience if we could, but we
can’t. We’re stuck to our trees.”
“Yeah, don’t you sympathize with us?” said some-
thing Jon-Tom couldn’t even give a name to.
“Sure I sympathize,” he said quickly. “We just
don’t have the lime to spare, that’s all.” He spoke
politely, white wishing he had a family-sized bottle of
weed killer in his backpack.
“Just sit back and relax,” said five startlingly volup-
tuous naked ladies from off to one side. “You’ll get
used to it after a couple of months and then you’ll be
with us in spirit as well as body.”
“Be with you in spirit?” Mudge squeaked.
“The spirit of the performance.”
“Oh.” He let out a sigh of relief.
“I’ll start, I’ll start'” declaimed one of the women.
It became, quite remarkably, three fish swimming in
empty air- This was only the first of countless
astonishing imitations, as the stage shifted from one
vine or group to another, the duplications traveling
around the circle in dizzying profusion.
If either Jon-Tom or Mudge showed signs of
boredom, they found themselves rudely jostled back
to attention by shouts or smells,
Morning became afternoon and afternoon wore
on into evening. When night crept over the island,
the mimevines turned to mimicking creatures capa-
ble of bioluminescence.
“This is all very entertainin’,” Mudge commented to
his companion, “but I’d rather not make it me career,
mate.”
TBS MOMS/IT OF THK SSAGICIAN 141
“Me neither. There has to be a way out of this.”
*”0w about makin’ a show o’ inspecting one of
their bioomin* imitations close-up-like and then makin*
a break for it between ’em? They’re stuck ‘ere. Once
past *em, we ought to be able to make it easy to the
Wt.”
“I’m not sure what they’d be capable of if agitated,”
Jon-Tom muttered. “Maybe they can imitate things
that throw toxic darts. I don’t want to find out. Not
that it matters. They’re watching us too closely, and I
don’t think we could surprise them as you suggest.
Actually, they’re pretty decent folks, for a bunch of
art-obsessed vegetables, but I think this is what’s
meant by a captive audience.
“They’re going to keep us here. judging their
work, until they’ve run through a couple of years*
worth of imitations.”
“We won’t be much use as judges if they let us
starve.”
“I don’t think they’ll let that happen. But we’re
stuck here, unless,. -”
“Unless wot?” wondered Mudge, flinching as a
huge luminous crustacean materialized behind him.
“That was a good one, wasn’t it?” asked the eight-
pincered crab-thing. The vines flanking it opted to
become delicate orange anemones.
“Unless I can get them to imitate a certain
something.” He climbed to his feet and found he was
the center of attention. Ghostly glowing things eyed
turn intently.
“Okay, everybody, listen upl” The vines swayed
toward him. They’d been nothing short of polite, in
their childlike fashion, but he didn’t think he’d get a
second chance at this. Better get it right the first
time.
“You claim you can imitate anything?”
“That’s right… that’s right…!” they chorused back
Alan Oean Foster
142
at: him. “Anything at all. Just name it. Or describe it.”
They rippled and flared in the darkness, displaying
everything from gymnastic feet linked to, long arms
to a talking rainbow.
“Not bad.” Jon-Tom showed them his duar. “But
how are you at reacting to a musical description
instead of a verbal one? How are you at listening and
imitating what you hear?”
“How’s this?” said a giant, fleshy ear.
“That’s not exactly what 1 mean. Can you mimic
only what you hear in the music? Pure music, with-
out descriptive words? Can you imitate feelings, for
example?”
“Try us, try us!” urged a chain of worms.
So Jon-Tom sang the song he’d selected, a gentle,
easygoing, relaxing song. He’d sung it once before,
and it had put an entire pirate crew safely into the
arms of Morpheus.
It seemed-to work here, too. The vines slumped,
resembling for the moment nothing more complex
than vines. When the song ended, he shouldered his
backpack and nodded for Mudge to follow.
They were almost to the edge of the clearing when
two vines suddenly rose to interlock in front of him.
They formed a very authentic-looking wall of g^ant
razor blades.
“Nice try,” said a couple of sarcastic Mudges from
nearby. “We thought you might try and trick us. It
won’t work. We’re as alert and aware of what’s goin’
on around us when we’re imitatin’ as we are when
we’re not.”
“So you might as well relax and enjoy the show,”
four Jon-Toms told them. “When you’re hungry
we’ll bring you berries. Real berries, not imitation.”
Jon-Tom and Mudge reluctantly returned to their
seats of honor in the center of the clearing. The
kaleidoscopic procession of imitations resumed.
143
THE MOUEHT OF THE MAGICIAN
Mudge leaned over to whisper to his companion.
**I like those berries, mate, but if I ‘ave to eat *em for
the next two years, I’ll turn into a bloomin’ berry
meself. Unless I go bonkers first. You’re goin’ to ‘ave
to try some stronger kind o’ spellsingin’.”
\ “I don’t know,” he murmured. “Next time they
might take my duar away.” He made placating motions,
raised his voice.
“Okay, okay, you’ve convinced me we can’t get
away, just as you’ve convinced me that we’re in the
presence of the all-time masters of mimicry.” Mutters
of appreciation came from around the circle. “But so
far everything I’ve seen you mimic has been alive.
Almost everything, anyway.”
“Live things,” said a three-foot-tall cornflower, “are
much harder to mimic than not-live things. There’s
no challenge in imitating dead things.”
“Then you haven’t been properly challenged. For
example”—he bent to pick up a piece of feldspar—
“can you imitate this? Not just any chunk of rock,
but this specific piece, perfectly?”
“He asks if we can imitate it,” said an irritated
moose. Instantly Jon-Tom and Mudge were sur-
rounded by a wall of feldspar slivers.
“I have to admit, that’s pretty good.” Jon-Tom
rose, tossed the fragment of rock aside. “Though I
do see a little movement here and there. You’re all
supposed to be rock-steady. So you think mimicking
not-live things is easy, do you? Here’s a tough one for
you.” He paused for effect. “Let’s see all of you
mutate water.”
This generated a flurry of uncertainty from the
encircling vines, mixed with excitement at the pros-
peo; of a real challenge. They twisted and jerked,
Struggling with the necessary physical and mental
contortions demanded by the request, until applause
sounded from behind Jon-Tom.
144 ALan Dean Foster
He turned. Several of the vines were applauding
one of their colleagues- This vine had vanished. In
its place was a stable, very narrow waterfall. The
water never touched the earth, but the illusion was
remarkably real.
“Congratulations! That’s more like it.” Mudge gave
him a nudge.
” ‘Ere now, mate, let’s not go gettin’ too interested
in this business, wot?”
Jon-Tom ignored him, spoke to the rest of the
mimics. “Come on, surety that’s not the only one
who can do it!”
The vines continued to struggle. Soon he and
Mudge were surrounded by waterfalls, bits of lake
and pond and swamp.
“I didn’t think you could do it,” he told them. “I’m
impressed, I admit it.”
“Don’t stop now,” said several of the vines, caught
up in the spirit of the moment. “We can go back and
finish our stored illusions anytime. Challenge us
again.”
“Yes, something harder this time!” said another.
“I’ll try.” Jon-Tom rubbed his chin and tried to
look intense. He already knew what he was going to
say, but he didn’t want his captors to know he’d
thought it out carefully beforehand. If this was going
to work, it had to appear spontaneous. Even to
Mudge.
“Okay,” he said, as though the idea had just oc-
curred to him. He turned a slow circle, gesturing
eloquently with his hands as he spoke. “You thought
water was hard? Try this. I want you all to imitate…”
and he let it hang tantalizingly for a moment, “emotions.”
That froze the vines. Then they began contorting
and jerking as they launched into vigorous discus-
sion among themselves. Jon-Tom heard whispers of
“Can’t be done… never been tried” interspersed with
THE MOMENT OF TSSK MAOICIAfi 145
more positive assertions such as “Can we mimic
anything or can’t we?… Can’t let the human think
he’s stumped us… Sure it can be done.. -Just takes a
lot of work…”
“And 10 make it worthwhile,” Jon-Tom went on,
“no more of this hanging around waiting for one of
your companions to come up with the solution. You
all take a chance on it simultaneously or it isn’t fair.
Otherwise you’re just imitating the first one of you to
be successful.” He indicated the initial waterfall. “You’ve
•got to try and do it together.”
One of the vines fluttered toward him. “Fair enough,
man. Go ahead and try us!”
“Right- First emotion is… anger.”
A brief hesitation, and then the vines began to
darken. They turned deep, violent shades of crim-
son and yellow and orange. Some sprouted barbs
and thorns that twitched and cut at the air.
“Good. Very good,” Jon-Tom complimented them.
The vines relaxed, congratulating themselves and
conversing as they faded to their normal green hue.
“No time to relax. I’ll go faster now and make it
harder on you. Next emotion is laughter.”
Vines ballooned, drifting in the air tike pennants
despite the fact that there was no breeze. Some
displayed polka dots, others were checkered, some
boasted stripes like barber’s poles, and one enterpris-
ing vine turned plaid.
“Sadness!” Jon-Tom barked.
The laughter vanished as the vines immediately
went limp and stringy, turning deep pea-soup green
or mauve or lavender. They began to drip false
tears, swaying plaintively to an unheard dirge. They
were getting better with practice and Jon-Tom changed
emotions with increasing rapidity. Surprise, fear,
elation, suspense, uncertainty…
“‘Ere now, guv,” said Mudge, “this party’s lots o’
Alan Dean Poster
146
fun, but don’t you think we ought to—?” Jon-Tom
put a hand on the otter’s shoulder and squeezed
hard, continued to shout suggestions.
Faith, hope, charity, insanity…
He spoke the last in the same tone as all the
others, with the same inflection. The effect on the
primed and responsive mimevines was shocking.
For the first time, there was no rhyme or reason to
their imitations. Colors shifted wildly. Some vines
expanded while others bulged. A couple shrank all
the way back down into their underground, hidden
trees. Two flailed the earth until they came apart,
beating themselves to pieces on the hard ground-
He didn’t have time to observe all the damage his
challenge had caused, however, because he was
running like mad for the beach where their raft lay.
He had to pull Mudge at first, but the otter
caught on quickly enough. This time no imitation
steel materialized to block their retreat. As they
crossed through the circle, Jon-Tom looked back.
Those vines that were still intact were slamming into
each other, beating the air, the ground, whistling
and moaning and shrieking. The noise was worse
than the sight.
“I had to get them going,” Jon-Tom explained as
he ran panting toward the water. “Had to get them
to doing their imitations fast, one after the other,
barn, barn, bami Had to get them working without
thinking, acting reflexively on my challenges, so that
it would become a point of pride for each individual
to keep up with its neighbors.
“I didn’t think my earlier lullaby was going to
work, but it was worth a try. They’d probably been
watching out for just that kind of trick on our pan,
so I figured the worst that could happen was that
they’d get to show us we couldn’t escape. I let them
believe we were resigned to our fate and then tried
THB MOMENT OF TVS MAGICIAN
147
to make it look like I was caught up in the spirit of
the contest.”
They were on the raft now, pushing hard on the
paddles, sliding out onto the water of the Wrounipai
and putting some distance between themselves and
the floral asylum they’d left behind.
Mudge glanced back toward the island. “You think
they’ll ever come out of it, mate?” Distant shouts and
moans could still be heard, though they were fainter
now.
“I think so. Gradually one of them will realize that
they’re doing it to themselves and cure itself. Then
the others will imitate its return to sanity. Those who
aren’t too far gone. I could’ve left them with that
thought, but I’d rather they discover it on their own,
after we’re safely on our way.”
“Right. You sure ‘ad me fooled, mate.” He frowned.
Jen-Tom’s expression had turned sorrowful. “Hey,
wot’s wrong now?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” He turned back to concentrat-
ing on his paddling. “It’s just that… this is silly, I
know… but while we were trapped back there 1 had
thoughts of… you remember Flor Quintera?”
“The dark-‘aired lady you brought over from your
own world? The one who went off with that smoolh-
talkin’ rabbit?”
“Yeah, that’s her. 1 thought for a minute back
there about asking the mimevines to imitate her.
That would have been an interesting sight, thirty
perfect copies of that perfect body all dancing around
us.”
“Blimey,” Mudge whispered, “now, why didn’t I
think o’ that? Not to do up your ideal, o’ course, but
some o’ me own favorite fantasies.”
‘Too late now,” Jon-Tom said with a sigh. “Unless
you’d like to go back. I could wait for you on the
Taft. Maybe the same trick would work again.”
148 Alan Dean Foster
“Not bloody likely. No thanks, mate, but I’ve ‘ad
more than enough o’ vegetables that look like your
Aunt Sulewac one minute and somethin’ out o’ a bad
dream the next. 1 wouldn’t go back there even for
thirty perfect females. Me, I prefer me paramours
with all their imperfections intact.”
IX
After the tidal wave of variety provided by the
mimevines, the monotonous regularity of the Wrou-
nipai was a welcome change. But as they floated
further south, the terrain, if not the climate, began
to change. Tall stone spires cloaked with thick foliage
began to thrust skyward from the water. Instead of
granite, the rock was mostly limestone. Creepers and
bromeliads found footholds in the pitted stone, crack-
ing and eroding the towers.
“A semi-submerged karst landscape,” Jon-Tom
murmured in wonder.
“Just wot I were about to say meself, guv,” said
Mudge doubtfully.
That night they camped on a sandy beach oppo-
site a cliff too steep even for creepers to secure a
hold. While Mudge hunted for dry wood, Jon-Tom
walked over to inspect the rock wall. It was cool and
dry, a comforting feeling in a land brimming with
quicksands and mud.
Mudge returned with an armful of dead limbs and
dropped them into the Firepit he’d dug. As he brushed
dust Syom his paws, he frowned at his friend.
“Find somethin’ unusual?”
“No. It’s just plain old limestone. I was just think-
149
Alan Dean Foster
ISO
ing how nice it was to find some firm ground in the
middle of the rest of this muck.
‘This was once the floor of a shallow sea. Tiny
animals with lots of calcium in their shells and bodies
died here by the trillions, fell to the bottom, and over
the eons turned into this stone- As time passed the
sea bottom was lifted up. Then running water went
to work here, wearing away open places.”
“Do tell,” said Mudge dryly.
Jon-Tbm looked disappointed. “Mudge, your scien-
tific education has been sorely neglected.”
“That’s because I was too busy gettin’ educated
sorely in practical matters, guv.”
“If you’d Just listen to me for five minutes, I could
reveal some of nature’s hidden wonders to you.”
“Maybe after we eat, mate,” said the otter, raising
a quieting paw, “1 want to enjoy me supper, wot?”
Following the conclusion of a sparse but satisfying
meal, Jon-Tom discovered he no longer felt like
lecturing. His mood tended more toward melancholy.
Lifting the duar, he regaled the unfortunate Mudge
with long, sad ballads and bittersweet songs of
unrequited love.
The otter endured this for as long as he could
before rolling up tightly in his blanket. This man-
aged to muffle most of Jon-Tom’s singing.
“Don’t be so damned melodramatic,” the insulted
balladeer said. “After all these months of steady
practice, my singing must have improved somewhat.”
“Your playin’s better than ever, mate,” came a
voice from beneath the blanket, “but as for your
voice, I fear ’tis still a lost cause. You still sound like
you’re singin’ underwater with a mouth full o’ pebbles.
Or would you prefer me to be tactful instead o’
truthful?”
“No, no,” Jon-Tom sighed. “1 thought I’d im-
THE MOMENT OF THE MAGICIAN
151
proved a lot.” He strummed the duar’s dual strings
as he spoke.
Mudge’s head emerged from beneath the covers.
His eyes were half-closed. “Me friend, ’tis late. You
can pow carry a tune o’ sorts, whereas a month ago
your mouth wouldn’t ‘ave known wot to do with it.
That’s an improvement o’ sorts. ‘Tis not willingness
you lack, but a voice. Be satisfied with wot you ‘ave.”
“Sorry,” Jon-Tom replied huffily, “but I need to
practice if I’m going to get any better.”
Mudge made a strangled sound. He couldn’t win.
If he praised the man’s singing, then he sang all the
more enthusiastically, and if he criticized it, then
Jon-Tom needed his “practice.” Life kept dealing
him jokers.
“All right then, mate.” He burrowed back beneath
his blanket. “Try and get ‘er all out o’ your system.
Just don’t wail on till dawn, okay?”
“I won’t be at it too much longer,” Jon-Tom as-
sured him- He sang about days at the beach, and old
mother earth, and friends he had known back in the
real world. Then he put the duar aside and pre-
pared to curl up next to the fire.
Something gave him pause. More than a pause: it
was like an electric shock against his retinas. He sat
up and blinked.
It was still there, and growing stronger. Or was it?
Leaning over, he shook the ball of fur and blanket
next to him.
“Oh crikey, now wot?” The otter stuck his head out
for the third time that night. “Listen, mate, you can
‘ave the bleedin’ fire. Me, I’ll sleep on the raft-
Hey”—he sat up quickly, suddenly very much awake—
“you look like you saw a ghost.”
“Not a ghost,” he mumbled. “I saw… Mudge, I’m
not sure what I saw,”
Alan Dean Foster
152
The otter studied the darkness. “I don’t see nothin’.
Wot do it look like? Where’d you see h?”
“Over there.” He rose and walked toward the bare
white cliff. Mudge followed, eyeing the night uneasily.
Jen-Torn pointed at the rock. “There. That’s where
I saw it. And there was something else. Just the
slightest quivering under me as I lay down.*A tremor,
like”
“Mate, this ‘ole country’s on shaky ground.”
“No, this is solid rock under this sand, Mudge. It
was an earthquake. I’m sure of that. There’s lots of
earthquakes where I come from, and I know what
one feels like.”
“I didn’t feel anything.”
“You were asleep.”
“Right. So wot were this thing you saw up against
this ‘ere rock?”
“Not up against it, Mudge.” He put his hand on
the limestone and rubbed it. It was coot, solid,
absolutely unyielding. Impenetrable. “It was m the
rock”
A dubious Mudge also ran a paw across the solid
stone. He spoke carefully, as if speaking to a cub.
“Couldn’t ‘ave been nothin’ ‘ere, mate. There ain’t a
crack in this cliff.”
“Not in the cliff,” Jen-Tom corrected him firmly.
“In the rock.” He turned abruptly on his heel, returned
to the campsite, and picked up his duar. He started
to repeat the last song he’d sung.
Nothing. Mudge stood near the cliff looking angry,
tired, and frustrated all at the same time.
Then it was back. Just the slightest trembling in
the earth, hardly enough to disturb one’s sleep.
They would have slept right through it ifJon-Tom
hadn’t seen it as well as felt it.
This time Mudge saw it, too. Jon-Tom knew he did
because the otter was backing quickly away from the
THE MOMBffT OF THE MAGJCMJT
1S3
cliff. The earth tremor faded and returned, but the
thing in the cliff remained.
“You see it, too, Mudge. You do!”
“Not only do 1 see it, mate,” the otter whispered.
**I see them.”
jon-Tom continued to play. More and more of the
wispy, ghostly creatures materialized. They were not
slipping or crawling over the face of the rock: they
moved easily through the unbroken limestone itself.
Faintly glowing worm-forms about the size and shape
ofJon-Tom’s arm. Oversized, brightly luminous eyes
showed against the front of each specter. Barely
discernible designs flickered to life on glowing sides
and backs, each different from the other, no two
alike.
As Jon-Tom and Mudge stared in fascination, they
linked together head to tail, forming a long line that
snaked through the rock. The line gave a twist, and
jEhe earth underfoot trembled again. Then the line
-broke apart and they scattered, a bunch of insubstan-
tial big-eyed flatworms swimming through the stone.
Jon-Tom stopped singing. They began to fade
away, only that wasn’t right. They didn’t fade away:
they dove down into the solid rock. He moved as if
in a trance toward the cliff. There, a minuscule crack
BO wider than a hair, running through the rock and
down into the ground. That was where they’d con-
gregated when they’d formed the link and the last
tremor had struck. They’d lined up along the tiny
stress fracture and twisted, and when they’d twisted,
the ground had convulsed.
“I wonder what they are,” he muttered aloud.
“I don’t know, mate, but they seem to be going on
their way, and I ain’t about to ask ’em to linger.” The
otter was retreating toward his blanket, his gaze
fastened to the rock. “I’ve seen enough of ’em.”
A few still swam across the cliff face. Jon-Tom
Alan Dean Foster
154
put his Fingers on the duar’s strings. “All right, I
guess we’ve seen enough. I called them up, so I
guess 1 can make the last of them go away.”
“That is what you think,” said one of the worm-
shapes in a breathy, barely audible voice.
Jon-Tom’s Fingers froze halfway to the strings.
“My God, they talk!”
“Of course we talk.” The voice was like a distant
breeze, a faint rustling against his tympanum.
Mudge was too mesmerized to retreat. “How can
they talk,” he asked, “when there ain’t nothin’ to
*em?”
“There’s something to them, Mudge, Just not very
much. But they’re there, they’re real.”
“Of course we are real. Such conceit.” The faint
words were precise, very proper and clear, though
Jon-Tom saw no movement of lips. indeed, the spec-
tral worm had no mouth. “As a matter of fact, we can
talk quite well, but there is no reason to practice
conversation with those who live on the world’s skin.”
“Then why are you talking to us now?” Jon-Tom
wondered.
“Your singing fetched us forth from our homes in
the crust. Most extraordinary singing.” The shaped
glow momentarily vanished, only to reappear sec-
onds later at another place in the cliff. It moved
easily, fluidly, as if traveling through water.
“We are sensitive to vibrations. Good vibrations.”
“The last song I sang,” Jon-Tom mused. “I’ll be
damned.”
“We are also in the business of vibrations,” it told
him. “Normally we ignore those who inhabit the void
above the earth, as we ignore the vibrations they
make. But yours were pleasing and unusual, extreme-
ly much so. We came to feel your vibrations, and to
return the favor to you.”
THE MOMKfIT OF THE MAGICIAN
169
“Return the fav—”Jon-Tom considered. “You mean
you made the little earthquakes?”
“The vibrations, yes.” The worm-light paused and
linked kself to several of its kind. Once again they
Une<^ up along the hairline crack in the cliff. Once
again they gave a sharp twist. The sand shifted
under Jon-Tom’s feet.
The chain dissolved and many of its component
individuals fled back into the rock.
“But this is impossible. You can’t live in solid rock.”
“Solid? Most of what appears to be solid is empty,”
the creature told him. “Do you not know this to be
^ so?”
^ It was quite right, of course. Matter was composed
^.of protons and neutrons and electrons and far smaller
^fclts of existence like quarks and pi-muons and all
sorts of exotic almost-weres. In between them all was
, nothingness, bridged by forces with even more bi-
1 Zaire names like color and flavor. The planets them-
selves were largely composed of nothingness.
So why not creatures which would find such empti-
ness spacious and comfortable? Of course they would
have to be composed largely of nothingness themselves.
“What do you call yourselves?” In his own world
they would be called ghosts—frightening, rarely
glimpsed creatures of luminous insubstandality. They
didn’t look anything like dead human beings, but
then, manatees didn’t look much like mermaids, either,
and look how many sailors had mistaken them for
wateriogged sirens.
Why shouldn’t these worm-shapes be responsible
for the reports of ghosts in many worlds? Vibrations
could call them forth, psychic in his own world, his
spellsinging here. It made a certain sort of supernat-
ural sense.
“We do not name what is, and we simply are,” said
the glowing nothing.
166
Alan Dean Foster
TUB MOISEHT OF TBB MAGICIAN
157
“Sing another song.” whispered a voice in Jon-
Tom’s ear. “Sing another song abou^ the earth we
live in.” ‘
He did so, drawing on every tune he could remem-
ber that mentioned the earth, the ground, the rocks.
The cliff came alive with dozens of the warm-glows,
all cavorting to and delighting in his spellsinging and
the vibrations the duar and his voice produced.
From time to time they linked up to produce minute, ,
no longer disquieting earthquakes. ‘7-
“What a pity you cannot follow and sing always ^
among us,” the speaker said. “Such exquisite rip- ‘^
plings in the fabric of reality. But you cannot live in • ^
our world, just as we cannot exist in the void you call ‘ V
yours.” ‘ji
“It’s not a void.” Jon-Tom reached out and touched 1|
the stone. “There’s atmosphere here, and living , •f
creatures.” \ ^
“Nothingness,” said the worm speaker, and before “‘
Jon-Tom knew what was happening it had glided
into his hand. He stared openmouthed at his fingers.
Mudge let out a little moan. “Nothingness, except
for those few solid things that move.”
His hand was on fire, radiating light in all directions.
There was no pain, only the strangest trembling, as
though the bones had fallen asleep. It traveled all
the way up to his elbow, then slid back down to his
fingers. He pressed them to the cliff and the light
went back into the rock.
“That hurt,” said the worm-glow, “and I could not
do it for long. There is practically nothing to you,
near vacuum. The earth is better, more compact, *
room to move about without losing oneself. Now it is
time to go. Proximity to the void you are depresses
us.”
Only the speaker remained. The others had all
vanished into the rock.
“Sing for us some other time and we will try to stay
longer.”
“I will.” Jon-Tom waved. He didn’t know how else
to say farewell to something that barely existed.
The head went first, followed by the rest of the
worm-shape in a continuous, sinuous curve. It melted
into the cliff. Then it was gone. There was a last
feeble earthquake, accompanied by a distant rumble.
Analog to his wave? Perhaps. Then sound and shaking,
too, had ceased.
“Good-bye. They were saying good-bye to us,” he
murmured, enchanted by the memory of their visitors.
“What a world this is.”
Mudge sucked in a deep breath. “I do so wish,
mate, that you’d let me know in advance when you’re
planning on doin* some spellsingin’.”
Jon-Tom turned from the cliff. “Sorry. I didn’t
know I was doing any. I was just singing.”
Mudge sat down and pulled his blanket over his
legs. It was starting to drizzle. “I ain’t sure you can
just ‘sing,’ guv.” Raindrops sizzled into oblivion as
they contacted the fading campfire.
Jon-Tom curled up beneath his cape, careful to
make certain the duar was also out of the rain.
“I mean,” the otter continued, “it seems you can’t
control the magic when you’re tryin’ to spelfsing and
you can’t control it when you’re not, wot?”
“At least I didn’t conjure up anything dangerous
this tame,” Jon-Tom countered.
“Blind luck. They were an interestin’ lot, though.”
“Weren’t they? Kind of pretty too. I wonder how
much of the earth they claim for their home. Maybe
ail the way to the molten inner core.”
“Molten wot? Now that’s a unique conception,
guv’nor,”
“Nothing unique about it.” Jon-Tom pulled his
Alan Dean Foster
188
cape over his face to keep ofi the rain. “What do you
think the center of the planet is, if not molten rock?”
“Everybody knows wot it is, mate. Tis a giant pit.
The earth’s nothin’ but a ripening fruit, you know.
Planted in infinity. One o’ these days she’s goin’ to
sprout, and then we’ll all see some changes.”
“Primitive superstitious nonsense. The center of
the planet is composed of metal and rock kept mol-
ten under the influence of tremendous heat and
pressure.” That said, he rolled over and tried to go
to sleep.
The rain trickled down his cape, drumming on its
impenetrable exterior, spattering on the surface of
the Wrounipai. A giant pit. What an absurd notion!
As absurd as the presence of barely substantial crea-
tures living within the rock itself. Wormlike creatures.
Didn’t worms infest rotten fruit?
Nonsense, utter nonsense. He refused to consider
it any further. It was ridiculous, insane, crazy.
Besides, the image it conjured up made him dis-
tinctly uncomfortable.
He tried to concentrate on the memory of their
visitors instead. What could you call them? Earth-
dwellers, rock people, stone citizens? Idly he won-
dered what would happen if thousands, millions of
them joined together along a really big crack in the
earth’s crust. Along the San Andreas Fault back
home, say. What lay beneath that ancient fracture?
Merely different sections of continental plate rub-
bing against each other? Or was it occasionally lined
with millions of the geological folk joined head to
tail, all preparing to produce one sudden, convulsive
twist every hundred years or so?
That thought wasn’t conducive tcr restful sleep
either, here or on any other world. Geologic folk
brought to the surface of the earth by his spellsinging:
how absurd! As were so many things in heaven and
THE MOMS/IT or TVS MACHCSAM
1S9
earth that were no less real for their absurdity.
Geological folks. Geo folk. Geolks. Since they had no
name for themselves, he’d call them that. In his
memories, since it was highly unlikely he’d ever
encounter them again. He drifted slowly off to sleep,
wondering if he’d ever be able to go spelunking
again without seeing luminous, insubstantial eyes all
around him.
Jon-Tom had hopes that the karst landscape they
were passing through was an indication of drier
country to come. Several days of steady travel south-
ward quickly dispelled such hopes. The rocky spires
became smaller and smaller and were not replaced
by spacious, dry islands. Once again they found
themselves paddling through scum-encrusted stag-
nant water beneath umbrellalike, drooping trees.
As they progressed he came to at least one decision:
if Clothahump ever asked him again to undertake
another “pleasant little journey,” he was going to insist
first on getting an accurate, non-metaphorical descrip-
tion of the country he was going to have to cross.
But of course, that wouldn’t matter, because he
and this Markus the Ineluctable were going to be-
come fast friends, and Jon-Tom was going to utilize
their joint talents to enable him to return home-
That exhilarating thought helped sustain him as he
and Mudge slogged on through the relentless heat
and humidity.
At midday they usually paused for a rest and a
brief snack, and also to allow the steaming sun an
hour or so to fall from its zenith. The little islet they
chose was not particularly inviting in appearance—
full of odd-shaped, inflexible growths and gnarled
protrusions—but it was the only dry land in the
Unstable bog they were presently traversing.
Return home. Home meant Big Macs and Monday
Night Football, throwing Frisbees at the beach and
Alan Dean Foster
160
watching Saturday morning cartoons… the good old
stuff, not the sloppy new ‘crap.:. catching up on his
back work and the movies he’d missed. If there was
any back work for him to return to. As far as anyone
at the university was concerned, he’d simply disap-
peared, dropped out. quit. He was going to have a
hell of a time getting his active status restored, much
less changing the incompletes he’d have received in
class- Sure he was.
All he had to do was tell them what he’d been
doing these past months- Sorry, counselor, but you
see, I just happened to find myself yanked through
to this other world, but if my friends Clothahump
and Mudge were here to explain… Clothahump,
see, he’s a wizard. A turtle, sir, abdut four foot high.
Mudge is taller, but that’s because he’s an otter
and… excuse me, counselor, but who are you calling?
No, he’d have to concoct something a bit more
believable than that. Believable and elegant. Maybe
he could tell them that he’d become bored with the
routine of studying and had gone off to South America
to expand his mind. Professors always liked to hear
that you’d been expanding your mind.
A light tremor made the ground shift slightly
beneath them.
“Your ghostly friends again,” Mudge suggested,
his words garbled because his mouth was full of fish
jerky.
Jon-Tom gazed down at the slick surface they sat
upon. It was bright daylight and hard to tell, but he
didn’t see any sign of the geolks. Besides, he wasn’t
playing anything on his duar. Maybe they were just
lingering in his wake, hoping he’d play again some-
time soon.
He bent over, squinted. Very strange ground. Dead
and dying vegetation, lichens and mosses, algae and
crustaceans. “1 don’t think the geolks are around,
THX MOMENT OF TUB JHAGICMJV
161
Mudge. Anything could shake this pile of humus
we’re sitting on. Maybe it was a passing wave.”
The otter gestured at the stagnant water surround-
ing them. “Ain’t no waves here, mate, except the ones
ypu and I make with the raft.”
A second tremor rattled their senses, much stronger
than the first. Gingerly, jon-Tom rose to a standing
position-
“Uh, Mudge, I think it might be a good idea if we
got back on the raft. Real quiet- and quick-like.”
The otter was several syllables and three steps
ahead of him. The shaking resumed and now it was
constant as Jon-Tom half ran, half stumbled toward
the raft.
The island was beginning to rise beneath them.
x
“Damn it, mate, move your arse!” Mudge yelled as
Jon-Tom fell to hands and knees. The otter extend-
ed a paw out to his friend.
Jon-Tom tried to stand, but the surface under his
feet was now .shaking like Jell-0 as it rose from the
water. He gathered himself and leaped, landing hard
on the raft. Mudge shoved frantically at the paddles,
trying to push them back into the water.
Too late. The island had risen on all sides, and
they found themselves ascending into the damp air
along with the beached raft- Water rushed off the
black hillside, turning to foam where rising mass met
the swamp. Mudge lay flat on the deck of the raft,
clinging to the vines that held the logs together,
while Jon-Tom wrapped both arms around one of
the paddle poles. They were surrounded by strange
growths which seemed to be attached to the island’s
bulk even where it had rested beneath the water.
They resembled the skeletons of dead cacti, hollow
and light,
Shellfish, snails, and other inhabitants of shallow-
water environments scrambled for the water as their
homes were lifted into the air. Jon-Tom would have
162
THE MOMENT OF THE MAGICIAN
163
joined them, but they couldn’t abandon the raft and
all their supplies.
The section of island on which they teetered final-
ly stabilized, but the black land ahead continued
riding- This substantial tower of mud and swamp
ooze didn’t stop growing until it loomed threateningly
over them. Innumerable bottom-dwellers, frantic fish,
and trapped underwater plants dripped from the
tower’s sides.
Then the ooze opened its dozen or so eyes and
stared down at the puny creatures marooned on its
back.
Mudge let go of the vines, put both hands over his
eyes, and moaned, “Oh shit!” while Jon-Tom contin-
ued clinging to the paddle nearby, staring wide-eyed
up at the emergent mountain of swamp muck.
“Ho, ho, ho!” said the apparition, showing a dark,
toothless mouth more than wide enough to swallow
the raft and its occupants whole- “What have we
here? Strangers!”
Jon-Tom tried to smile. “Just passing through.”
“You scratched me.” The voice was heavy, ponderous,
and slow.
“We’re sorry. We didn’t mean to.”
“Oh, that’s all right. I liked it.” It grinned hugely.
Jon-Tom noted that the size of the vast mouth wasn’t
fixed. It expanded and contracted and sometimes
tended to slide toward the side of the head. So did
the eyes, which ballooned from tiny dots to globular
bulbs the size of a car. The vast curving bulk blotted
out trees and sky.
“I am,” Jon-Tom replied carefully, “relieved to
hear it.”
“You’re nice,” said the ooze. “Different. I like
different.” Eyes indicated the surrounding swamp.
“Nothing here is different. Everything’s always the
same. 1 like different.”
Alan Dean Foster
164
Jon-lbm’s arms were cramping. Slowly, he loosened
his grip on the paddle pole. “You live here in
the swamp?” Now, there, he thought, was a clever
question.
The answer was not as self-evident as he believed.
A slow, rippling laugh emerged from somewhere
down in the depths. It sounded like distant Strums.
“Sort of. I am the swamp, I am the ————” and it
said something incomprehensible.
Jon-Tom frowned. “Sorry. I didn’t get that last.”
The intelligent ichor repeated the rumble, which
sounded more like a volcanic belch than anything
else.
“What do you make of that, Mudge?”
“Indigestion, or else its name is Brulumpus.” The
otter had recovered enough courage to peek out
between his shielding fingers.
“Brulumpus,” Jon-Tom muttered to himself. He
kept his eyes on those of the swamp, which wasn’t
an easy task, considering how they tended to float
in and out of the black goop. They moved about like
marbles in oil. A queasy concept. He tried to think of
something else.
“That is me, the ————” and it made the belching
sound again.
Jon-Tom let go of the pole. Despite its size and
bulk, the mountain of muck did not sound threatening.
If anything, it seemed to be making an effort to be
friendly. Also. Clothahump had once told him never
to let himself be intimidated by mere size. That was
not so easy to do when a potential threat completely
surrounded you.
He tried to phrase his words carefully. The
Brulumpus didn’t seem especially bright. “Very pret-
ty swamp you are. I’m glad we haven’t bothered
you.” He gestured with his left hand. “We’re on a
journey south ”
THE MOMEJVT OT THE MAGICIAN
165
“That’s nice,” said the mountain.
Not very bright at all, Jon-Tom mused. “Now, in
order for us to be able to continue on our way, we
have to have our raft here back in the water. Could
ypu”—and he described the action with his hands—
“let us down so we can get back in the water to
continue our journey?”
“Continue your journey.” The sides of the Brulum-
pus shimmied and Jon-Tom had to steady himself
with the paddle. “But you are different. You are a
change. I like different. I like changes.”
“Yes, and we like you, too, but we really do have to
be on our way. It’s very important.”
It made no impression on the Bruhimpus. “Change.
A change,” it repeated ponderously. “I want you to
stay and be different for me.”
“We’d love to, but we can’t. We have to be on our
way.”
“Stay. I’ll keep you close to me always and take care
of you. You want food, I can give you food.” A
portion of submerged swamp rose. Trapped within
the cuplike shape was a whole school of small, silvery
fish. They fluttered helplessly for a moment until
the swamp sank again-
“Ifyou are wet, I can make you dry.” Jon-Tom and
Mudge winced as a thick shield of solid goo arched
from the water to shield their raft from the clouds
overhead. It hung there for several seconds before
withdrawing.
“I will hug you and love you and keep you,”
announced the delighted Brulumpus.
“That’s awfully sweet of you, and we’d love to take
^ou up on it, but we really have to—”
“Hug you and love you and please you and pet you
and…”
Jon-Tom was about to reiterate his protest when a
Alan Dean Foster
166
strong paw on his wrist made him hesitate. Mudge
stood on tiptoe to whisper.
“Stow it, mate- Can’t you see you’re not getdn’
through to it? Garbage you’re tryin’ to be logical
with, and it with brains to match. It ain’t goin’ to let
us leave any more than the mimevines were goin’ to.”
“But it has to let us go.” The duar rested comfort-
ably against his back. “I can always try singing us
out.”
“Don’t know as ‘ow that’ll work. this time, guv. 1
don’t know if this pile o’ shit is smart enough to be
spellsung- ‘Tis friendly enough now- We sure as ‘ell
don’t want to do nothin’ to upset the little darlin*. It
doesn’t move real fast and it doesn’t think real fast,
and it just might get irritated-like before your
spellsingin* could ‘ave any effect.”
“Keep you happy and feed you and hug you.” The
Brulumpus kept repeating the paternal dirge over
and over.
“Then what do we do, Mudge?”
“Don’t look at me, mate. I’m just suggestin’ caution,
is all. You’re the would-be wizard around ‘ere. Me, I
just copes with things as they come. Ordinary things,
everyday things. I’ll fight me way through any swamp,
no matter ‘ow filthy and disease-ridden. But I’m
damned if I’m goin’ to sit and argue with it.”
“You’re such a great help to me, Mudge.”
The otter smiled thinly. ” ‘Tis all done out ‘o grati-
tude for the wonderful opportunities you’ve sent me
way, mate.” He put his paws to his ears to try and
shut out the Brulumpus’s unbroken recitation of
love.
“Touch you and hold you and feed you…”
“Wotever you’re goin’ to try, male, try it soon. I
ain’t certain ‘ow much longer 1 can stand listemrf to
that slop,”
“What do you expect from slop except slop-talk?”
THE MOMENT OF THE UAOICIAM
167
Keeping Mudge’s warning in mind, he tried to decide
what to try next while the Brulumpus persisted with its
affectionate litany.
It liked them because they represented a change
in monotonous surroundings, because they were
different. That couldn’t last forever. Eventually it
would grow bored with them- Given its low level of
intelligence, however, that day might be a long time
in coming. How long? No way to tell. The Brulumpus
might continue loving and holding and petting them
for a couple of decades. Or even longer. If the
/ Brulumpus was indeed a part of the Wrounipai it
| might be extremely long-lived. It might not tire of
‘A them until they’d become a couple of desiccated
corpses waiting to be shucked off tike any other kind
of boredom.
– What did it find so different, so intriguing about
them? Not their appearance, surely, for there was
nothing distinctive about either man or otter. Their
intelligence, perhaps? Sure, that had to be it! The
Wrounipai wanted more than companionship and
company- It wanted to listen to some new conversation,
wanted what it couldn’t get from a tree, a rock, a
fish.
There had to be a way out, a way that would allow
them to depart without alarming their benign captor.
“Want to hear something interesting?” The moun-
tain of muck leaned forward, drenching one end of
the raft with scum and swamp water. Jon-Tom and
Mudge retreated hastily to the other end. “That’s
dose enough. I’ll speak up if you can’t hear me
clearly.” Proximity to (hat gaping, bottomless maw
was disconcerting despite the Brulumpus’s avowed
good intentions. Maybe one day soon, out of boredom,
instead of hugging and petting and loving them, it
might decide to taste them.
168 Alan Dean Foster
“Go ahead,” it told Jon-Tom, “say something
interesting. Say something different.”
“Actually, we’re not all that interesting.” He tried to
sound bored with himself. “We’re really very ordinary,
even dull.”
“No.” The Brulumpus wasn’t that stupid. “You are
very interesting. Everything you say and do is differ-
ent and interesting. I like different and interesting.”
“Of course you do, but there’s something that’s a
lot more interesting than we are. Something that’s
new and interesting and different all the time.”
The Brulumpus leaned back. Water sloshed against
its flanks as it took a long time to consider this
simple statement. “Something more interesting than
you? Is it more lovable, too?”
Jon-Tom hadn’t considered the last, but he was on
a roll now and could hardly hesitate. “Sure. More
lovable, more interesting, more different. More
everything. It won’t argue with you or confuse you
or even make you think. It’ll just always be there for
you, interesting and lovable and changing-‘*
“Where is it?”
“I’ll bring it here for you to have, but in return,
you have to promise to let us go,”
The Brulumpus mulled the offer over. “Okay, but
if you lie to me,” it said darkly, “if it’s not more
everything than you are, then you’ll stay with me
forever, so I can hug you and pet you and…”
“I know, I know,” said Jon-Tom as he swung the
duar around. He practiced a few chords. These
songs would be a cinch for him to spellsing. Not only
were they as deeply ingrained in his memory as any
lyrics he’d ever heard, they even had a compelling
power in his own world.
“Wot the ‘ell can you conjure up for this mess that
fulfills all those requirements, mate?”
“Don’t bother me, Mudge. I’m working.”
THE MoJEBwr or THE MAGICIAN
169
The otter leaned back, glancing up at the thoughtful,
expectant Brulumpus. “All right, guv, but you’d bet-
ter satisfy this smothering pile o’ crud real soon-like,
because I think it’s gettin’ to like us more by the
minute. Though if nothin’ else, your singin’ may
change that”
Jon-Tom ignored the barb as he began to sing.
Despite the threat posed by the Brulumpus, he was
in fine form that day. Even Mudge had to admit that
some of what the man sang actually bore some small
, resemblance to harmony.
The first item that appeared in a ball of soft light
| on the Brulumpus’s back was a toy gyroscope. It held
I; the creature’s attention only for a few minutes. Next
^Jon-Tom produced a grandfather clock. This was
;; more intriguing to their captor, but he noted that
, ton-Tom could produce the same noise as the clock’s
7 chimes.
‘• Jen-Torn tried to interest it in a game of Monopoly,
.but die Brulumpus wasn’t interested in playing at
: real estate, being a considerable bit of real estate
Itself. With Mudge looking on warily, he produced in
wild succession a food processor, a Fugelbell tree,
,:and a performing flea circus. The Brulumpus had
/jw> use whatsoever for any of them. Mudge, however,
made the acquaintance of the flea circus immediately,
and dove into the water, digging and scratching
frantically at himself.
“You’ll drown the act,” Jon-Tom leaned over to tell
him.
“That ain’t all I’m goin’ to drown!” The Brulumpus
boosted him back onto the raft, where he glared at
the singer. “Let’s endeavor to stay clear of performin*
parasites, shall we?”
Jon-Tom sighed. “It didn’t engage his attention
wry long anyway. Don’t worry. I’m just getting warmed
up.”
Alan Dean Foster
170
“Huhl” Mudge sat down and began wringing out
his cap.
The flea circus gave Jon-Tom the idea of trying to
sing up something to infect the Brulumpus, but
everything he could think of was more likely to
afflict himself and Mudge than it was “a mass of
already corrupting ooze.
So he concentrated on continuing the cornucopia
of randomly interesting objects. He produced a model
ship that ran by remote control, a clamer-h lumieres
from an old Scriabin concert, a stack of Playboys, a
coal scoop, a rocking horse. None held the attention
of the Brulumpus for more than a moment or two,
and the space around the raft was beginning to
resemble the back room of a Salvation Army store.
Jon-Tom’s confidence was starting to slip.
“Isn’t there anything I can conjure up that will
interest you more than we do?” he asked plaintively.
“Of course not,” rumbled the Brulumpus. “How
could there be, when I can have everything you can
bring forth and still keep you?”
That sent Jon-Tom staggering. He hadn’t thought
of that. Slow the Brulumpus might be, but it also
had an instinctive grasp of the obvious.
“Oi, we didn’t think o’ that one, did we, spellsinger?”
Mudge taunted him. “We’re so clever, ain’t we,
spellsinger? We ought to ‘ave thought o’ that one
first, oughtn’t we to, spellsinger? Now me, I finds
you duller than a dead rat, but this ‘ere blob o’ barf
ain’t nearly so discriminatin’ in ‘is company. So it
appears as *ow we’re stuck, wot?”
“There’s still the first thing I thought of. Like I
told you, this is all warm-up. Though,” he admitted,
“I never thought of that last argument. Now I’m not
so sure it’ll work. See, this thing I have in mind is
designed to appeal only to a true moron, and now
I’m afraid the Brulumpus may be more than that.
THE MOMENT OF THE MAOICIAK 171
Anything too complex would go by him without
having an effect, but anything too simple won’t inter-
est him as much as we do.”
“Well. you’d better try it, mate, wotever it be.”
“I’m going to,” Jon-Tom assured him. His fingers
touctied on the strings of the duar.
Mudge had listened to some strange lyrics fall
from the lips of his friend the spellsinger, but none
as bizarre as those which now poured forth in a
Steady stream. They made no sense, no sense at all,
And yet he could feel the power attendant on them.
-Strong spellsinging for certain, just as Jon-Tom had
.l«aid. He waited anxiously to see what the music would
^bring forth.
^ ; Once more the drifting ball of lambent green light
‘^sgippeared before Jon-Tom. Yet again a strange new
^(nape appeared in its center and began to take on
flolktity and form. It was utterly different from every-
thing that had preceded it. It bore no resemblance to
;the grandfather clock, or the toy boat, or the rocking
horse, though it did somehow remind Mudge of the
thing Jon-Tom had called a food processor.
Only this thing wasn’t dead. It was noisily, vibrantly
alive. Or was it? Mudge blinked once and saw through
die illusion. No, it wasn’t alive. It merely cloaked
‘ itself with the appearance of life. It generated illu-
sions of life, but in reality it was full of zombies.
The fascinated Brulumpus leaned forward to stare
at it, kicking up small waves at its sides. Multiple
eyeballs slipped round to focus on the thing Jon-
Tom had called up. Jon-Tom had matched intelligence
to materialization perfectly. The Brulumpus ignored
them as though they were no longer there.
Mudge found himself gazing dazedly at the box
full of cavorting zombies. He could understand the
Bmlumpus’s fascination. This was some magic! He
tried to make sense of what the zombies were saying
Alan Dean Poster
172
and could not. yet somehow their shouts and cries
held him as if paralyzed. He couldn’t pull away,
couldn’t turn his eyes. It was locking onto him tightly
now, taking him prisoner just as it had trapped the
Brulumpus, those strange, soothing, challenging, fre-
netic zombies who at the moment were assaulting
him verbally and visually….
“Double your pleasure, double your run, with
doublegood, doublegood, Doublemint gum!”
Another zombie appeared, and his tone was as
ponderous and lugubrious as that of the Brulumpus.
All the weight of the world was on the poor zombie’s
shoulders as he stared straight out at Mudge and
said, “Do… you.., suffer… from,.. irregularity?”
Something was tugging urgently at Mudge’s arm.
He blinked, to see Jon-Tom staring anxiously down
at him.
“A minute, mate,” he said, not recognizing his own
vioce. “Just a minute. I ‘ave to listen to this ‘ere
message. Tis important, see, and I… 1…” He paused,
licked his lips.
“You what, Mudge?”
“I was just learnin’ ‘ow to save me kitchen “floor
from unsightly waxy yellow buildup. Blimey, and 1
don’t even ‘ave a kitchen floor!”
“Come on, Mudge. Fight it, don’t let it get to you.”
He dragged the otter toward the raft. Mudge
fought weakly.
“But, mate, wot about the ring around me collar?”
“Snap out of it, Mudge!” Jon-Tom slapped him a
couple of times, then shoved him toward the other
paddle pole. By pushing against the paddles, they
managed to slip off the side of the now rock-steady
Brulumpus and back into the water. They pushed
and pulled on the poles for dear life, and the otter
slowly regained consciousness.
“Bugger me for an alderman,” Mudge finally
THE MOMENT OF TBK MAQICSAH
173
breathed, “wot were that ‘orrible magic?” Behind
them the Brulumpus was fading under the horizon.
It lay utterly motionless in the water, staring at the
screaming, cheerful, demanding box which had
rendered it instantly comatose. From its back blared a
few last energetic words of farewell.
“Youuuu deserve a breakkkk todayyyyy!”
“Jon-Tom?”
“What?” He continued to dig at the water, wanting
,to put as much distance as possible between them
,and the part of the swamp that called itself the
^rulumpus in case, just in case, the magic failed.
^- “I’ll never criticize your spellsingin’ again.”
**0h, yes you will,” Jon-Tom said with a grin.
“Nope, never.” Mudge raised his right paw. “I
, swears on the best parts o’ Chenryl de Vole, Timswitty’s
slickest courtesan.” He eyed the trail the raft had left
in the water and shuddered. “It ‘ad me, too, mate.
Sucked me right in without me ever knowin’ wot was
‘Stppenin’. Bloody insidious.” He looked back at his
companion as they both ducked some dangling moss.
**Wot does you call the mind-suckin’ little ‘orror?”
“Commercial television,” Jon-Tom told him. “I think
dial’s all that it’s going to play. Twenty-four hours
nonstop ’round-the-clock.”
“It’ll be too soon if I never see anything like it
again.”
“I only hope it doesn’t burn out the Brulumpus’s
brain.” Jon-Tom murmured. “For a pile of ooze, he
wasn’t such a bad sort.”
“Ah. mate, that soft ‘cart will be the end o’ you one
o* these days. You’d smile on your own assassin.”
“I can’t help it, Mudge. I tike folks, no matter what
they happen to look like.”
“Just keep in mind that most of *em probably don’t
like you.**
Alan Dean Porter
174
Jon-Tom looked thoughtful. “Maybe 1 should sing
another few jingles, just to reinforce the spell.”
“Maybe you should just paddle, mate.”
“See?” Jon-Tom smiled at the otter. “I told you
you’d start criticizing my spellsinging again.”
“It ain’t your spellsingin’ 1 ‘ave a ‘ard time with,
guv. *Tis your voice.”
The argument continued all the rest of that day
and on into the next, by which time they were
confident they’d passed beyond the Brulumpus’s
sphere of influence. Several days later they received
a pleasant surprise. The landscape was changing
again, and so was the climate.
As far as Mudge was concerned, the lessening of
humidity was long overdue, as was the appearance of
some real dry land. The Wrounipai began to assume
the aspect of tropical lake country instead of near-
impenetrable swamp. Islands rose high and solid
above the water, from which accumulated scum and
suspended solids were beginning to disappear. In-
stead of pooling aimlessly around trees and islets.
the water began to flow steadily southward. Currents
could become rivers, and rivers gave rise to commerce.
Civilization.
They could not be too far from their destination.
And then, as had happened on more than one
occasion, growing confidence was dispelled by an
unexpected disaster.
On calm water beneath a windless sky, the world
turned upside down.
Jon-Tom was thrown into the air, legs kicking,
arms thrashing. He hit the water hard and righted
himself. But as he started to swim for the surface,
something grabbed him around the ankles. He felt
himself being dragged downward, away from the
fading light of the sky, away from the oxygen his
burning lungs were already starting to demand.
TOE 9SOMEMT OF THE MAOJCUW
173
He couldn’t see what had ahold of him and wasn’t
sure he wanted to. The harder he kicked and pulled
with his arms, the faster he seemed to be going
backward. Down, straight down toward the bottom
of the Wrounipai. His lungs no longer burned; they
threatened to explode alongside his pounding heart.
The last thing he remembered before he started to
drown was the sight of Mudge off to his left. A far
stronger swimmer than himself, the otter was also
^feeing pulled bottomward by something powerful,
“Streamlined, and indistinct.
|| The nightmare of drowning was still with him
^•When he rolled over and started puking.
^ As soon as he’d cleared his lungs and stomach of
,*^what felt like half the Wrounipai, he sat up and
^^lakily took stock of his surroundings. He was sitting
^on a mat of dry grass and reeds that had been placed
-; atop a floor of tightly compacted earth. Diffuse light
poured through the curved, transparent dome
overhead. It looked like glass but wasn’t.
Off to his left, Mudge stood examining one wall of
die dome. In front of the mat was a pool of water
Which lapped gently at the packed earth. The water
was very dark.
Sensing movement, the otter glanced in his direction.
**I was beginnin’ to wonder if you’d ever come around,
mate.”
**So was I.” He climbed unsteadily to his feet. “I
think for a minute there, there was more water
inside me than out.” He coughed again. His mouth
tasted of swamp and his guts were throbbing.
“Where are we?”
“V^e are in somebody’s ‘ometown, mate,” the otter
informed him glumly, “and I don’t think you’re goin’
to Kke the somebodies.”
“What do you mean?” Mudge’s words implied
familiarity with their captors, but Jon-Tom had nev-
Alan Dean Poster
176
er been in a place like this in his life. At least, not
that he could recall.
The otter beckoned him over. ” ‘Ave a look at this
stuff.”
Jon-Tom moved to join him in inspecting the wall
of their transparent prison. As he ran his ^fingers
over it, he saw it wasn’t glass, as he’d initially suspected.
Nor was it plastic. Actually, it was slightly sticky, like a
clear glue. He had to yank his fingers clear of the
wall. A portion of it stuck to his nails and he had to
rub the stuff off on his pants.
Something else: his pants were dry. That meant
he’d been unconscious for several hours, at least.
The wall did not run or drip. As for the source of
the dim, rippling light, that was instantly apparent-
The dome rested on the bottom of the lake. The
Wrounipai was overhead, and the surface, Jon-Tom
estimated, was a good sixty feet out of reach. He
couldn’t be certain. He wasn’t used to judging the
depth of water from below.
He turned back to the wall. “I think it’s some kind
of secretion.”
“You mean, somebody went and spit it up.””
“In so many words, yes.” He waved his hand at the
ceiling of the dome. “This is all organic, not manu-
factured.”
A recent memory made him stare down at the
otter again.
“You said this was somebody’s home.’*
“Oi, that 1 did.” Mudge led him across the cham-
ber and had him look out the other side of their
prison.
The dome rested on a gentle slope which fell off
sharply just beyond the structure’s outer edge- A
profusion of similar buildings occupied the lake bot-
tom another fifty feet further down. Their architec-
ture was unfamiliar. All were simple in design and
THE MOUKHT Or THE MAGJCMW
177
devoid of visible ornamentation. Shapes moved slowly
through and among them.
Jon-Tom recognized a few of the shapes, and the
small hairs on the back of his neck stiffened as some
of -the most unpleasant moments of his life came
back to him in a rush.
“1 told you, you wouldn’t like it,” Mudge murmured.
Jon-Tom moved as close to the wall of the dome as
he could without making contact with the sticky
material and stared into the depths. Despite the dim
light there was no mistaking the identity of their
captors.
Plated Folk.
XI
They didn’t belong here, in these warm, tranquil
waters so far from their stinking home in the distant
Greendowns. The Plated Folk were the builders of
the implacable insect civilization which he and
Clothahump had helped to defeat at the battle of the
Jo-Troom Gate not so very long ago. This wasn’t the
Greendowns, and Clothahump had said nothing about
the possibility of encountering any of them on the
way to Quasequa.
Therefore Clothahump himself knew nothing of
their presence here. That was a disquieting thought.
It meant that in all likelihood, neither did anyone
else in the warmlands.
“This is crazy. What are they doing so far from
their homeland? A colony of them wouldn’t be toler-
ated by the locals.”
“I agree, mate. Any self-respectin’ warmlanders
would run the ‘ard-shelled bastards all the way back
to that cesspool they call *ome. If they knew they
were settlin’ in to stay in their own backyards, that is.
But think about it: this ‘ere’s pretty empty country,
and these oversized cockroaches are all underwater-
dwellers. Ain’t nobody goin’ to raise the alarm over a
bunch o’ invaders they can’t see.”
178
TBK MOMENT OF THE MAGICIAN
179
“It’s hard to believe that they haven’t been seen by
a few hunting parties out from Quasequa or some
other town.”
“Maybe they have been seen, mate.” Mudge’s words
wexe short and clipped. “Maybe them that sees *em
ends up down ‘ere like us, and maybe they never gets
‘ome to tell anyone else about wot they’ve seen.”
Silently, they turned back to the wall and stared
out into the poisoned waters. Jon-Tom saw waterboat-
men paddling along on their backs, their eyes cast
forever downward. Dragonfly nymphs were nursed
along- by water tigers, and water beetles of every
imaginable shape and size swooped gracefully above
the buildings of the colony.
If it was a colony. They had no proof of that yet.
“You think they have any contact with the capital
of the empire at Cugluch, or could this be an isolated,
independent community?”
Mudge scratched at his whiskers. “1 couldn’t say
for sure, mate, but while you were lyin’ there ‘alf-
dead, a couple of ’em came in to check on us and did
somethin’ that doesn’t make me feel any too confi-
dent about our future.”
“What’s that?”
“They took your duar.”
That was bad, Jon-Tom mused, very bad. “Maybe,”
he suggested lamely, “they were just curious about
it.”
“Right,” agreed Mudge sardonically, “They’re just
a bunch o’ bug-eyed music lovers and they likes to
collect instruments. Maybe they’ll also want you to
play a solo for ’em later, but I wouldn’t count on it.
T^sey spent too much time examinin’ it and starin’ at
you and whisperin’.”
“What are our chances of breaking out of here?”
Jon-lbm stared up at the faint, twitching point of
light that was the distant sun.
Alan Dean Foster
180
“This bloody wall’s as solid as iron, mate. There’s
only the one way in and out, and 1 don’t think we’ll
be makin’ a swim for it anytime soon.” He drew
Jon-Tom over to the pool of water that was visible just
inside one section of wall. “See, I don’t think we’d get
very far.”
Drifting just below and outside the entrance to the
dome was a terrifying marine form. The giant water
bug was at least eight feet in length. It hovered in
place like an armored submersible, displaying open
mandibles big enough to snap off an arm or leg
with a single bite.
Jon-Tom nodded to himself. “So we don’t take any
casual baths.” He looked past the guard. Something
much smaller was moving toward them through the
water. He found himself backing away. “What’s that?”
Mudge didn’t budge. “Air delivery.”
The three-foot-long beetle had hind legs twice the
length of its body, each covered with dense, flexible
hairs. Upon reaching the entrance to the dome it
pivoted in the water until its hind end was facing the
opening. Between its back legs was a thin sicken
envelope full of air. It backed toward the entrance
and kicked once.
The silk envelope split. There was a giant btup,
water sloshed over Jon-Tom’s feet and then receded,
and a sudden wash of fresh air hit him like a spring
breeze. The beetle swam away.
“They do that regular,” Mudge informed him,
“which is why the air in ‘ere ain’t gone sour on us
yet.”
“That’s thoughtful of them.”
Mudge turned and began nervously pacing the
hard-packed floor. “Wish I could say the same for
the rest o’ their manners. I ain’t so sure I’d prefer
not to suffocate.” After completing half a dozen
THE MOMENT or THE MAGICIAN 181
circumnavigations of the dome, he stopped in front
of the entryway again.
“Now I know I’m faster than that big bastard, if I
could just get past ‘im.” He let the thought trail off.
“Trouble is, I’d probably do it in pieces.”
Jon-Tom moved back to the reed mat and sat
down. “I never saw them hit us.”
“Neither did 1, mate, until it was too late.” He
pointed toward the giant water bug floating placidly
outside their prison. “That hunk of armored vomit
came up underneath us., and dumped us in. His
smaller relations were waidn’ to drag us down ‘ere.”
He looked over at his cOan&anion.
“When theyspdumped l|s |n this ‘alf bubble, your
face was all sw^ll up like ayifiird’s bladder. I thought
y^a.were a golfer for sure-CTBey did a little dance on
ytyur;j)ack an<^ pumped atx’i-tt ‘alf a gallon o’ water
otit o^ou, th^n gave up an^Uleft- After a couple of
‘ groanirf, ^en fell asleep. I wiped
face and figured I might as well
woke up. That was yesterday.”
I- “I figured I must’ve been out
happened to our raft and supplies?”
Hsr the lake .bottom,” Mudge told
u|e^idn’t see fit to salvage. They’ve
feapoitt iff’a little dry storage area over
the ^ter from ruinin’ ‘cm. Exhibit A
:utiongyd wliger.”
ftiinutes^
|he droo
lurait and
l-^ii
forawtflJ
‘^Scattg
him sadly.
got ^11 oui
there, to k
for the pr
Jen-Tom
separated f
smaller, air-
ons and personal be
terminate number o
nt toJIwyalf Nfext to then- prison and
>, it by omy a; foot of water/was a much
ff^ d®n»e. Il^was cramh^ckwith weap-
gings scavenged from an inde-
similarly unlucky travelers to
this part of the Wrounipai. The most recent acquisi-
tions were clearly visible atop a wooden hamper: his
ramwood staff and sword; Mudge’s longbow and arrows
and short sword; some of their food stock; and atop
Alan Dean Foster
182
everything else, dry and apparently undamaged, his
precious duar. If not for the intervening water and
walls he might have reached out and grabbed it.
“Mudge, if we could just get ahotd of my duac…”
“Then you’d charm ’em all with your sweet songs.
mate. Unfortunately, there’s only one way out o’ ‘ere,
and 1 ain’t about to try it unless that mobile butcher
shop out there swims off to take a crap or somethin’,
Uh-oh.” He started backing toward the far wall.
Jon-Tom looked around nervously. “What’is it,
what’s wrong?”
“Company.”
Jon-Tom hurried to join him.
One by one, a trio of Plated Folk entered the
chamber. Spend the majority of their lives beneath
the water they might, but they still had to go up to
the surface from time to time to breathe. Their
bodies concealed lungs, not gills. So they built air
chambers to live in, like the imprisoning dome.
Two of them looked like twins- They wore some
kind of thin, unrusted metal armor. Jon-lbm thought
it might have been tarnished copper, but he wasn’t
certain. Each was about four feet in height.
The third was a tall, reedy character who looked
something like a hydrotropic walking stick but really
resembled no insect Jon-Tom had ever seen before
on this world or his own. It wore no armor and,
unlike its two stocky companions, carried no weapons.
Instead, in one set of pincers it held several thin
sheets of metal thick with engraving.
This sickly seven-footer bent to confer with its
aides. Together they appeared to discuss the con-
tents of the metal sheets. Then it straightened to its
full height and pointed an accusatory finger in Jon-
Tom’s direction.
“There is no question. He is the one.”
“Is the one!” his two shadows declared loudly.
THB MOMENT or TVS MAOSCIAM 183
“Is the one what?” Jon-Tom asked innocently.
**The music wizard who called forth the fire horse
and slew the Empress Skrritch at theJo-Troom Gate.
You are he,”
Jon-Tom burst out laughing. “I’m who? Look, friend,
I never heard of the Jo-Troom Gate or the Empress
Skrritch or any of what you’re talking about. My
companion here and I are wanderers in this land.
We’re just a little while out from Quasequa, having
ourselves a bit of vacation. I swear I don’t know what
the devil you’re talking about!”
“But you do know about lying. That much is
evident,” murmured the tall speaker, “because you
do it so forcefully. You are the wizard. There is no
point in denying it.”
“But I do deny it. Forcefully, as you put it.”
The pair of shorter insects moved toward him,
drawing their short, curved swords. Barbs protruded
from the sicklelike cutting edges.
They lumbered past him and one put a sword
against Mudge’s throat. The otter made no effort to
dodge. There was nowhere to hide.
The fixed chitin could not convey much in the
way of expression, but the speaker’s meaning was
dear to Jon-Tom nonetheless. “Do you deny it still?”
Jon-Tom swallowed. “Maybe I did participate in
the battle for the Gate, but so did half the inhabit-
ants of the warmlands.”
The sword pressed tight against Mudge’s Adam’s
apple, trimming some of the hair from his neck.
*And 1 have some faint recollection of perhaps possi-
bly maybe participating in some small way in the
casting of some minor spell,” Jon-Tom added hastily.
The hooked scimitar withdrew and the otter
breathed again.
“That is better,” said the speaker.
“No need to take it so personal,” Jon-Tom said,
Alan Dean Foster
184
but the speaker ignored him, spoke instead to his
two aides.
“This is a great day for this outpost of Empire. A
memorable day.” The aides resheathed their swords.
Their chitin was a rich maroon color, black under-
neath and marked by thick black vertical stripes
across the vestigial wing cases. The speaker was
yellow and black, with white spots on his cases.
“There will be decorations for all, and the war coun-
cil will be pleased. The Empress herself will com-
mend us.”
“The Empress?” Jon-Tom blurted it out. There-
seemed no harm, since they were certain of his
identity. “I thought Skrritch was slain during the
battle, as you just said.”
“So she was. 1 refer to the Empress Isstrag, now
reigning. She will preside over your deaths. A small
measure of revenge will be gained for the destruc-
tion you wrought at the Gate. I shall turn you over to
the Dissembling Masters myself. Our land-dwelling
cousins will be most delighted.”
“Your cousins? Then you didn’t participate in the
battle?”
“Distance precluded our lending aid to our cous-
ins in the Greendowns, and in any case the battle was
waged upon the land. We could have been of litde
help. We regretted our exclusion. Now you have pro-
vided us with a means to make up for it.”
“If you didn’t join in the fight, then you’ve got
nothing against us, and we’ve got nothing against
you,” Jon-Tom argued desperately. “Why not let us
go on our way? We’ve no quarrel with the inhabit-
ants of Cugluch.”
“Ah, but they have a lingering quarrel with you,
wizard. Your dismemberment will bring much honor
on our isolated community. All will gain in prestige.
THE MOMENT OF TEE BSAGICUN
185
You must be kept alive and well for your delivery to
the Masters”
“Look, guv’nor,” said Mudge, “I know I don’t ‘ave
a ‘ole lot o’ leverage ‘ere, but if you’re bound and
determined to deliver us to this new Empress and ‘er
private torturers, ‘ow about turnin’ us in dead?”
The speaker shook his head. “That would mitigate
the delight of the royal court.”
“Aw, gee, that’d be a shame, wouldn’t it?” said
Mudge saracastically.
The speaker missed it. “It speaks well of you that
z you should take such an attitude. That is commend-
^ able in a servant.”
-s,
“Servant! Who’s a bloomin’ servant!” Mudge’s
outrage, like Jon-Tom’s earlier disclaimer, was ignored.
“Perhaps the Empress will even allow this unwor-
thy one to be present at the entertainment you will
provide.”
“Yeah, I’ll wave good-bye to you,” Mudge muttered
– sullenly.
“If not, there will still be ample glory in delivering
you up into her presence.”
“I’m curious about one thing,” Jon-Tom said. “How
did you know who we were?” He indicated the stor-
age chamber outside the main dome. “You’ve obvi-
ously murdered dozens of travelers.”
“Trespassers in our waters.” Bulbous compound
eyes focused on Jon-Tom. “As to the matter of identi-
fying you, you underestimate yourself, man.” The
speaker’s voice was hoarse, a rasping sound, due at
least in part to the long, thin tube of a mouth from
which his words emerged.
“Did you think we are so disorganized as to not
lake care to pass among ourselves descriptions of our
greatest enemies? Do you think we would let them
pass unnoticed among us? Great generals and great
wizards among the warmlanders are well known to
Alan Dean Potter
186
us. You should be proud to be among the notable,
pleased that you should be so quickly recognized in
a land so far from the place where you did battle ”
Somehow Jon-Tom didn’t feel flattered.'”If you
know that I’m a great wizard, then you must. also
know that I ask these questions only to gratify my
curiosity before we leave this place.”
“I do not think your curiosity strong enough to
cause you to linger this long,” observed the ‘Speaker
cannily. “If you could leave freely, 1 believe you
would already have done so. Indeed, were you capa-
ble of such sorcery, I do not think you ever would
have been captured.” He paused, and Jon-Tom had
the feeling the tall insect was eyeing him curiously.
“There was known to be among the warmlanders
during the battle for the Gate a great and strange
spellsinger. To make magic, a spellsinger of any race
must have an instrument with him.” He gestured
with a three-foot-long arm toward the storage chamber.
“That instrument, perhaps.”
Jon-Tom didn’t look toward his duar. “Perhaps. Or
perhaps this small flute I always carry with me.” He
reached inside his shirt.
The two stocky insects nearly broke their antennae
diving for the exit, jamming tight for an instant
before tumbling to safety in the water beyond. The
giant water bug stirred uneasily, its massive front
pincers flexing.
The tall speaker flinched but did not retreat. He
relaxed when Jon-Tom’s hand stayed concealed in-
side his shirt. “A small amusement. I understand.”
He turned his head to eye the dome’s entrance. His
two aides were peeking cautiously back into the
air-filled chamber.
Jon-Tom didn’t understand the phrasing, but it
certainly sounded like a curse that fell from the
speaker’s speaking tube. A contemptuous curse. The
Tae MojitBarr or THB MAOICSAM 167
aides sl^ly reentered the’^ome under the baleful
gaze of <|(-eir superior. Jon^Ebm’s interpretation of
their expressions was not pleasant.
As thodgh nothing had happened, the speaker
turned back to him. “Tomorrow we will make a
special conveyance for both of yoQ. It will contain a
small air chamber like this one so chat we can travel
safely to Cugluch underwater. There are many riv-
ers and quiet^akes between here and the Greendowns,
and we shouN not have to expose ourselves to the
land-dwellers Very often. There will he no chance of
rescue for you-You might as well enjoy the journey.
You will be pandered.”
“Fatted calvesA Jon-Tom murmured. “How are
you going to cross %aryt’s Teeth?**
“There are rivers that tunnel through the mountains.
We know them. You shaHcome,to know them as well,
though it is knowledge yau .frill never be able to
share. Now I have a question^ man. What were you
intending in this country, so-far south of your own
land, from the region backing onto the Gate?”
Mudge jerked a thumb in Jon-lbm’s direction.
“This one ‘ere, guv’nor. “e’s a bloody tourist, ‘e is. He
likes to get out and see (he wondersao’ nature and all
that crap.” ^
“And whai-^Lf you?”
“Me? That^^asy. See, I’m^barkin’ insah^ ain’t I?
I’d ‘ave to be ^ I wouldn’t be ‘ere.” Witlr^hat he
sat down on th^eeds, a decidedly peeved l^o^on
his face, and rerKfcd to answer any more quertQs.
J!!»^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^
The worst they c
“You must be at^
wizai^y. corn mentecT”;
ney beo^een here ai
‘ ^, ^ r
emoy maty adverting co
“•” ^’^”‘jpn-Tomtol
iterestn^ perj^n, spellsinger
.speaker. “Itt^a longjpur-
Greendowns. We may
rsation along the way.”
lim evenly. “I’m-not
with’^asual killers ”
Alan Dean roster
188
“We are not casual. I am disappointed. I would
have thought your reaction to your situation might
have been more enlightened,” It performed a ges-
ture that might have stood for a shrug, or, might
have meant something else entirely.
“It will make no difference in the final judgment.
You know your fate.”
With dignity, the speaker turned and vanished
through the watery portal, flanked by his stocky aides.
There was respect in the giant water bug’s movements
as it swam aside to let the trio pass. Jon-Tom watched
the speaker swim slowly around the dome, heading
back down toward the buildings below.
There was a rush of water from the entrance. The
giant water bug’s head, with its massive mandibles,
was even more impressive out of the water.
“YOU STAY,” it grunted in a crackling voice, then
pulled clear to resume its motionless patrol. Water
surged in after it, making their humid prison damp-
er than ever.
“Tomorrow, he said,” Jon-Tom murmured, gazing
toward the watery sky. Already it was growing dark
inside the dome as the sun sank toward the horizon.
“That doesn’t give us much time.”
“It doesn’t give us any time, mate. We’re doomed.”
“Never use that word around me, Mudge. I refuse
to acknowledge it.”
“Right you are, mate. We’re stuck.” The otter turned
away, bemoaning his fate.
In truth, there seemed no way out Even if they could
somehow manage to slip past their monstrous guard,
their movement through the water could be detected
and recognized instantly by any of the vibration-
sensitive inhabitants of the underwater community.
As for the dome, if they cut a hole in it, water
would pour in and prevent any exit. In any case, it
would take at least a week to make an impression on
THE MOMENT OF THE MAGICIAN
189
that hard, sticky material with Mudge’s claws and his
fingernails. It was as if they were imprisoned in a cell
completely encased in alarm wires. All they had to
do was move to trip one.
That didn’t keep him from thinking about escape,
but by the time they’d finished the evening meal
their captors thoughtfully provided, he was forced to
admit that his usually fertile imagination could gener-
ate nothing in the way of a plan. Not even a sugges-
tion of a plan.
Mudge was right this time. They were stuck. May-
be they would have a better opportunity to escape
during the long journey to Cugluch. In that case,
he’d only hurt their chances by not sleeping.
The mat was soft, but not reassuring.
“Where’s the other one?” said an excited, rasping
voice.
Jon-Tom opened his eyes. It was light inside the
dome again, but barely. The sun was still rising. He
shivered in the damp cold air.
The dome was alive with activity. Sitting up on the
reeds, he tried to force his eyes to adjust to the
feeble light. Busy water beetles scurried around,
inspecting the walls, sniffing at the floor, tearing the
reed mat up around him. All of them carried six-
inch-long knives.
He counted at least a dozen of them. Two ran past,
still shedding water from their recent entry. As his
brain began to clear he saw that they were not
merely active; they were downright agitated.
Standing close to the entrance was the speaker.
His maroon aides huddled close to him. Their swords
were drawn and they, too, were searching the interi-
or of the dome anxiously.
Then the speaker’s words, filtered through his
half-asleep thoughts, struck home.
Aim Dean Footer
100
•’Mudge?” He got on all fours, feeling through the
reeds where the otter had been sitting last night.
“Mudge!” The otter’s musk was still strong in the
enclosed chamber. That, and the impression of his
body in the reeds, was all that remained of him.
When Jon-Tom rose, he was immediately sur-
rounded by three of the sword-wielding water beetles.
He put their edginess and Mudge’s apparent absence
together and reached an inescapable conclusion.
The otter had split.
As the rising sun shed more light on the search,
his smile grew wider and wider. The Plated Folk
were already repeating themselves. After all. there
were only a limited number of possible hiding places
within the dome. Somehow Mudge had made it to
freedom without waking his companion or alarming
their giant guard.
He wasn’t angry with the otter for not alerting
him. Obviously, whatever avenue of escape he’d
followed wasn’t suitable for the gangly Jon-Tom, or
Mudge would have gotten both of them out. Sure he
would. Jon-Tom refused to believe otherwise-
He wouldn’t allow himself to believe otherwise.
Besides, it was only justice. Only fair that having
been unwillingly dragooned into this expedition,
Mudge should be the one to escape with his life.
Then there was no more time to bask in the
success of the otter’s chicanery because the speaker
was towering over him.
Bright compound eyes gazed down at the single
remaining prisoner, and that raspy voice repeated
the question it had asked of its minions only minutes
earlier.
“Where is the other one? The short furry slave?”
“He’s not a slave,” Jon-Tom said defiandy. “As for
your first question, why don’t you go screw yourself
and see if it brings forth enlightenment?” He de-
THE MOMENT OF TOK MAQJCIAH
191
rived unexpected pleasure from the vehemence of
his reply.
It had absolutely no effect on the speaker. “Tell me
or i will have your limbs removed.”
“What, and deprive the Empress of so much
delight?” Jon-Tom grinned up at the speaker. “Not
that it matters. I don’t know where he is any more
than you do. Your folks woke me out of a sound
sleep. You were here and Mudge was gone. Where to
I couldn’t say, and I don’t care as long as it’s far away
from here.”
“I do not think you are telling the truth, but as you
say, it matters not. You are here and he is gone. You
are the important one anyway. You are the one they
will greet with joy in Cugluch. The flight of the
other is irritating. That is all.” He gestured with a
long arm. The chitin Hashed in the light.
Several short laborers were bringing something
long and rectangular through the entrance. It looked
uncomfortably like a coffin, for all that Jon-Tom
knew it was designed to preserve his life, not his
corpse.
“The means by which you will be transported
safely to Cugluch,” the speaker explained unnecessarily.
“The escort is ready- Now you will be made ready.”
Jon-Tom tried to take a step backward, only to
find himself hemmed in on all sides. He was much
taller than every one of the Plated Folk with the
exception of the speaker, but they were stocky and
strong.
“What do you mean, ‘ready* me?”
The speaker elucidated. “One as clever and well
versed in the arcane arts as you is always a threat,
even without your magic-making instrument. I will
take no chances on you working mischief during our
journey, or on suiciding at the last moment.”
Long arms pushed. Jon-Tom felt himself shoved to.
Alan Dean Foster
192
one side. Looking past the speaker he could see
something like a five-foot-long cockroach waiting
patiently near the portal. An air-Filled ovo^d was
strapped to its back. Within, he could see his ramwood
staff, duar, and the rest of the supplies that had been
salvaged from their raft. The laborers were strap-
ping the air-filled bier onto the back of another.
Then the speaker stepped aside, revealing the
ugliest speciman of Plated Folk Jon-Tom had ever
seen. It walked on alt sixes instead of fours like the
speaker and water beetles. Its body was long and
thin and flattened from head to thorax, while the
abdomen swelled into a grotesque globe- In color it
was mucklededun except for the comparatively small
eyes, which were bright red.
As it moved toward him, it raised its two front
arms. Tiny vestigial wings began to vibrate excitedly
against the thorax, which was very narrow. It was
also the smallest of the Plated Folk in the chamber,
barely three feet long. So was the tightly curled
ovipositor-like tube which protruded from the base
of the bulbous abdomen. It curved up over the
insect’s back and head. The hypodermic tip quivered
in the air a foot in front of the creature’s head.
Jon-Tom found he was breathing fast as he searched
for a place to hide. There was no place to hide.
“Listen, you don’t have do to this,” he told the
speaker, his eyes following that wavering point. “I’m
not going to give you any trouble. I can’t, without my
duar.”
“This is a reasonable precaution, particularly in
light of the disappearance of your companion,” said
the speaker. “I do not want you to vanish one night
when we are almost to Cugluch.”
“I couldn’t do that, I couldn’t.’* He wasn’t ashamed
of the hysteria rising in his voice. He was genuinely
THE MOMBNT OF THK MAOSCIAM
193
terrified by the approach of what in essence was a
three-foot-long needle.
**There is no need to struggle,” the speaker as-
sured him. “You can only hurt yourself. The Ruze’s
venom has been used on the warmblooded before. It
knows exactly how large a dose to administer to
render you immobile for the duration of our journey.”
“I don’t give a damn if it’s been to medical school.
You’re not sticking that thing in me!” He jumped to
his right, hoping to clear the surprised guards and
make a run for the water, not caring anymore wheth-
er they used their swords on him or not.
They did not have the chance to react. As soon as
Jon-Tom moved, the Ruze struck. The stinger lashed
down like a striking cobra. Jon-Tom felt a terrific
burning pain between his waist and thighs as the
stinger went right through his pants to catch him
square in the left gluteus. He was surprised at the
( intensity of his scream. It was as if someone had
given him an injection of acid.
The Ruze backed away, its work completed, and
studied the human with interest. Beetle guards spread
out. Jon-Tom staggered a couple of steps toward the
entryway before collapsing. One hand went to his
left buttock, where the fire still burned, while he
tried to pull himself forward with his other hand.
The coldness started in his legs. It traveled rapidly
up his thighs, then spread through the rest of his
body- It wasn’t uncomfortable. Only frightening. When
it reached his shoulders, he collapsed on his stomach.
Somehow he managed to roll over onto his back. His
elbows locked up in front of his eyes, then his wrists
and fingers.
The long, thin, bug-eyed face of the speaker came
within range of his vision and gazed down at him
from a great height. Jon-Tom fought to make his
vocal cords function.
Alan Dean Foster
194
“You… Hed… to… me.”
“I did not lie to you.” the speaker replied calmly.
“You will not die. You will only be made incapable of
resisting.”
“Not that.” It. took a tremendous effort for him to
speak. His words were weak and breathy. ‘*You said
it… wouldn’t… hurt.”
The speaker did not reply, continued to regard
him as it would something moving feebly beneath a
microscope.
Jon-Tom wondered how long the effects of the
injection would last. How many times between here
and Cugluch would he be subjected to the Ruze’s fiery
attentions? Once a week? Every morning? Better that
he find some way of killing himself quickly. He couldn’t
even do that now. His paralysis was their security.
It was difficult to tell if the speaker was pleased,
apologetic, or indifferent. As for the Ruze, it was
only doing a job. The dose it had injected had been
delivered with a surgeon’s skill.
Satisfied, it nodded its absurdly small head and
indicated that the task of immobilizing the prisoner
had been completed. The speaker turned to a group
of unarmed water beetles waiting patiently nearby.
Jon-Tom felt stiff, uncaring hands turning him. He
wanted to resist, to strike out against his tormentors,
but the only things he could move were his eyes.
Then they were placing him in the oversized glass
coffin and preparing to load it onto the back of the
waiting cockroach-thing. Inside the water-tight con-
tainer it was peaceful, silent, warm. He fought against
falling asleep: that was what they wanted him to do,
so he stubbornly resisted doing it.
The speaker was nearby, giving orders. Jon-Tom
was lifted into the air, and thin straps were passed
over and around his container. He could tell he was
being moved only because he could see movement
TUB MOMENT or THE MAOICIAM 195
through the transparent material. He could feel
nothing.
Then he was falling. The coffin had slipped, or
been dropped. There was a rush of new activity
around nim, but the cause of it remained foreign to
his senses. His vision was starting to blur from the
effects of the Ruze’s toxin. Soon he would be asleep
despite his best efforts to stay awake-
Staring straight upward he thought he could make
out a vast dark shape coming toward him. It was
blocking out the sunlight. For an instant it appeared
to linger near the apex of the dome, and then the
dome came apart. It did not crack or split like glass
or plastic. It simply imploded.
An explosive influx of water sent his coffin spinning,
along with the bodies of his captors. With his
perception already distorted, it was impossible to tell
which direction he was tumbling-
He was alone, a pebble in a bottle, a tiny human
marble being bounced between floor and walls. Some-
thing had shattered the dome. That much he was
certain of. He wanted to cry out as the water spun
him in circles, but his tongue and vocal cords were
paralyzed now. It didn’t matter. There was no one to
hear him.
The wall collapsed, and the swirling currents threw
him outside the broken enclosure. The angry waters
quieted. It was peaceful outside the boundaries of
the ruined dome, though stirred-up sediments clouded
the pristine water of the lake. Or was the darkness
only in his mind?
It seemed as though he was falling now, still tum-
bling over and over, bouncing down the side of the
underwater hill on which his prison had been
constructed. He fell slowly because of the water and
because of the air within his coffin. The latter was
already beginning to smell stale. When he started to
Aian Dean Foster
196
black out, he suspected it was due not to the afteref-
fects of the injection he’d received but to the deple-
tion of his small air supply.
In his drugged fashion he was elated. He would
not have to suffer repealed visits from the Ruze, nor
some slow and painful dismemberment in distant
Cugluch. He was going to die here and now. He
would have smiled if his paralysis had permitted it.
The Plated Folk were going to be cheated of their
ceremonial revenge.
Then the darkness came to him, and he welcomed
it.
XII
After an eternity it occurred to him that the tem-
perature around him was rising. Not so surprising in
death, perhaps, but it did surprise him that he could
sense the change.
He tried to open his eyes. The muscles protested.
It was as though he were not completely dead. He
tingled all over, an excruciating sensation.
Since his eyes weren’t functioning, he tried to
move his lips. They worked, but fitfully. He forced
them to. He badly wanted a swallow of air.
When he finally managed that complicated series
of movements, he tried to scream. The air went
down his throat and into his lungs like a chunk of
raw liver. The next swallow was easier, however.
Long-dormant glands generated saliva, and this helped
even more.
Possibly he was not dead. He argued the point
with the rest of his body, which insisted he was. He
had drowned or suffocated or both, but he certainly
wasn’t alive.
Exhibit A for the defense: he could breathe. The
prosecution faltered in its argument, and then the
case for his demise was in tatters. Nothing like intro-
ducing a surprise piece of evidence at the critical
197
Alan Dean Foster
198
moment, he mused. But now he would have to prove
to the court that he was capable of consciousness.
First witness for the defense to the stand. I
call… sight! Open one lid and swear on your optic
nerve. Do you solemnly swear to see, to perceive, to
provide a view of the world arould this not-quite-
corpse? I do.
Someone was staring down at him, a fuzzy moon
of a face. It wore an anxious expression. There was a
black nose; a lot of brown fur; bright concerned
eyes; and whiskers that twitched.
“Madge,” he mumbled. Someone had filled his
mouth with glue.
The face broke out in a scintillating smile and
looked away from him. “Now, ain’t that interestin’. ‘E
thinks I’m ‘is friend.”
A calming, reassuring, confident voice. Only prob-
lem was, it didn’t belong to Mudge. It was too
high-pitched. \
Jon-Tom put a hand to one ear, deU|
was able to do so, and did some plumt
fed that he
“Take it easy, man,” the voice ^tt^ “V
so good.” “<1
in’t look
“That’s appropriate,” he mumbled. Str^ftgth was
flowing back into him along with consciousness. “I
don’t feel so good either.”
The otter leaning over him was definitely not
Mudge. In place of the familiar green felt cap and
feather, this stranger wore a leather beret decorated
with glass buttons- The face was slimmer than Mudge’s,
1|a, features more delicate. Instead of a simple vest it
^^^a comptex assortment of straps and metal rings.
iJO’^^fean that he cottldn’t see. Changing his line of
sight.y^yeL ha^ meapt raising himself up on his
elbowg^^life^tin^eel he was ready for that yet.
“Hi/^ic^^^ler^.’Me name’s Quorly. You’re
cute. Mu8it&-(Sd me you were cute, but not very
“•» ‘-_ •» ‘
THE MOMBJTT OF THK MAOSCWI
199
bright. I thought a spellsmger was supposed to be
bright.”
Maybe it was the curled eyelashes, Jon-Tom told
himself. Or the streaks of paint above the eyes
themselves. Makeup? Or war paint? He couldn’t decide.
Another otterish face hove into view and smiled
hesitantly down at him. Still not Mudge. This one
was too wide, almost pudgy. Somehow the idea of a
fat otter seemed like a contradiction in terms, but
there was no denying the new arrival’s species, or
corpulence. He wore a wide, floppy chapeau that
drooped over his eyes. ^
“This is Norgil,” said Quorly. s.
“Hiyal” The new arrival frowned over atthe female.
Female. Quorly was a she, Jon-Tom Decided. So
the face paint was makeup, then..0r tpaybe it was
makeup and war paint. With ‘otters, according to
what Mudge had told him, you <3^uld never be sure.
“Think ‘e can ‘ear us?” NorgUFAsked*
“I can…” Jon-Tom was startlftd b^’the croaking
sound that issued from his throaJS H^ JEried again. “I
can… hear you. Who are you?” ^ |k }
“See?” Quorly beamed down at Sy^ as she spoke
to her companion. “He’s alive. ThatJtfUdge chap was
right. He’s just a little slow.” She, s^^ tb Jon-Tom.
“I just told you. I’m Quorly, and vyi^^ Norgil.” She
looked to her left and gestured, “^gtos^’you feel up
to it I’ll introduce you to MemaWj^p^ph, Frangel,
Sasswize, Drortch, Knorckle, VVi.ipp.j^^iiLzasaraiig-
elik… but you can call him V^^Sfi’S1
The names all ran together ii?^^-im’s brain.
He’d have to try and sort them <^|^^f’-
At the moment, all his energies ^^fe^ncentrated
on the difficult task of sitting up. \<l}iea he failed at
that, he settled for turning over on Ins left side. This
operation he accomplished with some success, save
for throwing up effusively and compelling his two
Alafi Dean Foster
200
attendants to jump clear. Despite his bulk, Norgil
proved himself as agile as any otter, moving with a
kind of high-speed waddle.
*”E’s alive, all right,” said Norgil disgustedly.
They were on an island, Jon-Tom knew. He could
tell it was an island because he could see the water of
the Wrounipai off in the distance. Of the Plated Folk
there was no sign-
He glanced past his feel and was rewarded with a
view of lean-tos, more elaborate temporary shelters,
and a couple of crackling fires. Two unfamiliar,
outrageously attired otters were broiling several huge
fish on a long spit over the larger of the two blazes.
Several others were sliding spitted, cleaned fish on
long poles and setting them out to dry in the sun.
“We’re a ‘unting party,” Quorly informed him.
” Tis a lot easier to make a good ‘aul when there’s a
bunch o* you all workin’ together. ‘Tis also more fun.
We do right well. Usually don’t come this far north,
but ’tis been a long time since anyone tried to tap this
district, so we thought we’d give ‘er a looksee. Lucky
damn good thing for your arse that we did.”
Another shape was approaching- Norgil moved
aside to give the newcomer room. And at last, a
familiar face and voice.
“Top o* the mornin’ to you, mate!” Mudge pushed
his cap back on his forehead, gave Jen-Tom a quick
once-over, and put an affectionate arm around Quoriy’s
waist. She leaned back into him, grinning.
No wonder Mudge was smiling so broadly, Jon-
Tom mused. It had been a while since he’d been with
any of his own kind. He struggled to smile back.
“Hello, Mudge.”
” *0w you feelin’, mate?”
“Like a reused tortilla: pounded fiat on both sides ”
“Don’t know wot that be. but you look beat-up for
sure. ‘Ad a bad moment or two down there” He
THE MOMENT OF THE MAGICIAN 201
nodded to his right- “Couldn’t find you nowheres.
Old Memaw spotted the box they’d stuck you in
slidin’ down the side o’ the embankment. If she
‘adn*t o’ seen you when she did, ii’d been too late for
you by ftie time we’d o’ found it.”
Jon-Tom noddec^ “I believe I’d like to try sitting up
now.”
“Think you’re up to it, mate?”
“No, but I’m going to try anyway.”
Strong, short arms helped support him. For a
minute he thought he was going to throw up again.
His friends looked alarmed and he hastened to reas-
sure them.
“No, I’m belter now, it’s okay. It’s the aftereffects
of the shit they shot into me. My insides are still on a
roller coaster.”
“Wot’s that?” Quorly asked.
“See? I told you ‘e were a strange one, even for a
‘uman,” said Mudge-
She looked sideways at Jon-Tom. “Yes, but *e is
cute”
“Don’t you go gettin’ any funny ideas, luv. Besides,
*e ‘as funny ideas ‘imself.” Mudge nodded at Jon-
Tbm. ” ‘As a phobia or somethin’ about stickin’ to ‘is
own kind. Don’t care much for variety.”
“Oh.” Quorly looked solemn, then shrugged. “Well,
‘is business is ‘is business.”
Jen-Tom paid little attention to this casual dissec-
tion of his sexual preferences and tried to massage
some feeling back into his cheeks and forehead.
“What happened? How did you get away?”
“Well, mate, after you fell asleep last night, I
stayed awake rackin* me brain and tryin* to think o’
somethin’. Tis easy to think in the darkness, and it
were damn dark down there once the sun went
Awn. Some o’ them creepy-crawlies ‘ad their own
glow lights, but they didn’t come up around our
Alan Dean Poster
202
jail. Don’t need much light when you’re used to
gettin’ around by feelin’ the vibrations in the water.
“Anyways, I was fresh out of clever notions when
our delivery bug with the ‘airy ‘ind legs showed up to
make ‘is regular air drop. That’s when it ‘it me,
mate. The only thing comin’ into our cell regular
and unquestioned was air, and the only thing takin’
its own sweet time leavin’ was the bug that brought
it.
“So I gets this idea in me noggin, see, and I kind
of roll over toward the exit like I’m movin’ in me
sleep. The next time delivery bug comes back and
dumps ‘is air I’m restin’ quiet as an undertaker right
close to the water, and I just sort o’ rolls out behind
‘im when ‘e leaves. Didn’t even try to swim, just let
meself float up behind ‘im so as not to upset our
‘ammer-‘anded guard with any undue movements.
‘E never even turned to ‘ave a look, I’m ‘appy to say-
The big ‘ard-shelled ugly bastard.
“Delivery bug never even knew I was ‘auntin’ ‘is
‘eels. Too busy with *is bloody job, I expect. Anyways,
I went up like a bubble, not movin’, until we got near
the surface. Then 1 just let meself drift along like an
old log. After I’d floated for a while, I started
swimmin* real slow-like, ready to break all records
for the ten-leaguer if anythin’ showed up behind me.
Nothin’ did. Got away clean. Didn’t really start movin’
till I was sure I was away safe and unnoticed. Then,
well, you never saw anythin* move through the water
that fast, mate.”
“I was thrilled you escaped, Mudge, but I never
expected you to come back after me.”
Mudge looked a little embarrassed, didn’t look a(
his friend directly. “Well now, mate, to be perfectly
practical about it, I found meself thinkin’ that there
weren’t a whole lot I could ‘ave done for you all by
meself, so I kind of bid you a tearful ‘ail and farewell
THE MOMBNT OF THE MAGICIAN
203
and it were nice knowin’ you and struck off back
northward in a big curve. ‘Adn’t gone too far when I
got ‘ungry and found a deep pool full o’ Fish. After
that little swim I was more than a mite starved.
“Wot ‘appened was I got meself good and tangled
up in this big net. Thought those bleedin’ bugs ‘ad
some’ow followed me and caught me all over again.
Wasn’t so much scared as angry with meself.
“Come to find out when I were dragged into the
daylight again that it weren’t our old bulgy-eyed
buddies at all that ‘ad caught me, but a swell lot o’
distant cousins.” He patted Quorly on the derriere
and she giggled.
An extraordinary sound- Jon-Tom had never heard
an otter giggle before.
“You should ‘ave ‘eard ‘im as we were untanglin’
‘im from our net,” she told Jon-Tom. ” ‘Im all tied up
in there with our fish and water reeds and bait and
all. Wot a mouth!”
“I’m just the expressive type is all, luv.” He turned
back to Jon-Tbm. “Anyways, findin* meself among
this ‘ealthy bunch o’ the clan forced me into one ‘ell
o* a battle with me conscience, mate. I couldn’t decide
wot to do. So I decided to leave it up to them as to
whether to take the risk o’ goin’ back and tryin’ to
spring you from the chitinous jaws o’ death, as it
were. And wouldn’t you know that every one o’ the
bloomin* fools opted to do the dumb thing and go
back?” Mudge shook his head sadly. “You’ve been
rescued by a lot o’ certifiable crazies, mate.”
“I am grateful,” Jon-Tom said with feeling, “for
your collective stupidity.”
Quorly blinked at Mudge. “Wot did ‘e say?”
“Don’t pay ‘im no mind, luv. ‘E just talks like that
sometimes- ‘E don’t mean nothin’ by it. See, ‘e were
studyin’ to be a solicitor and ‘e can’t ‘elp ‘imsetf. It’s
kind o’ like a disease o’ the mouth,”
Alan Dean foster
904
She eyed Jon-Tom appraisingly. “I thought you
were a spellsinger.”
“That too,” Jon-Tom told her.
Mudge leaned close and whispered. “‘E’s a bit
confused about everything, see?” The otter rapped
the side of his head.
“Oh.” Quorly looked properly sympathetic.
Jon-Tom endured everything in silence, partly be-
cause he was used to Mudge and his brand of humor
and partly because he was too happy to be alive and
safe to quibble about being subjected to a little casual
abuse.
“How did you finally get me out of there?” He
rubbed at his forehead. “All I remember is some-
thing dark and wide blotting out the light and then
the dome breaking.”
Mudge managed the difficult task of strutting while
standing still. “Me sainted mother always told me
that if I ever found meself in a fight with somebody
bigger than me, to find meself a rock big enough to
make things equal. So the lot o’ us did some ‘untin’
until we found a really nice ‘unk o’ stone lyin’ loose
on one o’ the larger islands ‘ereabouts. No easy job
in this muddy slop. it were.
“We wrestled it into the toughest fishin’ net they’d
brung with ’em, and then the bunch o’ us swam over
with it this mornin’ and dropped it square on top o*
their precious dome.” He grinned at the memory.
“Busted it all to ‘ell”
“It could have crushed me, too,” Jon-Tom murmured
thoughtfully.
Mudge shrugged. ” ‘Ad to take a couple o’ chances,
mate. As soon as they saw us comin’, which was
mighty late, for which I’m grateful, the Plated Pricks
started organizin* a defense. But the last thing they
expected were an attack, and they didn’t make a very
good job o’ ‘andlin’ it. For one thing there ain’t the
THE MOMKWT OF THE SSAOJCIAM
205
bug alive that can outswim one o’ us otters. Ain’t
much o’ anythin* that can, especially when we put
our minds to a specific job-
“And if we’d caught you accidentally under our
little gift^ weli, you wouldn’t ‘ave been any worse off
than if we ‘adn’t dropped the rock at all.”
“True enough,” Jon-Tom had to admit.
“We were a little woftried,” Quorly told him, “that
it might not be big enough to break your prison.”
“Sure made a mess o’ it,” said Norgil with satisfaction.
“It was fun! We swam circles around ’em, though we
did ‘ave that bad time when we couldn’t find you
inside.”
“The surge of water when the dome collapsed
pushed me over the side,” Jon-Tbm explained.
“Right, mate,” said Mudge. “Memaw spotted you
and then we lowtailed it out o* there before those
bugs we didn’t crack on the ‘eads could get their wits
together. Oh, and you remember our charmin* ‘ost,
the speaker? I ‘ad the distinct pleasure o* seein* ‘is
‘ead caught under our rock. As ‘e were the only one
o’ that lot who seemed to ‘ave any brains much, I
don*t think they’ll be comin’ after us anytime soon.”
Jon-Tom digested this, nodded. When he finally
stood, the movement prompted waves and shouts of
greeting from the rest of the band. “You really think
we’re safe here?”
“Ought to be,” Quorly told him. “Besides them
losin* their leader, as Mudge just said, we took a
roundabout ways back to our camp and ‘id our
scents well. And we’re a long ways from their town.”
She shook her head, her words full of disbelief.
. “Plated Folk, right ‘ere in the Lakes District. Who
would ‘ave thought it possible?”
“Lakes District? Then we’re not in the Wrounipai
anymore?”
Alan Dean Foster
206
She gestured northward. “Boundary kind o’ wan-
ders about, but we’re right on the edge.”
“How do you tell where one stops and the, other
starts?”
“Use our noses,” she informed him. “When it
smells clean we know we’re in the Lakes. When it
starts stinkin’ we know we’re in the Wrounipai.”
Jon-Tom considered this, said almost inaudibly, “1
don’t know how we can thank you for what you’ve
done”
She shrugged. “No big deal. Like Norgil says, it
were kind o’ fun. Got to do somethin’ once in a while
for excitement or life gets downright borin’.”
Jon-Tom shook Norgil’s hand, then Mudge’s, and
moved to do the same with Quorly. She ignored his
outstretched palm, threw both paws around his neck,
and yanked him down with surprising strength to
plaster a couple of dozen short, sharp kisses on his
face. He fought to pull clear. It was like being
attacked by a wet machine gun.
Mudge thoroughly enjoyed his friend’s discomfiture.
“Now, don’t go gettin’ all flustered, mate. That’s just
the way we otters is. Real friendly- and affectionate-
like.” He hugged Quorly to him. “Ain’t that right,
luv?” She generated that exceptional giggle again
and Jon-Tom eyed her warily lest she ambush him a
second time. He tried to visualize her giggling as she
rammed one of the Plated Folk through the thorax
with her fishing spear.
“Come on then, mate, and meet the rest o’ the
gang.” Mudge put one arm around jon-Tbm’s waist
and guided him toward the camp, kept the other
locked securely around Quorly.
It was more like dumping him into a blender full
of nuts, Jon-Tom mused as he tried to sort out his
mob of new friends. The hyperkinetic fishing party
swarmed over him, prodding, poking, hand-shaking,
THB MOJMBMT OP THB MAoiCLUr
207
kissing, and asking questions at a rate only slightly
this side of supersonic. Over the past months he’d
finally managed to learn how to cope with one otter.
Trying to deal simultaneously on a coherent basis
with eleven of them was beyond the capability of any
sane being. So he finally gave up trying and let their
inexhaustible energy and excitement wash over him
in a flood of fur, faces, and emotion.
Some were taller and thinner than Quorly; none
were as heavyset as Norgil. They were divided evenly
between male and female- Everyone mixed freely,
and while several shared obvious bonds, none were
joined in a formal relationship akin to marriage.
Leader of this anarchistic amalgam was an elderly
silver-tinged female named Memaw. She examined
the resurrected human with a sharp eye.
“Well,” she finally declaimed in an elegant tone,
“you are a bit short of fur and long in the leg, but
then, I’m long in years and short of tooth and I get
by.” She grinned up at him, her mouth displaying an
alarming absence of the full complement of otterish
orthodontics. Jon-Tom doubted if it slowed her down.
Watching Memaw, he doubted much of anything
would slow her down-
“You’re welcome to join us.”
“I appreciate your offer, ma’am. Mudge and I.
we…” He broke off, staring past her. Stacked neatly
against the inner wall of one of the lean-tos, dry and
apparently unharmed, were his ramwood staff; his
backpack; and most important of all, his irreplace-
able duar. “You saved our stuff!”
“Naturally, mate,” said Mudge. “Or did you think I
went lookin’ for you first?” Appreciative laughter rose
from the assembled otters.
“No wonder you get along so well with this bunch,”
Jon-Tom shot back, “they even laugh at your execra-
ble jokes.”
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208
“Wot’d ‘e say?” Knorckle asked Splitch. He was the
biggest and strongest of the band, barely half a foot
shorter than Jon-Tom. Splitch, on the other-hand,
was the picture of petite furred femininity.
“I don’t know. Mudge says he was studying to be a
solicitor.”
“Oh,” Knorckle grunted, as though that explained
everything.
Mudge stepped in Jon-Tom’s path. “‘Old on a
minim, guv, let’s not practice any singin’ now, wot? We
just made friends ‘ere. Don’t want to go drivin* ’em
off already, do we?”
Memaw wagged a warning Finger under Mudge’s
nose. “Now, you be nice to your human friend, even
if he is a bit slow at times! He’s had a more difficult
time of it than you have, he has, having nearly been
killed by those dreadful Plated Folk.” She turned and
smiled maternally up at Jon-Tom. “Don’t you worry
none, young one. I’ll see that this other youngster
minds his tongue while he is around me.”
“It’s all right, Memaw. I’m used to it. It’s just
Mudge’s manner. Sarcasm’s as natural to him as
breathing.”
“Humph. Sharp teeth I don’t mind, but 1 can’t
stand a sharp tongue. Nevertheless, if you don’t
mind. then 1 will stay out of it.”
“Look, about what you said about us joining your
hunting party, that’s real nice of you. and I like
fishing as much as the next guy, but I’m afraid we
can’t accept.” There were a few moans of disappoint-
ment, none of which came near to matching the
anguished expression that came over Mudge’s face.
“Aw, mate, can’t we at least stay with ’em for a little
while? It’s a pleasant change to be among friends
and safe for a change.” He stepped forward, took
Jon-Tom by the arm, and led him away from the
THE MOMXffT Of THE MAOICIAM
200
cluster, making him bend over so he could whisM-r
in his friend’s ear.
“There’s food ‘ere for the askin’, guv. We’re safe
from the Plated Folk, and there’s plenty o’ good
companionship, laughter, and song; and besides”—
he lowered his voice to a conspiratorial murmur—
“the three youngest ones—Quorly, Splitch. and
Sasswise—they’re as hot as that pool you busted the
Mulmun in. I’m tellin’ you, mate, all we ‘ave to do
is—”
Jon-Tom rose, stared coldly down at the otter. “I
might have known that your reasons would all derive
from your baser instincts. Mudge. You’re acting on
the advice of your glands instead of your brain.”
“You bet your arse I am, mate, and if you think
you’re gonna drag me away from this crowd o’ willin’
lovelies so we can go parley with some ill-dispositioned
magician in a strange city, you’re sadly off.”
“Maybe they’ll come with us, show us the way.”
Mudge shook his head violently. “Not a chance.
This is a ‘untin’ party, remember? They move all
over the country, only go into the smaller towns to
trade. Never make it into the big cities like Quasequa.”
“Never?” Jon-Tom turned and strolled back to his
milling, chattering saviors. Mudge trailed along be-
hind him, hurrying to catch up and tugging anxiously
at his friend’s sleeve.
“Now, wait a minute, lad, wot be you goin’ to say
now? Just that they’re friendly-seemin’ now don’t
mean you can’t make enemies o’ the lot o’ them with
a misplaced word ‘ere and there. Listen to me,
mate!”
Jon-Tom ignored him, halted in front of Memaw.
**Your offer is beguiling, but we really -can’t go with
you. You see, we are on the final leg of a vitally
important mission.”
Mudge put both hands over his face and fell
Aian Dean Foster
210
backward with a groan. “Oh, blimey. ‘E’s goin’ to tell
’em everythin’, ‘e is… the bleedin’ idiot!”
The spellsinger proceeded to do precisely that.
His audience listened raptly until he Finished.
“… And so,” he concluded, “that’s why I’m afraid
we can’t take you up on your offer. We have a job to
do, much as I’d love to exchange it for a few months of
hunting and Fishing.”
The otters immediately fell to arguing and discuss-
ing among themselves. The vehemence of their de-
bate tookJon-Tom a bit aback, but all the ear-pulling
and nose-biting and cursing seemed, remarkably
enough, to eventually produce a consensus free of
dissension.
Drortch spoke first, fiddling with her necklace as
she did so. It was fashioned of some heavy, silvery
braid which shone in the sun. “Wot can the two of
you do against the rulers o’ Quasequa?’
“Whatever we can. Whatever we must. There may
be no danger at all, no problem to deal with if this
Markus the Ineluctable and I turn out to be on the
same wavelength. If we can communicate with each
other and reach an understanding, then we can do
all the fishing we want.”
“I wouldn’t count on that,” said Frangel slowly.
“Not from wot I’ve ‘eard o’ this bloke. Word is this
Markus ‘as been ‘avin’ taxes raised not only in the
city but in all the outlyin’ districts as well.”
“That would mean the tax on our catch would be
raised.” muttered Wupp angrily.
“Well, we ain’t never paid no taxes to Quasequa
and we ain’t never goin’ tol” declaimed Flutzasar-
angelik.
“Right.,. yeal., – never… t” The rest of the band
took up the first cry of defiance.
Memaw raised a paw for silence. “Where’d you
hear of all this, Frangel?”
TSK MOMENT OF THE MAGICIAN
“When we were leavin’ Quasequa the last time we
were in for supplies. Couple o’ blokes on a street
comer were reading the paper aloud.”
Jon-Tom pursed his lips as he stared down over
his nosc^at Mudge. “So they never go into the city, eh?”
The otter offered up a wan smile by way of reply,
hunted for a hole big enough to crawl into.
“What else did you hear?” Memaw prompted the
younger otter.
Frangel licked his lips. “I ‘eard that this Markus is
goin’ to demand assurances o’ allegiance. Not to
Quasequa, mind you, but to him direct.”
“Wot an outragel… Never ‘appen… got a snowball’s
chance in the Greendowns if *e thinks ‘e can force
that on everybody…'”
Memaw turned to Jon-Tom and the cries died
down. “You have still failed to properly answer
Drench’s question, young human. If you are not on
the same “wavelength*—whatever that may be—as
this Markus the Ineluctable, how do you propose to
convince him to stop his activites should he prove
unresponsive to your initial entreaties?”
“Naturally, our response will depend on his. If he
proves stubborn and uncooperative, well, 1 have a
mandate from the great wizard Clothahump, my
instructor, to do whatever I think is in the best
interests of the people of Quasequa. As Mudge has
told you, 1 am something of a spellsinger. The
Plated Folk knew that, which is why they wanted me
so badly.”
“Bugs ain’t got no taste,” Mudge grumbled. He
stood off to one side, looking surly and refusing to
participate in the discussion.
“Assuming your powers are functioning, you truly
believe you can overcome this magician? It is rumored
he is extraordinarily powerful. He defeated the fa-
mous Opiode the Sly.”
Alan Dean Foster
2X2
“Like I said,” Jon-Tom told her, with a quiet confi-:
dence he didn’t feel, “we’ll do whatever’s necessary.”
He moved through them to pick up his backpack,
slung it over his shoulders, did the same with the
duar, and gripped the ramwood staff. Then he looked
significantly toward a solitary figure standing away
from the others.
“Mudge?”
“Wot!” the otter growled, not looking back at him.
“Ifs time we were on our way.”
The otter shook his head sadly. “Ain’t it always?”
He let out a sigh, moved to follow as Jon-Tom started
toward the beach.
Behind them the hunting party congressed intently,
heads sucking together in a circle, looking for all the
world like an undersized rugby scrum.
Frangel stuck his head up first. “‘Ang on there,
‘uman! We’re comin’ with you.”
Jon-Tom paused, turned. “That’s damn decent of
you, and we’d sure like the company; but this isn’t
your fight, and you’re not operating under the kind
of obligation that I am.”
“Screw your obligation!” said Quorly. “We’re not
gonna stand ‘ere and let ourselves be taxed like that.”
“That’s the spirit,” Jon-Tom told her. “No taxation
without representation!”
“And we don’t want none o’ that neither!” Sasswise
said angrily.
Jon-Tom swallowed and let his simile go down in
flames- Quorly sashayed over to him.
“Anyway, you’re not goin* to do anythin’ without
our help, Jonny-Tom.”
“And why not?”
” ‘Cause you ain’t got no boat anymore.”
All that bouncing around must have caused him to
bump his head a few times, he reflected. That was
one minor fact he’d managed to overlook.
Tmc UOMKIVT OF THE MAOJCLUT
213
“I admit we could use a raft or something. The
Plated Folk made a mess of ours. Could we borrow
one of yours?”
“Don’t be a fool.” She winked at him and joined
(he scattering of her companions.
Jon-Tom watched dizzily as they broke camp, packed,
and prepared to depart. The entire process took
about five minutes. There was only the one craft in
any case, a large, low-gunwaled boat that bobbed at
anchor on the other side of the island. Gear was
stowed neatly below the single deck. Jon-Tom followed
them aboard, already out of breath. And he hadn’t
done anything but watch.
“But why?” he asked Quorly. “Why risk yourselves
to help us?”
“Lots o* reasons,” she told him, “the principal one
bein’ that we’re bored. Even catchin’ fish can get old,
you knows.”
Jon-Tom tried to adopt a serious mien as he stepped
on board. “This isn’t a game. If I can’t get along with
this Markus, it could be-dangerous for all of us.” He
remembered Pandro’s description of the attack by
faceless demons almost certainly sent in pursuit of
him by the magician. “I know he’s capable of using
violence against those he thinks mean him ill.”
‘Tough titty.” The delicate little Splitch spat over
the side. “If ‘e gives you any trouble, we’ll just ‘ave to
show ‘im the error o’ ‘is ways, won’t we? A little
danger’!! add some spice to the visit.”
Jon-Tom could only look on admiringly as they
pushed off from shore. There wasn’t a concerned
expression in the bunch. On the contrary, they acted
and sounded excited, as if they were looking forward
to the coming confrontation.
“I don’t know what to say.”
“Save your breath for this Markus the Ineluctable,”
Knorckle told him as he settled himself behind an
Alan Dean Porter
214
oar. Muscles bulged in his short arms. “From wot
Frangel says, you’ll be needin* it. This magician bloke
sounds like a thoroughly disagreeable person.” Mur-
murs of agreement sounded from his companions.
Jon-Tom searched the center of the boat. There
was no mast and no means for raising one, only the
two sets of oars. He hunted for an unoccupied bench.
“Now what are you about, young human?” Memaw
had taken up a position next to the stem rudder.
“I like to pull my own weight.”
“Kind of you, but I’m afraid there aren’t any
empty places. Each of us knows what to do. So just
make yourself comfortable until we get to Quasequa.”
“All right, but I won’t like it.”
“You don’t have to like it.” She smiled cheerfully
at him. “Now, sit down, stay out of our way, and be-
have yourself.”
“Yes ma’am.” He did as he was told.
Everyone except Splitch, who was lookout, bent to
their oars. Turning neatly under Memaw’s guidance,
the boat began to move south, Jon-Tom sat and
fidgeted for as long as he could stand it before
muttering to the helmsman.
“I don’t want to rock the boat, Memaw, but I can’t
just sit here and let the rest of you do all the work. 1
wasn’t brought up like that.”
“Nonsense. There’s nothing you can do in any
case. There are only eight oars.”
Jon-Tom considered, then said brighdy, “I know.”
He moved his duar into playing position. “I can sing
some rowing songs.”
“Yeah!..-great..-good idea!… let’s ‘ear *un sing.-.l”
the rowers chorused enthusiastically.
“No, no, no!” Mudge rushed to restrain Jon-Tom’s
fingers. “You might magic us back to the ‘ome o’ the
Plated Folk, mate, or even worse,”
THE MOMENT OF THE MACUCUM
215
“Relax, Mudge. I’m just going to make a little
music, not magic.”
“I’ve ‘card that one afore, I ‘ave.” He took his
argument to his brethren.
“‘E’s^a spellsinger all right. Trouble is, ‘e ‘as this
sort o* scattershot effect that…”
Jon-Tom was drowning out the otter’s pleading,
singing cheerfully with the mass control on the duar
turned halfway up. No way could Mudge be heard
over that volume. The otter finally gave up and
moved as far away from the singer as he could get
without abandoning ship. He squatted down against
the bow and waited. His eyes never left his friend’s
instrument as he waited nervously for catastrophe to
strike.
Jon-Tom modified an old Dionne Warwick stan-
dard and started off with a lilting little ditty newly
titled “Do You Know the Way to Quasequa?” then
segued into “By the Time I Get to the Quorumate.”
As the boat continued to slide through the water
without being obliterated, Mudge finally allowed him-
self to relax. Quorly helped him.
The words didn’t rhyme but that didn’t dampen
Jon-Tbm’s delight. Traveling songs were always fun
to sing, and sailing songs even more so. Occasionally
the otters would join in, their high-pitched squeaky
tones gathering in strength as they picked up on the
lyrics. It didn’t seem to matter that no two of them
could harmonize. That blended in nicely with Jon-
Tbm’s erratic tenor, which is to say, not at all. But
what they lacked in talent they made up for in
enthusiasm. Somehow the boat stayed on course.
By the time Jon-Tom wrapped up a final chorus of
“We Were Sailing Along on Moonlight Bay” and
launched into “Row, Row, Row Your Boat,” Mudge
was prepared to spend the rest of the cruise tied to
the stem with his head underwater.
Alan Dean Foster
216
“There’s one consolation for me in all this, mate,”
he told Jon-Tom shakily between verses. .
“What’s that?”
“There ain’t no torture too cruel, no ‘on-or too vile
to contemplate, no death so slow that Markus the
Ineluctable can inflict on me that’d be any worse
than ‘avin’ to endure this terrible tintinnabulation.”
“Why, Mudge”—Jon-Tom let loose with a couple
of fresh riffs—”anyone would think you were some
kind of music hater.”
” ‘Ow could they think that, mate, when there ain’t
no music around for me to ‘ate?”
Quorly traded places with SpUtch and put both
arms around the otter’s neck. “Why, Mudgey-Wudgey,
don’t be such a sourpuss.” She brushed his whiskers
with hers and he was forced to relent.
“Aw, welt,” he allowed, “maybe there is a kind o’
music on this boat.”
Pinching ringers made Jon-Tom jump. He turned
to see Sasswise grinning at him from her bench as
she pushed steadily on her oar. “Quorly was right
about you, Jenny-Tom- You are cute.”
Jon-Tom thought of another song very quickly.
XIII
As the days passed and the miles accumulated be-
neath their keel, the character of the land they were
passing through began to undergo a drastic change.
The huge emergents dripping with moss and vines
gave way to rust-colored palms and house-sized bushes
erupting with rainbow-hued flowers. The water grew
clear enough for them to see the sandy bottom fifty
feet below. Even the sky changed as fog and mist
fell behind them. The humidity dropped to a
tolerable level and the light of midday became bearable.
They began to encounter communities constructed
on stilts, and clusters of small fishing boats. The
Otters waved at the inhabitants and they waved back.
The dark cloud that hung over this beautiful land
was thus far only metaphorical. Everywhere Jon-
Toiri looked he saw signs of abundance and cheerful,
busy people. There were even a few human beings.
Gradually, much larger islands replaced the smaller
outlying ones. Buildings of reed and palm gave way
to more permanent structures of wood and stone.
Smoke curled from the chimneys of structures that
climbed steep cliffs, while the homes of avians clung
precariously to the topmost crags.
217
Alan Dean Foster
219
Clothahump had been vindicated. This was a
magnificent, prosperous land. He told Mudge so.
“Oi, ‘e was right about this much,” the otter
reluctantly conceded. “All ‘is wizardship did was ne-
glect to tell us about that little stretch o’ filth and
slime we ‘ad to slog through to get ‘ere- A triflin’
oversight, wot?”
Jon-Tbm stared over the bow. “I just wish I knew
more about this Markus.”
“Still think ‘e’s come over from your world, mate?”
The expression on the spellsinger’s face reflected
his uncertainty. “I don’t know what to think anymore,
Mudge. I’m not as certain as I once was. I’d feel
better about it if we could hear someone say some-
thing nice about him.” He took a deep breath. “Well,
we’ll know all about him soon enough.”
Around him the otters were still singing, booming
out all the songs he’d taught them during the past
days with a vocal ferocity that was beginning to wear
even on their instructor. His fingers were too tired
for him to accompany them on the duar anymore,
but that didn’t seem to matter.
“Don’t they ever slow up? Don’t they realize how
serious this business could turn out to be?”
“They know ’tis serious, mate, and they’re actin’ as
serious about it as they can be. See, one otter can be
serious. Two otters can’t look at one another without
crackin’ up. Get three or more o* us together in one
place for more than two minutes and you’ve got a
nonstop party. Don’t worry about ’em, guv. They’re
‘ell in a fight.”
“I can believe that. I’ve seen you fight.”
“This lot ain’t no different.”
*Tt is nice to have allies. Surely they’ll quiet down
when we reach Quasequa. We don’t want to make a
spectacle of ourselves when we pull into town.”
“Don’t count on getdn’ any quiet or decorum out
THE MOMKHT OF THE SSAOICSAM
\
219
of this lot. And remember, you’re the one who
talked ’em into this.”
**I didn’t talk them into it.” Jen-Tom sounded
defensive even to himself. “They volunteered”
“Sorry, mate. You don’t get off that easy.”
“It’s just that if they don’t quiet down some, we’ll
attract a lot of attention. I don’t want this Markus to
know I’m around until I’m ready to meet with him.”
**0h, I wouldn’t worry too much about that, guv.
From wot sweet Quorly’s been tellin’ me, Quasequa’s
a mighty big place, and plenty rowdy when ’tis on its
good behavior. So we’re likely to blend right in.’*
“You don’t care what happens anyway, do you,
, Mudge? Not so long as there are a couple of compU-
^ ant ladies around.”
^ “Now don’t go gettin’ on me case because o* that.
mate. Just because you ‘ave this peculiar puritanical
. streak in you that keeps you from enjoyin’ the atten-
‘tion o’ others and because you ain’t ‘ad much luck
‘with your favorite red’ead.”
* “Talea’s just taking her time before making a
commitment,” Jon-Tom replied frostily.
– “Lad, lad, she’s a free spirit, that one. Maybe she’ll
come back to you and maybe she won’t. You might
know about spellsingin’, but I knows about females.
That’s a special kind o’ knowledge all its own.”
“You know how’ to talk, anyway.” He lapsed into
silence for a while, found himself watching Memaw
steer the boat, her paws steady on the rudder as she
led her friends in the umpteenth rendition of “Anchors
Aweigh.”
“As for this mob, I don’t guess I could get rid of
them now even if I wanted to.”
“Not bloody likely,” Mudge agreed. “1 keep tellin’
you to quit worryin’ about ’em. Remember, they
didn’t ^ave no trouble stealin’ you away from the
Plated Folk.”
Alan Dean Foster
220
“I know, I know. It’s just that I’d feel really guiky if
any of them got hurt on my behalf.”
“This ain’t no bunch o’ cubs on this ship,” Mudge
said somberly. “They know wot they’re gettin’ into.”
They were interrupted by Splitch’s shout from the
front of the boat. “Quasequal” Jon-Tom and Mudge
rushed toward the bow as the rest of the otters
pulled harder.
If Clothahump had underestimated the travails of
their journey, he’d also underestimated the beauty of
their destination. Three of the Five main islands that
composed the city proper were visible dead ahead.
Multi-storied buildings built of quarried white lime-
stone climbed the sides of each island’s central peak.
Palm trees rustled in the gentle wind, and here and
there a copper-clad roof showed bright bronze in the
sun.
They were traveling among heavy traffic now. Most
of the boats were smaller than theirs, a few with sails
bulked larger. The Isle Drelft lay off to port, Isle
Sofanza to starboard, and the central island called
Quase where the Quorumate Complex was located
loomed straight ahead. Massive stone causeways con-
nected all three islands, their multiple arches high
enough for the majority of boat traffic to pass freely
underneath. Carved shells and animal faces decorat-
ed each.
Crowds filled the causeways, the constant hum of
their conversation reaching out across the water.
The babble bespoke a vibrant community, full of life
and commerce. Quasequa certainly didn’t strike Jon-
Tom as a city about to fall under the domination of
some alien tyrant. As yet, though, the citizens were
not at war with their own government. As yet. If
luck, skill, and charm were with him, the face of this
exquisite metropolis would remain always as it was
this morning.
THE MOMENT OF THE MACHCIAff
321
Flowers. He’d never seen so many Howers in one
place. There were blossoms floating past on the
water thai were the size of his hand, shiny lavender
striped with yellow. He lifted one from the surface
and inhaled deeply of its lingering fragrance: pure
peppermint.
Smaller boats hove alongside. They were populat-
ed by the familiar extraordinary assortment of intelli-
gent species, all hawking handicrafts, dried fish,
fresh fruits and vegetables, drinks chilled by ice
spells, erotic art, and ship’s supplies. Memaw steered
through them, ignoring the familiar pleas of the
floating hawkers.
Flowers grew from the tops of trees, from the
sides of buildings, out of neat green hedgerows that
lined the streets, and even out on the open lake.
Rubbery-looking Ulylike pads slid past, their centers
startling with clusters of tiny blue blossoms no bigger
than Jon-Tom’s little Fingernail. Still-smaller blos-
soms hung from silk balloons that floated through
the warm air. When the breeze stilled they would
settle to the water, only to rise again on the next puff
of wind. They made the sky look as if it were full of
flying rubies.
Memaw leaned on the rudder, and the boat turned
slightly to port, angling for the low quays that lined
the shore of Isle Quase.
“There is an inn we frequent during our visits
here,” she told him. “A good place to eat and rest
while digesting the newest rumors and juiciest gossip.”
“Everything seems so normal,” he told her. “The
people look content. Maybe this Markus and I will
get along after all.”
“Sometimes healthy fur can conceal rotting flesh.
We shall see. Regardless, it will be nice to sleep in a
real bed again” She adjusted their course minutely
and gestured at a two-story-tall rock ediFice that lay
Alaa Dean Foster
222
dead ahead. It was built right down to the edge of
the water.
“The chap who runs this place, Cherjal, is privy to
just about everything that happens in Quasequa. He
should be able to tell us whether there will be danger-
ous work awaiting you here or whether you can relax
and enjoy the sights of the city.”
As they drew near, the reason for the inn’s loca-
tion became clear. With its siting right on the lake, it
catered freely to water- and land-dwellers alike. They
tied up to an empty slip, and Jon-Tom’s newfound
allies ushered him inside.
The single large eating and drinking room had a
low-domed ceiling and was crammed with chattering
muskrats, beavers, nutrias, and capybaras in addition
to unfamiliar otters. Water entered via an opening to
the lake, permitting the easy entry of an occasional
freshwater porpoise.
Thunder boomed outside. They’d arrived just ahead
of a tropical thunderstorm. Through the openings
to the lake, Jen-Tom could see the heavy drops
churning the smooth surface and was glad they’d
pulled in when they had. Inside the inn, all was snug
and dry.
Memaw left them seated at several tables, returned
a few moments later with the proprietor, Jen-Torn
didn’t rise to greet him. The ceiling, lined with shiny
sea-green tile, was too low.
Cheijal was a large koala- He wore an apron, vest,
the ubiquitous short pants, and a bright blue scarf
around his forehead. He let out a tired groan as he
plopped down in an empty chair and regarded his
new guests.
Jon-Tom sipped at his sweet dder and waited
patiently while Cherjal exchanged pleasantries with
the rest of the otters. The floor was full of drains.
and the dampness of the room reflected the inn’s
THE MOUEffT OF TfEE MAGJCLUT
223
largely riparian clientele. There was no sign of mold
or mildew, however, and he suspected the place was
scrubbed clean every night. Still, he couldn’t escape
the feeling that he was sitting inside an enormous
terrariirm.
“So how go zee feeshing, Memaw?”
She shrugged and set down the dope stick she’d
been puffing on. Jon-Tom had already taken one
whiff of the pungent smoke and set temptation aside.
He needed all his wits about him now, and half that
stick would’ve laid him flat.
“Not bad. Our trip turned out to be full of interest-
ing digressions, however, hence our early return. We
happened upon this tall human chap and his friend
and helped them out of a difficult spot. This is
Jon-lbm.”
, “Hi” He extended a hand, was surprised by the
koala’s powerful grip.
“His friend Mudge is around somewhere. Well, no
matter.” She leaned across the table. “What does
matter is something we stumbled across where the
Lakes meet the Wrounipai: a complete colony of
water-dwelling Plated Folk.”
“Plated Folks?” Cherjal’s eyes widened. “How shock-
ing a discoveree thees be! How reemarkable. How
frighteneeng.”
“Yeah, it sucks,” Frangel agreed.
“Indeed, indeed.” Cherjal considered. “Sometheeng
must be done about thees. These Plated Theengs
cannot be allowed to colonize our waters. An expee-
deetion must be mounted to wipe theem away.”
“There is no need to panic, my good friend.” Memaw
crossed silver-furred arms. “The colony is not that
big, and we left them with sufficient to think about to
keep them from causing trouble for a while.” Mut-
ters of agreement sounded from the rest of the
band, except for Mudge. He was too busy stuffing
Atan Deu Foatcr
224
himself with freshly broiled fish to care much about
the conversation.
“So you come back to mee early. What can I do for
my favorite lady, heh?”
‘Always the flatterer, Cherjal.” She smiled across
the table at him.
It was raining harder than ever now. Jon-Tom
could hear the drops drumming on the roof. The
warmth from so many furry bodies and the thick
scent of their mixed musk was making him sleepy. It
would be so nice just to find a warm bed and lie
down and sleep for about two days.
Unfortunately, he couldn’t do that. Not just yet.
“We need to know what this new advisor to the
Quorum is like, what his plans are, and what he’s
been up to,” he asked Cherjal.
“So. You weesh about Markus the Ineluctable
information, heh?” Right away the koala lost some of
his good humor. “I have plenty I can tell you, yes,
and not much of eet much nice.
“Nobodies took much notice of eet when he defeated
Opiode the Sly. The cheef advisor spends hees time
mostly advising the Quorum. Very leetle of what hee
do treeckles down to us ordinary ceeteezens. Then
thee rumors up-started. Steel nobodies pays much
attention. As long as it don’t much affect their lives,
thee people preety much ignore what thee govern-
ment gets up to.” Cherjal lowered his voice and took
a moment to check the inhabitants of the tables
nearby before continuing.
“They say thees Markus setting up hees own net-
work of spies. Eenformers in Quasequa, can you
imagine?” He shook his head in disbelief at his own
revelation. “Theen last week eet finally happening.
At first nobody believe it. Thee shock steel not
settled een, I theenk. That’s why everything look so
normal around town.”
TH» MOMENT OF THE MAGICIAN
228
“Believe wot?” Sasswise asked him.
“What thees new weezard he done. He dissolve
thee Quorum. Temporarily, hee say, unteel a new
one can be chosen. Meanwhile he running Quasequa
all by Heemself.”
A new voice interrupted loudly. “I knew it!”
All eyes turned. “You knew what, Mudge?” jon-
Tom asked.
“I knew we should’ve stayed *ome.”
“Calm down,” He looked nervously over the otter’s
head, but none of the other patrons appeared in the
least bit interested in the conversation taking place at
the far side of the room- Of course, a good informer
wouldn’t reveal his interest. “We’re still not sure who’s
done what,” he told the otter softly.
“No, eet ees certain not yet who is completely
altogether responseeble,” Cherjal admitted. “But thee
rumors they say also that thees Markus has put all
the members of the Quorum who don’t support
heem into the dungeons beneath the Quorumate.
Seence nobodies can get een to see heem or them,
thees can’t be verified, and the members who come
and go as they please, like Kindore and Vazvek,
won’t say what they must know.”
“When’s all this supposed to have happened?”
**0nly a few days ago.” Cherjal rubbed his flat
black nose, sniffed. “Nobody really knows nothing.
When asked, word come back that thee members of
thee Quorum are engaged in long and deeficult
deescusions about the future of the city. But that
what they always say when they want to have private
party and geet smashed.”
“So the government of Quasequa is either over-
thrown or drunk,” Jon-Tom decided-
Cherjal nodded. “About thee size of eet that ees.
Those of us who fear thee first worry that Markus
may solidify his power on the Quorum with thee
Alan Dean Foster
226
help of those who support heem until eel ees
unbreakable becoming.” He stared up at Jon-Tbm.
“You gots strong eenterest in thees even though you
not coming From Quasequa, man. Why?”
“I think it’s also rumored that Markus claims to
come from another world.” Cherjal nodded. “I think
he may come from mine. If I can meet with him, I
may be able to straighten a lot of things out.”
Cherjal glanced at Memaw. “Is true? He from
another world?”
“Who’d lie about a thing like that?”
“Maybe a magician,” Cherjal suggested.
“That’s exactly why I need to talk to him,” Jon-
Tom said. A paw came down on his shoulder.
” ‘Ere now, mate,” Mudge mumbled, “if this ‘ere
bloke’s the type to go around deposin’ rightful
governments, it don’t sound to me like ‘e’s the kind
who’d be ready and willin’ to ‘elp you find your way
*ome.”
“I admit it doesn’t sound promising, but we don’t
know anything for certain yet and we won’t until I
meet this Markus. Like I said before, if he is doing
these things, he may be doing so to protect himself
because he’s in a strange place and he’s afraid for his
safety.”
“So hee protect heemself by taking control of
everybody else?” Cherjal made a disgusted sound.
“Doesn’t matter no ways. No ways you can meet
heem. Hee sees nobodies. Lots of people have tried
to see heem. Nobody do it, and those who try too
hard disappearing”
“Isn’t there an appointments secretary for the
Quorum, or something?”
“For thee Quorum, there is. For Markus is nothings.
Only Quorum members themselves have seen heem.
Appointments secretary will tell you to lost be getting.”
“I see.” Jon-Tom considered for a long moment
THE MOJHKWT OF TOE MAGICIAN
.227
before saying, “Then we’ll ^ust have to make our own
appointment. Where is Markus staying?”
“Een a private apartment in the Quorumate
Complex. So the rumors saying.”
Jon-Tom leaned as close to the koala as he could.
“You wouldn’t happen to know of a service entrance
that’s lightly guarded, would you?”
Mudge broke out in a broad grin. “Bugger me,
mate, can it be that you’re Finally comin’ ’round to
seein’ things the way the world is instead of’ow you’d
like ’em to be?”
Jon-Tom replied primly. “I am always praematic.
Mudge”
“Oi, is that wot you calls it? I always thought it
were called breakin’ and enterin’.”
“We’re not going to break anything,” Jon-Tom
snapped, leaving the second half of Mudge’s defini-
tion uncommented upon,
“There are several serveece entrances,” Cherjal
informed them, “but all are being guarded.”
“Who does the guarding?”
“Eet vary from place to place.”
Quorly spoke for the first time, grinning over at
Jon-Tom. “Don’t you worry none about the guards,
tuv. You just leave that little problem to Sasswise,
Splitch, and meself.”
“I don’t know—” he began uncertainly, but she cut
him off.
“We’ll handle things… so to speak.” Twin giggles
came from the table nearby.
“I wouldn’t ask anything like that of you if this
wasn’t really important, Quorly, I wouldn’t want you
to do anything that’s…” Mudge leaned over, his
nose inches from Jon-Tom’s.
“Now, you shut up, mate,” he murmured, “or
you’re goin’ to make the ladies feel bad. They’re
TOlunteerin’ for this little caper and they damn well
Alan Dean Footer
228
know wot they’re about. Might even ‘ave themselves a
good time doin’ it.”
“We always ‘aves ourselves a good time doin’ it,”
Sasswise commented from the neighboring table.
Not for the First time since he’d fallen in with this
remarkable gaggle of otters, Jon-Tom blushed.
“It could be very dangerous.”
“Now, didn’t you already say that?” Quoriy sounded
exasperated. “That were ‘alf the point in our comin’
along.”
“That is right, dear.” Memaw looked over at Jon-
Tom. “We shall help you gain entrance to the
Quorumate so you may meet with Markus the In-
comprehensible.”
“Ineluctable,” Jon-Tom corrected her. “But why?”
“We already told you, I believe. We do not care for
this new wizard’s politics. We stand ready to fight
anything that infringes on our freedom, including
each other. Can’t just allow this sort of thing to slide
by.”
“Not bloody likely!” snorted Knorckle.
“Damn right on!” Norgil agreed.
“Then it is settled,” she finished, smiling warmly at
him-
“We thank you all from the bottom of our hearts.
Don’t we, Mudge? Mudge?”
There were more giggles from the other table,
indicating that at the moment, Mudge was more
interested in getting to the heart of somebody’s
bottom.
xrv
A slivered moon helped to conceal their approach as
they paddled toward the Quorumate. The complex
was constructed on a narrow, rocky peninsula chat
extended like a crooked finger out into the lake.
This made it nigh impossible to approach without
being seen, hence the decision to sneak up on it via
the water.
It was a much more impressive edifice than Jon-
Tom had imagined, rising some six stories above the
lake. Numerous towers and walls had been enlarged
over the years until the original buildings had merged
in a single rambling structure that covered nearly all
of the Quorumate grounds. Flying buttresses braced
several towers from the outside. These were capped
by flagpoles from which fluttered pennants signify-
ing the main islands which composed the city,
The boat they’d borrowed from Cherjal drifted
toward the single pier. Several other small craft were
already anchored there, bobbing like metronomes in
the gentle swell.
Quoriy, Sasswise, and Splitch adjusted their feath
ered hats as they slipped out of the boat. All three
were dressed to kill, so to speak. Making no attempt
to hide their presence, they staggered straight to-
229
Alan Dean Foster
230
ward the guard station, giving a perfect imitation of
three drunken, carousing ladies of the evening out
for a good time. Meanwhile Jon-Tom and the others
lay low in the boat and waited.
Half the night seemed to go by. Jon-Tom found
himself staring at the moon. It looked like the same
moon he used to watch set over the Pacific. There
was the same pattern of mares and mountain chains.
How could that be in this world, so different in so
many other ways from his own? There was so much
he still didn’t understand.
The sounds of running feet interrupted his reverie.
Hands on ramwood staff, he tensed, as did his
companions.
But the face that peered down at them, hat askew
over one eye, was a familiar one.
“Come on then!” Quorly whispered urgently at
them.
They piled out of the boat and ran up the pier.
Jon-Tom was something of a runner, but already he
saw he was going to have a hard time keeping up
with this bunch.
Quorly led them up a succession of steep stone
steps until they reached a circular patio that overlooked
the pier. Lying side by side were an unconscious wolf
and weasel. Their armor was stacked haphazardly
off to one side. Sasswise and Splitch stood over them,
daintily readjusting their attire.
Sasswise was swinging a weapon in circles. It looked
something like a cast-iron nunchaku. She gestured
with her free paw at the weasel-
“Belongs to ‘im, this does. After we got acquainted
I asked *im if I might ‘ave a look at it. He was afraid
I might ‘urt me delicate self with it, but I promised
‘im I’d be careful.” She put a finger to her lips and
assumed an innocent look. ” ‘Pears I wasn’t careful
enough. Wot a shame.”
TBX MoUEffT 0V THE StAOICIAN
231
“Right then, let’s hop to rt.” Memaw directed Knorckle,
Drortch, and Wupp as they bound the two guards.
They snored on peacefulty, dreaming perhaps of
happier moments- They were going to be more than
a little -upset when they came to and realized what
had been done to them.
“We can’t just leave them here.” Jon-Tom peered
carefully through the open doorway into the building.
‘Another patrol might come along and find them.”
“Right,” said the petite Splitch in her little-girl-cub
voice. “Let’s dump *em in the lake.”
“No, no, I want to try and avoid any unnecessary
killing.”
“Told you ‘e was weird,” Mudge whispered to
Quorly.
“We can put them in the boat,” Memaw suggested.
Jon-Tom waited anxiously while half the otters
proceeded to dispose of the guards. The hallway
which led invitingly inward remained empty.
Several minutes passed. He was startled to see
their boat moving slowly away from the pier, its sail
raised. Sasswise gave him an explanation when she
rejoined the others.
“We compromised, Jonny-Tom. Nobody’11 find *em
now. The wind’ll carry ’em out into the lake proper.”
“What happens if they run into another boat?
Fishermen or something?”
“Won’t make no bit o’ difference,” Splitch assured
him. “1 mean, if you were told to guard an important
place and somebody found you tied up and sailin’
away from that place with your pants missin’, would
you be in a ‘urry to report it to your superiors?”
“I guess not.” He turned his attention inward.
“Let’s find this Markus.” He called down the hall,
where Memaw had stationed herself behind a table.
•All clear?”
She nodded and waved. They crowded in, comment-
Alan Dean Foster
232
ing on the elegant furnishings and marble Hoor. The
ceiling was impressively high, which meant thatJon-
Tbm couid move without having to walk hunched
over. His oft-bruised head was grateful ^for the
clearance.
They trotted down the long hall and turned left.
Cherjal had provided them with what was generally
known of the Quommate’s floor plan, but no one
was certain of the location of the residential rooms
where Markus was likely to have his headquarters.
They’d have to find that themselves.
Everything went smoothly until Sasswise leaped
into the air grabbing at her backside. When she
came down she started haranguing the innocent Norgil.
“Will you watch wot you’re doin’ with that damn
sword!”
“Now, look ‘ere, m’lady, I’m just keepin’ it ‘andy in
case we’re attacked… if you don’t mind.” Norgil ges-
tured with the stubby but sharp offender. “Why
don’t you give a body a little room to move about?’*
“Move about? I’ll give you room to move about,
you fat slob. I’ll move you…!”
“Quiet!” Memaw said sharply. “Be quiet, you twol”
Already too late, Jon-Tom saw despairingly. A pair
of halberd-wielding foxes had crossed their path a
safe distance down the corridor. The noise brought
them back to investigate. Now they were staring
straight at the tightly packed clutch of invaders.
“You there, where did you come from?” one
demanded to know.
“Cur’s cockles!” Memaw muttered. She glanced
right, then left, and led them up a side corridor. Not
knowing what else to do, Jon-Tom followed. Shouts
and yells rang out behind them.
“So much for the element o* surprise,” groused
Mudge.
THE MOMENT OF TOE MAGJCUN 233
“It’ll be all right,” Quoriy assured him. “You’ll see.
We’ll lose that pair of fools quick enough.”
Mudge skidded to a stop. “Righty-ho, but wot
about this new lot o* fools?”
A whole platoon of soldiers had appeared in the
hall directly ahead and were now charging toward
them. The platoon was an interesting mix of species,
varying in size from armed rats and mice to two
great cats and one ape.
“Listen,” Jon-Tom said innocently, “can’t we talk
about this?” The ape stabbed at him and he jumped
aside, bringing down his staff on the other’s spear.
Instead of listening to reason, the ape reversed his
weapon and tried to shove the butt end through
Jon-Tom’s teeth.
He ducked and the blow passed over his head. A
swipe with the ramwood took the ape’s legs out from
under him. The sound of fighting was deafening in
the narrow corridor. The otters found themselves at
a disadvantage in such confines, where they couldn’t
make use of their quickness. But the guards’ rein-
forcements couldn’t get at their quarry and kept
bunching up against each other in the corridors.
Superior numbers couldn’t be brought to bear against
the invaders, but neither could they escape.
Jen-Tom saw Mudge cut a tendon in a vizcacha’s
leg, saw blood spun, and watched as the stripe-faced
soldier went down, too stunned to scream. Then
something whacked him on the back of his neck and
he staggered. He whirled, hunting for his assailant,
and saw nothing but stars before his eyes.
The stars grew brighter as he was hit again. He
blinked and shook his head. As he did so he leaned
slightly backward, and saw his attacker. An armored
possum hung by its tail from one of the rafters. Iron
weights were strapped to its waist and it was taking
its time picking out targets among the otters below.
Alaa Dean Foster
234
Nobody could reach him and Mudge was too busy
defending himself with his sword to unlimber his
bow.
The possum wasn’t used to fighting someone as
tall as a human, however. Jon-Tom tried to knock
the dangling fighter loose with his ramwood staff but
couldn’t quite reach him. For its part, the possum
decided to stop playing around. The next iron ball it
selected was lined with short, sharp spikes. It strug-
gled to draw a bead on Jon-Tom as he bobbed and
dodged below.
Jon-Tom thumbed the concealed switch set in the
staff, and the ramwood lengthened by six inches of
sharp steel. A sudden jab pierced the possum’s throat.
It looked very surprised, hung for a moment longer
from the ceiling, and then dropped like a stone.
The otters fought well, but no matter how many
they cut down, there were always more soldiers to
take the places of the fallen. By now the whole
complex must be alerted, Jon-Tom thought grimly.
Still, it was Memaw who finally called a halt to the
fighting when she saw the twisted form of poor
Norgil lying limp against the marble. The otter had
taken half a dozen sword thrusts and his life was
leaking out on the floor. Already blood made the
footing treacherous. That would take away the otters’
one advantage: their quickness.
So Memaw put up her sword and said, “Enough.
We surrender.”
“Surrender? Wot’s that mean, surrender?” said
Quorly, panting hard. Her fine clothing had been
shredded by sword cuts but otherwise she appeared
unharmed.
“No, Memaw’s right, she is.” Knorckle tossed his
sword aside. “Better to gather strength and wits in
jail than to perish here.”
The guards moved among them, collecting knives
THE aSOMSHT OF THK MAQSCWI
236
and scimitars and searching briskly for any concealed
weapons. Jon-Tom prayed they might leave him his
duar, but they confiscated it also, along with his
backpack.
When this was done, a massively muscled jaguar
shoved his way to the fore. His leather armor was
streaked with sword cuts.
“Explain this outrageous intrusion,” he growled.
~ Jen-Torn stepped forward and growled right back
at him. “Outrageous is the word for it. Here we
arrive on time for our appointment and instead of
receiving a courteous greeting, we are brutally attacked.
What kind of troops do you station in here, anyways?
. Cutthroats and murderers!”
The jaguar’s eyes narrowed and he stroked his
-„ chin. “An appointment, you say. With whom?”
“Markus the Ineluctable,” Jon-Tom told him
defiantly. “And is he going to be pissed when he
/ clears how we’ve been treated.”
“Markus, you say?” The officer pushed his helmet
back off his ears. He looked tired. “Next I expect
you’re going to tell me that this is all a misunder-
standing and that it’ll easily be straightened out as
soon as I take you to the advisor?”
“~ “Of course.” Jen-Torn replied easily.
The jaguar seemed to consider. “The master is
sleeping and would not wish to be disturbed. This
casts something of a shadow over your story, tall
man. It may be that the appointment you seek will be
“‘ with the Chamber of Official Torments… but that is
not for rne to decide. The Great Markus will do
;. that”
“Fine with us. If you’ll just take us to him, I
imagine he forgot all about our visit tonight. He’ll
straighten this out fast.” Jon-Tom glared at the sol-
^ diers bunched together behind the officer. “When
^ he learns what’s happened, heads will roll.”
Aim Dean Foster
336
“I prefer to bounce them myself,” said’the jaguar
evenly. “As a point of interest, some bounce nicely
for a while, while others just go smash. I wonder
which yours would do.” ‘
Jen-Torn went slightly weak in the knees, but didn’t
let k show. “Why not ask Markus?”
“Why not, indeed?” replied the officer surprisingly.
“As I said, only he will know the truth of your words.
If you’ll be so kind as to follow me?” He gestured
with a paw.
“That’s more like it.” Jon-Tom strode confidently
past the jaguar, continuing to glare at the guards.
They descended several levels until the air began
to grow thick and moist. They were below lake level,
and moisture seeped relentlessly through ancient
stonework.
“Markus the Ineluctable lives down here?” he asked
their guide.
“No,” rumbled the jaguar. “As I told you, he sleeps
and would not wish to be disturbed. I will notify him
of your arrival. As he’s expecting you, I’m sure he’ll
be right down. Meanwhile, I thought you would
enjoy explaining yourselves to the leading members
of our government, who are at this moment awaiting
your presence in their new conference chamber.”
“We’ve heard that some members of the Quorum
weren’t getting along too well with their new advisor.”
“Is that so? A vicious, unfounded rumor. So much
gossip in the city marketplaces these days. You really
shouldn’t pay attention to such idle chatter. Ah, the
Quorum doorman. You there!” he roared at a doz-
ing javelina. “Visitors for the Quorum!”
Tusks flashing in the dim torchlight, the javelina
roused himself and led them forward. Jon-Tom balked
at the sight of the iron grille, but there was nothing
to be done about it now. They were herded toward
the open cell.
THE MOUKHT OF TBK UAOICSAS
237
“There you go. Enjoy your conference,” the officer
said smoothly as the cursing, complaining otters were
shoved through the opening. The javelina locked it
from the outside.
Jon-Tom glared through the bars. “You’re a real
smart-ass, aren’t you, fuzz-brain?”
“My, my, such language from those who are friends
of the Great Markus,” the jaguar said mockingly. “I
will inform him of your arrival. Meanwhile, do make
yourselves comfortable. I must see to the prepara-
tions for your evening meal. Swill is served in a
couple of hours.” He turned and stalked off toward
the stairway, laughing uproariously at his subtle wit.
His soldiers clustered tightly around him.
Turning, the otters found themselves sharing the
cell with half a dozen surprised and rudely awakened
elders. Here were those members of the Quorum
who’d refused to countenance Markus’s bid for
power… and one other. The robed salamander
stepped forward and introduced himself.
“I greet you, fellow sufferers. I am Opiode the Sly,
former chief advisor in matters arcane and mystic to
the legitimate Quorum of Quasequa and now chief
advisor in those same arts to the deposed Quorum of
Quasequa.”
Jon-Tom wasn’t ready for conversation with Opiode
or anyone else. Failing to Find an empty comer, he
sat down in the center of the floor.
“My fault, dragging all of you into this. I should’ve
come by myself.”
“Let’s not ‘ave none o’ that, Jonny-Tom,” said
Quorly.
“Right.” Drortch put a consoling paw on his shoul-
der. “You didn’t ‘ave no choice in the matter. You
couldn’t ‘ave made us stay behind if you’d tried.”
“Right… that’s so… better believe it…” agreed a
chorus of otterish voices.
Alan Dean Porter
238
“‘Ow come nobody ever asks me wot I wants to
do?” Mudge found a section of empty floor to sulk
on.
Memaw laid a maternal paw on Jon-Tom’s head.
“Norgil’s time had come, that’s all, my friend. Per-
haps time for all of us. We have no regrets.”
“But 1 do, damn it! You shouldn’t be here with
me”
“Damn right, mate,” snapped Mudge. Memaw
wagged a warning Finger in his direction.
“Now, Mudge -..”
“Don’t ‘Mudge’ me, water-elder,” the otter snapped
back. “I’ve earned the right to ‘ave me say, I ‘ave.
You’ve only ‘ad to deal with this spellsingin’ shit’ead
for a few days. Me, I’ve ‘ad to put up with ‘is sorceral
muddlin’s for months. All I want is to live an ordi-
nary life. An ordinary life, mind. And ‘e keeps
yankin’ me off to join ‘im on ‘is bloody bloomin’
bleedin’ inexplicable quests and wotever. Well, I’m
sick of it.” He spat the words in Jon-Tom’s direction.
“You ‘ear me, mate? Sick of it!”
Quorly stared at him in disbelief. “Mudge! I’m
surprised at you.”
” ‘Ell, luv, I’m surprised at me, too. Surprised I’m
‘ere, but not surprised at ‘ow this ‘as turned out.
Twas only a matter o’ time, it were. That senile old
turtle went and spun the wheel o* fate one time too
many, and now the odds ‘ave finally caught up with
us. Only thing that’s surprised me is that I’ve sur-
vived ‘is rotten company as long as I ‘ave.” He turned
bis back on them all.
“Turtle?” The elderly salamander wiped at his face.
“Can it be that you are the help the great Clothahump
has sent to us?’^
“Not us,” Memaw corrected him. “We are son of
along for the swim.” She indicated jon-Tom. “You
need to talk to the young gentleman.”
239
THE MOMBJVT Of THE MACTCIAJT
Opiode turned an amphibious eye on the uncom-
fortable Jon-Tom while one’of the deposed Quorum
members voiced the thought that was in all their
minds.
“Just him? Him, and the noisy otter? They’re our
salvation? They are the strength Clothahump sends
to us?”
“I fear it may be so.” Opiode hesitated as he spoke
to Jon-Tom. “Unless you and the otter are simply the
advance scouts. That’s it, isn’t it? Clothahump and
his mystic army are encamped not far away, awaiting
your report, aren’t they?”
Jon-Tom sighed as he turned to face the advisor.
“Sorry. I’m afraid we’re it. Me, Mudge, and our
recently acquired friends. We’re your help, and we
haven’t done a very good job of it so far. My plan
was for us to slip in here quiet-like so that I could
have a face-to-face meeting with Markus before any-
one got excited. We didn’t quite manage it”
“Now, there’s a snappy news bulletin,” Mudge
muttered from his corner.
‘An interesting stratagem,” Opiode murmured, “but
what good would it have done had you succeeded?
You would still have ended up down here with the
rest of us who oppose his bid for absolute power.”
Jon-Tom tried to summon up some of his battered
confidence. “Not necessarily. If he didn’t listen to
reason, I was prepared to fight him. I’m a spellsinger,
and a pretty good one.”
Opiode slumped. “A spellsinger? Is that all?”
“Hey, now, wait a minute. I’ve accomplished some
pretty impressive things with my spellsinging”
“You do not understand. I do not mean to impugn
your modest talents. But you must know that I am a
wizard of no small stature, yet I was unable to
counter the magic of this Markus. It is as unpredict-
able and peculiar as it is effective. No mere spellsinger,
Aim Deaa Porter
240
however voluble, can hope to deal with that.” The
salamander strained to see behind Jon-Tom.
“Besides which, you have no instrument to accom-
pany you.”
“They confiscated it along with our weapons and
supplies.”
“It does not matter,” said Newmadeen sadly. “It’s
obvious this one wouldn’t stand a chance against
Markus anyway.”
“I’d hoped to find a little more support here,”
Jon-Tom told them. He was starting to get a little
peeved by all the criticism. “None of you have any
idea of my capabilities. You don’t know what I can
do.”
“Perhaps.” The elderly squirrel who spoke was
clad in rags. The bandage around his forehead indi-
cated he hadn’t accepted his deposition and subse-
quent incarceration gracefully. Several pieces of his
tail were missing.
“But we do know what you can’t do, and that’s get
in to see Markus. No one sees him anymore except
his closest associates—Kindore and Asmouelie and
the other traitors- And that dim-witted mountain of
a bodyguard of his, Prugg.”
“I have to see him. We have to meet. It’s the only
way to resolve things.”
“Things will be resolved soon enough, as soon as
he has consolidated his power,” said the squirrel,
whose name was Selryndi. “Markus will resolve his
embarrassments by having them skewered, weighted,
and dumped in a deep part of the lakes.” He looked
bitter. “We are at fault. We ought never to have
allowed him to compete for the post of advisor.”
“It was the law,” said Opiode.
“Aye, but you warned us against him afterward
and we didn’t listen.”
“Now is not the time for recriminations or for the
THE MOMENT or THE MAarciAS 241
4
. ^
laying of blame. We must try to get word to the
population. A general uprising is our only hope. Or
we might try to bribe one of those close to him to
attempt an assassination.”
“That will not be easy and could hasten our demise,”
said old Trendavi, “considering how carefully he
guards himself.”
“Nevertheless, we must try. In matters both magi-
cal and political he grows stronger by the day. We
dare not waste a moment in trying to unseat him. I
do not intend to end up as fish food. If only
Clothahump had seen fit to send us some real help.”
“All right, mates.” Mudge climbed to his feet and
sauntered over. “That’s just about enough. I admit
we ‘aven’t made much of an impression on this
Markus or anyone else in your bloomin’ community,
and we did kind o’ botch our intended nocturnal
visit to this Markus’s bedchamber, but don’t blame
your problems on Jon-Tom ‘ere. We were doin’ a bit
o* all right until somebody put a sword accidental-
like in the wrong place and tempers got out o’ ‘and
for a minim. Jon-Tom’s done the best he could for
you sorry lot. We didn’t get you into this mess, you
know-
“‘Ere we are, come down *ere out o’ the goodness
o’ our “carts”—Jon-Tom gaped at the blatant false-
hood but said nothing—”to try and ‘elp you folks
out o’ a tight spot, and all you can do is moan and
bawl about wot you didn’t get. Maybe we ain’t done
so good so far but from wot I sees we ain’t done any
worse than you ‘ave. So let’s call a halt to the mutual
name-callin’ and see if we can’t work together to
figure out a ways to keep our skins intact, wot?”
It was silent in the cell until Jon-Tom said softly,
“Thank you, Mudge.”
The otter spun on him. “Shut your bleedin’ cake-
Alan Dean Foeter
242
*ole and start thinkin’ of a ways out, you bloody in-
terferin* twit.” He stalked over to the bars in a huff.
“Charmin* friend you got there,” Quorly told
Jen-Tom.
“He is unique, isn’t he?” Feeling a little better
about himself, he turned back to the Quorum. “All
right then. We’re still alive and we’ve still got our wits
about us. Opiode, if you’re such a great wizard, how
come you haven’t magicked your way out of this
prison?”
“Do you not think I have tried, man? The first
thing Markus did after we were placed in this cell
was to ensorcel it with some kind of containment
spell. My powers are useless here. Not that I think he
fears my magic, as he has already defeated me in
contest, but he is very careful and takes no chances
with any who oppose him.”
Jon-Tom nodded, eyed the stone walls surround-
ing them on three sides. “What about digging our
way out?”
“With this?” Cascuyom held up a spoon and a
dull-bladed knife. “Even if we could cut into this old
rock with our eating utensils, we don’t have enough
time.”
Jon-Tom was about to make another suggestion
but was interrupted. Footsteps sounded on the stairs
outside their cell. Everyone turned to look.
The jaguar who had overseen their capture strode
down the steps, leading a group of heavily armed
guards. He approached the bars and peered through.
The prisoners glared back, their expressions run-
ning the gamut from defiance to contempt. The
officer ignored them.
“Which one of you is the leader here?” He grinned
nastily. “And I don’t mean you, Trendavi. The only
thing you lead anymore is the procession to the
urinal.” The deposed premier said nothing. He had
THK MOMENT OF THK JMAOICUHT
243
retained his dignity if not his position. “Come on,
speak up.”
” T is,” said Mudge suddenly, pointing toward Jon-
Tom.
“Thanks,” Jon-Tom said dryly.
Mudge shrugged. “You always said you wanted to
lead, mate. No reason to be bashful now.”
Memaw stepped forward. “I am the leader, you
young hooligan. 1 will go with you.” The javelina
opened the grate-
Jon-Tom pushed her gently aside. “No, Memaw.
It’s all right. I’ll go.” He turned to face the jaguar.
“Where are we going?”
“The Great Markus wishes to know why you have
infiltrated his home and how many other traitors lie
in wait outside to cause him further mischief.”
“Ain’t no other traitors but us,” said Knorckle.
Memaw turned and swatted him up the side of his
head, knocking his hat off. “Aren’t we clever today,
Knorckle. Tell me, are you going to help them pull
the lever when they hang us, too?”
“Sorry, mum.” The abashed Knorckle bent to re-
trieve his hat.
“Markus,” the officer continued, “would also know
whence you came, whether any of you escaped, and
what the intentions of your allies on the outside
might be.” This time none of the prisoners was
inspired to comment. The jaguar returned his gaze
to Jon-Tom.
“I advise you to cooperate and reply truthfully to
any questions Markus may ask.” Jon-Tom’s heart
gave a little jump but he held his silence. “Master of
the dark arts that he is, he possesses means of
making you tell the truth that are both slow and
painful.”
“Then I’m to be taken to Markus?” The jaguar
nodded.
Alan Dean Foster
244
Jon-Tom could hardly believe his luck. That was
just what they’d been trying to achieve all along. He
didn’t say that, of course. Instead he tried to look
defiant. “I’m looking forward to the meeting.”
“Then you’re either braver than you look or
dumber.” The jaguar gestured. The guards formed
a semicircle around the cell entrance while thejavelina
pushed the gate inward. As soon as Jon-Tom had
been pulled out, the gate was slammed shut again.
The noise echoed through the dungeon.
“There is just one thing ” Jon-Tom spoke off-
handedly.
The jaguar eyed him impatiently, paws on hips.
“Don’t waste my time, man, or I’ll have you dragged
into Markus’s presence. He won’t like that.”
Jon-Tom leaned close, whispered conspiratorially.
“I’m not really the leader of this bunch. I’m a wan-
dering minstrel, see, and I was forced to join them.
Now, I know you probably think I’m making this all
up”—the jaguar nodded sagely—”but that’s why I’m
not afraid of meeting the great Markus. He’ll know
the truth. Only thing is, I’m afraid he won’t believe
me unless he hears me sing, and I can’t sing without
my duar. The one your troops took from me.”
The officer considered, eyeing Jon-Tom intently.
For his part, the prisoner assumed the blandest
expression he could manage. Finally the jaguar glanced
toward his subofficer.
“What of what he says?”
The fox replied in a gruff voice. “Aye, there was a
duar among the supplies we inventoried.”
“Was it thoroughly inspected?” Jon-Tom couldn’t
breathe.
“It was, sir. Appears to be a perfectly ordinary
instrument.” Jon-Tom breathed again.
The officer nodded absently toward Jon-Tom. “A
peculiar encumbrance to carry into battle. Yet you
TBK MOMENT OF THE MAOICt/W
245
say you came to talk and not to Fight.” He grinned.
“Well, you can’t have it back ”
“But it’s only an instrument,” Jon-Tom pleaded,
seeing a last chance slipping away.
‘Tough. Personal property of all you traitors is
confiscated. There is one way .you could regain
possession, however.”
“What do I have to do^”
“Convince Markus you’re innocent.” The jaguar’s
laughter boomed through the dungeon. “Let’s go,
and let there be no more talk of what you wanti”
The otters crowded against the bars, shouting
encouragement, while the deposed members of the
Quorum hung back near the rear of the cell and
looked on sadly.
“Chin up,Jonny-Tom!… stiff upper lip, old boy…
don’t let ’em get to you … show ’em wot you’re made
of, Jon-Tom!… give ’em ‘ell, mate!”
Jon-Tom turned and rewarded his friends with a
hopeful smile as he started up the steps. A trio of
alert guards preceded him while three more followed.
The officer stayed close to his side at all times. No
chance to break free.
They climbed half a dozen flights of stairs until
they finally emerged onto a stone parapet. After the
heavy damp of the dungeon, the cool night air was a
shock to his system. Several stories below, the water
of the great lake glistened in the moonlight.
As they marched him toward a tower, he thought
of making a break for it, of diving over the side to
freedom. Two things restrained him. For one, if he
happened to misjudge his leap, he would splatter
himself all over the stones below. For another, he was
a much better runner than he was a swimmer. No
doubt Markus had his own allies among the aquatic
species. Armed beavers or muskrats could recapture
him in seconds.
Alan Dean Foeter
246
Besides, it might cost him his chance to finally
meet (his mysterious Markus the Ineluctable. He’d
rather have gone to the meeting with his duar nestled
reassuringly under his arm, but at least he was going
to see what their nemesis was made of. He wondered
if the officer paralleling him sensed his nervousness.
What would Markus the Ineluctable be like? Human.
yes. He already knew that. But what kind of human,
and from what world? His own, this one, somewhere
else? Was Markus nothing more than an ambitious
local wizard who’d concocted his story of coming
over from another universe solely to frighten and
intimidate his opponents? Or did he come from
some mysterious unknown dimension where evil held
sway?
What was “human” and what was not? Couldn’t
something with horns on its head and a barbed tail
be described as human? And if the latter description
proved to be nearer the truth, what concern would
such a creature have with the petty problems of one
Jonathan Thomas Meriweather?
The tower they were marching toward could only
be approached by a single narrow walkway. Elsewhere,
the stone walls fell sharply toward the water far
below. The guards Hanking the entrance were the
largest Jon-Tom had seen. Both lions stood half a
head taller than six feet and were armed with mas-
sive metal axes.
The jaguar exchanged greetings with his oversized
cousins, and the party was admitted to a hallway
beyond. Once inside, Jon-Tom couldn’t help noticing
that his escort abruptly lost a lot of its boldness.
They exchanged anxious, uneasy whispers and
searched the torchlit corridor with darting, nervous
eyes. Their words and reactions showed they didn’t
want to proceed any farther down that singular
passageway, but the jaguar bravely led them on.
TBTJB MOMBJVT Of THE MAQICIAH 247
Until they halted ten feet from a last door. The
officer took Jon-Tom’s arm and pulled him forward.
Stopping before the door, be rapped three times on
the wood with one paw. The door opened slightly.
Putting the other paw in the middle of Jon-Tom’s
back, the officer gave him a shove and sent him
stumbling inward. The door was pulled shut quickly
behind him.
The room was not large, with a high ceiling and
open wooden beams from which dangled wired-
together skeletons. Whether they had belonged to
the subjects of arcane experiments or to unlucky
supplicants, Jon-Tom had no way of knowing. The
room was softly lit, and the source of the illumina-
tion was a shock.
In place of the familiar torches or oil lamps or, for
those wealthy enough to afford them, globes containing
light spells, were several battered but serviceable-
looking fluorescent light fixtures. Though he searched
hard, he couldn’t see any cords or sockets. Never-
theless, the lights shone efficiently.
The furnishings were of local manufacture. Many
were decorated with gold and pewter. There was a
large table with chairs, many sculptures and wall
hangings, and several tall crystal vases full of jewels.
Of more interest than that, than even the fluorescent
lights, were the three two-foot-long model airplanes
ensconced neatly in alcoves in one wall- There was a
Fokker biplane painted red, a Cutlass WWII dive
bomber, and a miniature Beechcraft Bonanza.
“You may approach,” declared a voice.
Jon-Tom whirled and stared toward the poorly lit
far end of the room. The voice was heavily accented.
Was this Markus the Ineluctable? He moved toward
the voice, ready to retreat as best he could if the
wizard reacted with blind rage.
As he crossed the room he made out a large
Alan Dean Poster
248
wooden throne resting on a dais several steps higher
than the rest of the chamber. Small tables held silver
candlesticks. Leaning up against one leg of the throne
was an exquisite, bejeweled, and quite functional
sword. Jon-Tom was cheered by the sight. It hinted
that the Great Markus didn’t have total confidence
in his magical abilities-
Markus the Ineluctable slouched on his throne
and regarded his prisoner imperiously. Resting by
the wizard’s right hand was by far the strangest
object in the room. Jon-Tom couldn’t take his eyes
off it.
“I am,” the inhabitant of the throne announced
grandly, “Markus the Ineluctable, Markus the Great,
Ruler of Quasequa and all the Lakes District and all
the lands that conjoin them. Soon to be Emperor of
the World.”
“Yeah,” Jon-Tom replied evenly, “I know who you
are. What I want to know,” he said, pointing at the
alien intrusion lying next to the wizard’s right hand,
“is if that’s a pastrami on rye. It looks like a pastrami
on rye.” He sniffed. “It smells like a pastrami on rye.
It’s got to be a pastrami on rye!” His mouth was
salivating. He could smell the mustard ten feet away.
Markus’s eyes widened as he stood. Jon-Tom had a
dear view of him for the First time. He wore a
strange black suit backed by a dirty white shin and
black bow tie. The tie rode the collar slightly askew.
There was a moth-eaten black top hat on his head.
In his left hand he held a stick or cane of black
plastic tipped with white at both ends. A black cape
trailed across the throne behind him.
All in all he presented a moderately impressive
appearance, except for one thing which the inhabit-
ants of Quasequa would tend to overlook. Markus’s
shoes were brown brogans.
“How dare you digress in my presence!” he snapped,
THE MOMENT OF THE MAQJCIAM
249
but there was evident uncertainty in his accusation.
It lacked conviction.
Five six, maybe five seven,”Jen-Tom decided. In his
late forties and not in real swell shape. In fact,
despite the wizard’s strenuous efforts to suck it in, a
‘ substantial paunch kept creeping .out over his belt
line. There didn’t appear to be much hair beneath
the black top hat. Bushy brown eyebrows framed
deeply sunk, dark eyes. Bags sagged beneath. The
nose was flat and almost triangular. Jon-Tom couldn’t
tell if the shape was natural or the result of having
been broken several times.
The mouth was thin and delicate, almost girlish.
Frizzy sideburns exploded from both sides of the
head. An enormous fake diamond ring glistened on
one Finger.
“Excuse me. It’s just that the last time I saw a
pastrami on rye was in the Westwood Deli on Wilshire
Boulevard. If you knew what I’ve been eating these
past months, you’d understand my reaction.”
Markus the Ineluctable descended from his throne
and found himself in the awkward position of having
to stare up at his prisoner.
“Where’d you hear that?”
“I’ve heard it all my life.” He was no longer afraid.
t” Still not too hopeful, but no longer afraid. “I’m a
graduate student…! was a graduate student… in
law at UCLA until I found myself yanked over here.”
“UCLA.” Markus mumbled. “Well, I’ll be damned.”
He circled his visitor slowly, inspecting him as careful-
ly as would a museum curator who’djust unwrapped
a newly arrived statue. “You aren’t putting me on,
kid? You’re for real?”
“Damn right I am. The question is, who the hell
are you?”
At this the wizard straightened slightly, “I’m Markus
the Ineluctable, that’s who. Ruler of Qusquoqua.” He
Alan Dean Foster
aso
shook his head. “Damn. Never can get that right.
Ruler of Quasequa.”
“Can the bullshit and tell me who you are and how
you got here,”
Markus nodded up at him. “A!! right.” He re-
moved his top hat, set it on a nearby table. Jon-Tom
saw that he was bald ail the way to the back of his
head.
“But first you tell me how you got here, kid.”
“1 don’t know,” Jon-Tom told him truthfully. “A
local wizard needed help, and for some reason I got
picked on. It was a mistake, but that hasn’t made me
feel a whole tot better. He can’t send me back, at
least not for a long lime. So I’m stuck here. I’ve been
stuck here for quite a while. How about you?”
“Well, you know, kid, it’s the damndest thing…”
Jon-Tom found a chair and settled down to listen.
XV
“See,” Markus told him “I’m a professional magi-
cian.” Jon-Tom chose not to comment on this. Hear
him out, he told himself. Markus was more than
willing to talk; indeed, he seemed eager to do so.
“Markus the Ineluctable’s my stage handle. My
real name is Markle Kratzmeier, from Perth Amboy,
, New Jersey. I’ve been doing the same schtick for
years, all up and down the East Coast. I mean, I
knew I’d never get rich, but it was better than
pushing lettuce around in the market, and you can
work your own hours. And you never know when
some agent might see you and ask you to go out to
Vegas.
“Haven’t made it yet, though. Once played a nice
joint in Manhattan and a couple of times a real sharp
club in Atlantic City, but usually I ain’t that lucky. 1
do the usual gigs: private parties, bar mitzvahs, kids’
birthdays.” He made a face. “God, I hate doing kids’
birthdays. Little snot-noses always crawling all over
you, throwing up and begging for candy. I’ve also
worked most of the bump-and-grind joints from
Jersey City all the way down the coast to Surf City.
I’ve seen a lot ot Hte. kid, and not much of it pretty.”
251
Alan Dean Poster
252
He took a deep breath and leaned on one of the
tables for support.
“So anyway, there I am in this Con Edison power
plant. Bunch of the guys who run the place are
throwing a stag party for their foreman because the
sap’s getting married the next day. They don’t have
enough money to rent a hall, so they get together
with the night shift and decorate part of the plant on
the sly, see? Wasn’t so bad. I’ve worked in worse
dumps. It was noisy in there, but at least it was clean.
“I’m doing my stuff, building to my big finish,
and it’s going pretty good because they’re all smashed
or stoned anyway.”
“Big finish?”
“Yeah.” Markus beamed proudly. “I saw one of the
gals or one of the guys from the audience in half.”
“That’s original.”
“Hey, don’t knock it. kid. Maybe it’s an old trick, but
it stilt buffaloes the marks. Anyway, I have to do one
more thing before I get to go home. There’s this
big cake, see?”
“I get the picture,” Jen-Tom said, nodding.
“Yeah. They hired this bimbo from one of the
local topless joints.” He paused, thinking, and those
bushy brows drew together. “Merill, or Cheryl, I
think her name was. Anyway, she’s gonna pop out of
the cake in her swimsuit. The trick is I’m going to
wave my wand after the guys get through moaning
and make her suit fall off. Pretty neat, huh?”
“Very witty,” Jon-Tom admitted carefully.
“So I’m trying to do it up right, give these guys
their money’s worth. I’m waving my wand all over the
place”—he demonstrated by fluttering the cheap
plastic wand—”only I don’t look where I’m going.
Suddenly everybody’s shouting, and the broad is
screaming, and I feel myself going ass-over-backwards,
and I think, okay, that’s it, you dumb schmuck, you
TUX MOMENT OF THE MACHCIAM
253
finally bought it. Had to overdo it for a couple of
extra tips. I’m falling over and over and the damn
cape’s m my eyes and 1 can\ see a thing except I get
just a quick look at this big dynamo or generator or
whatever the hell it was.
“Then I hit it. Tell me something, kid. When you
were little, did you ever get real clever and stick your
finger in a socket?” Jon-Tom nodded. “Well. for about
ten seconds there 1 felt like I’d done just that, only
with my head. I’m shaking all over before 1 black out.
“When I wake up, I’m lying in a room in this
rockpile and there’s this big dumpy character lean-
ing over me asking me if I feel okay” Markus’s
tone was earnest. “Kid, I don’t mind telling you that
this is a little tough to take, coming off a slag party
where I didn’t have a damn thing to drink. I swear,
not a drop! Couple of beers maybe, one shot of rye.
Pretty good stuff too. But I know I ain’t drunk.
“So I try to keep cool even though this refugee
from a horror flick is standing over me. and I get the
idea to wave my wand and make with a few magic
words to try and scare it away, and what do you
think happens? Something picks the big jerk up and
throws him across the room.” He paused to take a
long drink from a pewter tankard. “Local booze ain’t
half-bad, kid. Anyways, I see that this mass of talking
meat is more scared of me than I am of him. So 1
start fooling around with the old wand”—he con-
ducted his words with the plasic as he spoke—”and
what do you think I find out?”
“What?” asked Jon-Tom guardedly.
“That all those cheap tricks I’ve been practicing for
twenty-five years, all the junk I’ve been doing for
spoiled brats in Westchester and their tight-assed moth-
ers who wouldn’t give me the time of day, they all work
here. For real. I can do real magic. Not only like the
stuff I’ve always done, but new stuff, too. Ain’t that a pip?
Alan Dean Foster
294
“So I talk to this big dummy who found me and see
that he’s long on muscle but slow upstairs, and 1
get the lay of the land. I find out that there’s another
magician here who kinda runs things from’an advisor’s
post. I feel my way around, introduce myself real
nice, and finally meet up with a couple of the guys
who sit on this Quorum or Mafia or Congress or
whatever you want to call it. Some of them see which
way the shit’s flying and some of them don’t, and
with a little magic and the help of the ones who see
right, I take over the whole damn city.” He spread
his hands and grinned.
“Just like that. Me, Markle Kratzmeier from Perth
Amboy. Now I’m the advisor, the chief, the head
honcho. And this is only the beginning, kid. Only
the beginning. These hairy rubes think I’m the greatest
thing to hit them since chopped liver. And you know
what? I am. There’s got to be stuff I can do I ain’t
even thought up yet. Me, Markle Kratzmeier. After
years of eating dirt and yessiring and no-ma’aming
and putting up with you wouldn’t believe what kind
of shit, I’m on top. You know what? It feels good!”
“That sounds swell,” Jon-Tom agreed. “You know
what else? I can do a little magic myself.”
“Izzat so?” Markus suddenly looked wary.
“Oh, nothing big, nothing like what you’ve done,”
Jon-Tom hastened to reassure him. “Just small stuff.
Entertaining, like that.” He took a chance and moved
nearer. Markus didn’t back away from him-
“Now, what I was thinking was that with the two of
us working together on the problem, maybe we could
figure out a way for both of us to get back home.”
Markus eyed him in disbelief. “Get back home?
Why the hell would I want to get back home, kid? I
mean, look at the setup I’ve got here. Tell you what,
though. You play your cards right and don’t screw
up and maybe I can use you. It*d be nice to have
THE MOMENT Or THE MAOICSAM
255
somebody to talk with about back home. But go
back?” He waved at the lavishly decorated room.
“You want me to trade this in and go back to doing
bar mitzvahs and weddings and working crappy clubs
up and down the Jersey coast? You got to be nuts, kid.
“Anyway, I wouldn’t know how to start getting
home, even if I cared to try it. No way. See, these
rubes know what money is, and what power is, even
if most of them do look like they came out of the
local zoo or dog pound. In other words, they know
what’s important in life. Maybe some of them have
whiskers that grow sideways instead of down, and
paws instead of palms, and fur coats instead of skin,
but they’re still people. And I can run the whole
bunch of them. Hell, I am running the whole bunch
of them! And like I said, this is just the begin-
ning.
“Know something else?” He winked and Jon-Tom
felt suddenly unclean. “There’s even people like us
here.”
“I know.”
“And some of the dames look pretty good. I’ve
seen some broads around here who could’ve made
it big in the big casinos except for what they all seem
to be a little on the short side- That suits me fine
since’I ain’t no center for the Knicks myself- They’re
all in awe of me, afraid of me.” Markus’s sunken
brown eyes looked more piggish than ever, Jon-
Tom mused.
“I like that. I like it a lot, kid. I like them all
bowing and scraping and cowering in front of me.
Go back home?” He laughed, a short nasty sound.
“If I tried touching any broads who looked half as
good as the ones here back in New York, they’d spit
on me and call a cop. You, you’re young and good-
looking, kid. You never had that happen to you. You
Alao Dean Foster
256
haven’t the vaguest idea what it’s like for a woman
you idolize to spit on you.
“Well, nobody spits on Markus the Ineluctable!”
he snarled. “Go home? I’d sooner cut my own throat
right now. All my life I’ve gotten the short end of the
stick. All my life people have cut me down. Well, no
more. This is my chance to get back at them, and I
ain’t giving it up!”
Jon-Tom listened to Markus rave on and forbore
from pointing out that the people of this world had
never put him down. Jon-Tom was Just old enough
and had seen just enough of the world to know for
the first time exactly what he was up against in the
person of Markus the Ineluctable.
He was one of the faceless ones, one of the
insignificant, uninspired, nameless persons whose
only real purpose in life was to occupy a few bytes in
a government computer. A number more than a
reality, an organic something in the shape of a man
who took up space. Someone who under normal
conditions was incapable of doing good and too
incompetent to do evil.
But a twist of space-time, a jog in the smooth
procession of events, an irony of eternity had thrust
him into this world and had placed him in a position
to do damage all out of proportion to his naturally
constituted self- In his own world Markle Kratzmeier
would simply have faded away without making much
of an impression on existence one way or the other.
But in this world, Markus the Ineluctable and his
ability to work magic posed a terrifying threat to
people who had never known of his history, his problems,
his concealed envies and hatreds. That didn’t matter to
someone like Markus, who believed that all the forces
of the universe were arrayed against him. He wanted
to strike out, strike back against life, and it wouldn’t
matter to him who or what got in his way.
TBK MOMCHT OF TBS MAOICIAH
2B7
So Jon-Tom had been both right and wrong. The
man who had usurped power in the city-state of
Quasequa was indeed from his own world, but only
in body. In spirit he was an alien, an evil import, and
a danger to everyone who came in contact with him.
The problem now at hand was not one of getting
home, but of saving himself and his friends.
It was clear that Markus’s only interest lay in
gathering as much power to himself as possible-
Carefully. Jon-Tom was going to have to proceed
very carefully. Markus wasn’t stupid. He was no
scholar, but he had street smarts, and those could
prove more dangerous than real intelligence.
“I understand- 1 mean, you’ve got a helluva setup
here. A couple of expatriates like you and me from
the good old U.S. of A., we ought to stick together.
Like I said. I’ve got a little talent myself. Noth-
ing like what you can do, of course, but I can do
small stuff- I know we wouldn’t be equal, wouldn’t
be a team. I wouldn’t expect that. But with my
abilities augmenting yours, we could really show
these dumb animals a thing or two.”
“Yeah. Hey, you know what I’d really like?” Markus
told him after he’d finished making his proposal.
“I’d really like a couple of Big Macs, some fries, and a
vanilla shake.”
“1 could go for that, too,” Jon-Tom told him
enthusiastically. “Why don’t you let me do this one?”
He looked around as if searching for something. “I
do my magic better with some music, though. It’s
like with your wand. Kind of helps to set the mood,
if you know what I mean. Your guards took my in-
strument away from me. If I could have it back I
promise you a regular MacFeast.” He pointed. “Right
on that table there. Then we can make plans.”
Markus stared at him for a long moment, then
repeated his thoroughly unpleasant laugh. “What’s
AlanDean Foster
298
the matter with you, kid? You think I was born
yesterday? You think I’ve spent all my life poking
through every dump on the East Coast without learn-
ing nothing about people?”
“1 don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jon-Tbm
said lamely.
“The hell you don’t- You’re too eager. Too eager to
throw in with me, too eager to help, too eager to
throw your buddies over, and you’re sure as hell too
eager to get your mitts on your guitar or whatever it
was that my boys took off you.” He smiled. It was no
more pleasant than his laugh-
“Tell you what, though. I’m a fair guy- This buddy
of mine 1 was telling you about earlier? His name’s
Prugg. Maybe I’ll let you wrestle him for your duar.
In fact, I’ll go one better than that. You beat him and
I’ll take you on as my partner, fifty-fifty split, straight
down the line. How’s that, kid?” Before Jon-Tbm
could reply, Markus looked past him and whistled.
“Hey, Prugg! Come on out and join us. 1 want to
introduce you to sm^rt-boy here.”
Something moved in the darkness near the back of
the room. A section of wall pivoted on its axis,
revealing an immense shape. It stepped out into the
room. In one paw it easily held an iron club that
looked like an Olympic barbell that had been melted
to a stub at one end. A leather cuirass two inches
thick covered it from chest to thighs.
The bear was nearly nine feet tall and probably
weighed in the neighborhood of a ton and a half.
“Kill now?” it rumbled expectantly.
“No, not now.” Markus looked back up at Jon-
Tom. “How about it, kid? Can you take him?”
“Come on,” Jon-Tbm said uneasily, “this isn’t funny.”
“You bet your smart ass it ain’t.” Markus’s smile
vanished as he moved forward until he was standing
right next to his prisoner. “You fucking college boys
Tm MOMENT or TOE BSAOicwt 259
think you know everything, don’t you? Mummy and
Daddy paying your way through school, paying for
your car and your dates?^
As a matter of fact, Jon-Tom had been holding
down two part-time jobs to help pay his tuition, but
Marfcus wouldn’t allow him a chance to get a word in
edgewise.
“Not me. When I was twelve I was hauling crates
of vegetables to make enough money to buy shoes.
Lettuce, tomatoes, cucumbers, squash; all that shit.
You think I ever saw any of that money?” He shook
his head angrily. “My old man took it away from me
to buy booze with so he and my mother could go out
and get drunk every Saturday night.
“If you dropped one of those crates and it busted,
it came out of your salary. When the fresh stuff came
in from the truck farms in central and south Jersey,
the college boys used to come in from town to buy
for the supermarket chains. One time I was watching
one of the women who sometimes came in with
them. Real slick broad, long legs and everything.
“Anyway, 1 had a whole crate of tomatoes on my
back and 1 dropped it. Busted all over. Some of it
got on this buyer’s shoes, and they made me clean it
up right there in front of everybody. All the other
guys just laughed at me.
“I’ve never forgotten that, kid. Never thought I’d
have a chance to do anything about it, until now.”
“That wasn’t me,” Jon-Tom told him as calmly as
he could, “I wasn’t there. 1 probably hadn’t even
been born yet.”
“So what’s the difference? You intellectual schmucks
are all the same. Think you know belter than every-
body else. I’m giving you a better chance than your
kind gave me. I’m giving you a chance to fight your
way out.”
Alan Dean Foster
260
Prugg smiled thinly and let out a grunt that rolled
through the room like thunder.
“At least let me have my instrument.”
“Why, so you can work some magic maybe? Do a
disappearing act? Huh-uh, kid, not a chance. This is
my roll and I’m playing it for all it’s worth. I’m
keeping these dice unless fate jerks them out of my
hands. I’m going for the whole ball of wax this time,
and I don’t need any wise punks from back home
trying to muscle in on my territory. Tell you what I
will do, though. I’ll tell Prugg to go easy on you.
Maybe he won’t kill you. Maybe.” Then he was looking
toward the door as though Jon-Tom had ceased to
exist as a human being.
“Hey, Thornrack! Get in here.”
The jaguar who had conveyed j on-Tom from the
cell appeared. “Yes, Master?”
“Take this punk back downstairs and toss him in
with his friends, but don’t hurt him. I want him in
one piece for later.”
“Yes, Master.” Thornrack entered the room and
put a powerful paw on Jon-Tom’s shoulder. “Let’s
go, man.”
Markus’s jeering followed Jon-Tom as he was led
from the chamber. “What’s wrong, kid? No snide
remarks? No snappy comeback? I thought your kind
had an answer for everything. Don’t you? Don’t
you!”
The door slammed tight behind them, but as they
rejoined the waiting escort and started out of the
tower, Jon-Tom thought he could still hear Markus
the Ineluctable ranting and raving furiously behind
him.
He wasn’t feeling very optimistic as they led him
back down into the bowels of the Quorumate, down
below the water line and into the dungeons again.
Somehow he had to regain possession of his duar.
Tax. MOMENT or THE MAOICSAM 261
The only way to unseat the two-bit dictator that Markle
Kratzmeier had turned into was with magic.
Certainly without the duar he wouldn’t stand a
chance against the bear-mountain named Prugg.
“Open it up,” the jaguar said to thejavelina turnkey.
Jon-Tom saw his companions lined up against the
bars. Clearly they read the expression on his face,
because there was no cheering. Only Opiode eyed
him with something approaching interest as the grille
was opened and he was shoved unceremoniously
inside. The grate closed with a metallic clang which
echoed through the darkness.
Guards and turnkey retreated up the stairs, chat-
ting conversationally. As soon as they were gone, the
otters crowded around him.
“Well, mate, ‘ow’d it go?”
“What did you learn?” Opiode asked curiously.
“He’s from my world, all right, but I resent having
to admit it. I didn’t actually see him work any magic,
but I don’t doubt that he can. His living quarters were
full of evidence.”
“He proved his abilities to me in person,” Opiode
said softly.
“Well, wot do *e want?” Mudge asked.
“The same thing every other tin-pot would-be
emperor wants: everything. He’s a dangerous, homi-
cidal^ frightened, thoroughgoing bastard, and that’s
giving him the benefit of the doubt. Oh, he did
make one show of magnanimity. He said that if I
could outfight his bodyguard, 1 might get my duar
back.”
“Prugg.” Domurmur nodded knowingly. “I like you,
man, but I’d put my wagering money on your
opponent.”
“So would I,” said Jon-Tom grimly. “I’ve got about
as much chance of beating him as I do of getting
Thornrack to let us escape. Less, probably.” He glanced
Al&n Dean Foster
262
down at Mudge. “Remember the bouncer at Ma-
dame Lorsha’s in Timswitty? This one makes him look
like a cub.”
Mudge’s whiskers twitched. “That don’t sound none
too promisin’, mate.”
“It isn’t.” He paused. Something had been trou-
bling him since he’d reentered the cell, but he’d been
too busy telling of his meeting with Markus to focus
on it. Now he did, and it gave him a start. “Hey, I
think I can feel a—”
Three pairs of furry paws slapped over his mouth
and most of the rest of his face, muffling him
completely. Memaw stepped close, put her fingers to
her lips. Jon-Tom nodded slowly and the paws were
withdrawn.
Taking his hand in her paw, she quietly drew him
toward the darkest corner of the cell. The rest of the
otters moved aside to let them through. There was a
small twist and bend in the far corner where the cell
curved around to follow the contours of the outer
wall- It was there that Jon-Tom saw the source of the
thing thai had bothered him since he’d rejoined his
companions.
A steady breeze.
It rose from a section of floor where the paving
had been removed. The hole was rapidly being en-
larged by the otters’ best diggers. A pile of cracked
and broken rock was stacked neatly against the far
wall. Memaw pointed at it.
“Rotten, from age and the dampness. Quoriy smelled
the air coming in and we traced it back here to the
floor. We managed to break the old stones away.”
She leaned forward and whispered anxiously. “How
is it coming, my friends?”
Knorckle looked up at them. His face was smeared
with wet dirt and pulverized rock. “There’s somethin’
THE MOMENT or TUE MAGICIAN 263
else down ‘ere, all right, mum. It ain’t solid and it
ain’t water.”
“Don’t smell none too good,” opined Mudge. He’d
moved up to stand nex? to Jon-Tom, who reflected
on the fact that the otter’s shifts in mood were as fast
as his tingere. “But ’tis air. Where’s she comin’ from?”
He leaned’over and tried to see into the hole. Flying
paws and dirt made it difficult.
“Maybe a way out,” murmured Memaw, hardly
daring to hope.
Selryndi had walked over to watch. The squirrel
drew his tattered cloak tightly around him, sniffed.
“Can’t be. This is the lowest level of the Quorumate.”
“Not necessarily, my friends.” Those who weren’t
digging turned to look at Opiode, whose expression
for the First time reflected his nickname- That in
itself gave Jon-Tom cause to hope- “There are.,.
stories.” His wise, shining eyes roved over the ancient
masonry. “The Quorumate Complex is the largest
structure in Quasequa, and the oldest. It is said that
as it was built, the Lake of Sorrowful Pearls rose
around it, so that the dungeon we are now imprisoned
in once stood above the water line.
“It is, therefore, not inconceivable that there could
be still older levels farther below.”
The digging crews worked in relays while the rest
kept a careful watch on the stairway. Their energy
and determination was wondrous to behold, except
when someone got in someone else’s way. Then
Memaw would have to step in and break up the
fight. These were always brief and harmless, but
they cost precious minutes. There was no telling
when the turnkey or Thornrack might return and
decide to make a cursory inspection of their cell.
Jon-Tom didn’t much care what lay below the
broken, sodden stones. Anything would be better
than having to face Markus’s bodyguard in combat.
Alan Dean Foster
264
“She’s wide enough now.” Frangel wiped his paws
on his shorts. “Who’s first down the bung-‘ole?”
“I’ll go,” said Memaw. Sasswise pushed her aside.
“No you don’t, mum. Beauty before brains.”
“That’s what 1 said, my dear,” countered Memaw,
shoving back.
While the two of them argued, Ftutzasarangelik
(but you can call him Flutz) jumped between them
and disappeared through the gap in the floor. The
soft thump of his landing was heard clearly by those
waiting anxiously above.
“It’s not too bad,” he whispered up at them. “I’m
in some kind of tunnel. There’s a little water runnin’
along the bottom, and I can ‘ear it drippin’ down the
wails in a couple o’ places, but she seems solid
enough.”
“How big is it?” Memaw called to him.
“Not very. Old drainage tunnel, I thinks. I *ave to
bend to clear the ceiling.”
Jon-Tom went cold. He’d always been a little
claustrophobic and had trouble enough in local build-
ings with low ceilings. If Flutz had to bend, that
meant he’d have to go on hands and knees, or
crab-walk. This through a narrow tunnel full of
water, below the level of the lake beyond, toward an
unknown destination.
And the tunnel might get smaller as they went,
closing in around them tighter and tighter, pressing
against his sides as well as his legs until…
A hand nudged him. “Hey, mate, are you all
right?” There was genuine concern on Mudge’s face.
“You look a mite green.”
Jon-Tom took several long, measured breaths. “I’m
okay. Let’s go.”
Quorly followed Flutz, then Sasswise, then Frangel.
Selryndi was next in line and pulled up short, eyeing
the dark hole uneasily.
THE MOMENT OF THK MAGICIAN
26,5
“Let’s not be hasty. We don’t know what’s down
there.”
“But we do know what. is up here,” said Opiode,
stepping around him. The salamander’s tail twitched
as he spoke. “Slow starvation and continued humili-
ation, or worse.”
“Easy for you to say, wizard. You are as much at
home underwater as a fish.” He gestured at the
otters. “To a certain extent, so are these industrious
visitors. But the rest of us are strictly dry-land air-
breathers. What if the water should rise to the ceiling?”
“What if the sun should fail to rise tomorrow?”
said Opiode. “Remain here if you wish, and give our
apologies to Markus the Ineluctable. The rest of us
have an appointment with freedom.” He turned and
plunged through the opening, displaying an agility
that belied his age.
Old Trendavi followed him, the pangolin’s scales
barely clearing the gap. The rest of the Quorum
followed until only Selryndi remained.
Jon-Tom dropped through the hole and looked up
at him. “I’m as much of a drylander as you are,
Selryndi. If I can stand it, so can you.”
The squirrel stood staring down at the tall young
human. Then he muttered something under his
breath, tucked his tail up against his back, and jumped.
The rest of the otters brought up the rear. They
took care to replace the floor as best they could. Any
delay in discovering the hole would help to confuse
pursuers-
Once the gap had been reseated, it was pitch-black
inside the tunnel. Jon-Tom found he could still walk
so long as he kept bent double. It hurt his back, but
it was better than trying to crawl through the shallow,
cold water that ran along the bottom of the tunnel.
[, Still, he kept knocking his head against the ceiling,
Aim Dean Foster
280
which fortunately had been worn smooth over the
years.
It was anything but a pleasant hike- He kept
bumping into furry bodies ahead and others stum-
bled into him from behind. Their only link and only
guides were touch, smell, and anxious whispers.
They walked for what seemed like miles in the
darkness before Frangel’s voice echoed down the
tunnel. “There’s a branching up ‘ere. Which way?”
“From which direction does the air flow most
strongly?” Memaw inquired.
“From the left, mum, but the ceiling there is a bit
lower.” Jon-Tom cursed softly.
“Ignore it, mate,” said Mudge from just in front of
him. “You can ‘andle it.”
“I’ll have to. If I go back to that cell, I’ll have to go
two falls out of three with a two-ton rug.”
“Move on!” Mudge shouted toward the front of the
line. “We’re all okay back “ere.”
They pushed ahead until Frangel called another
halt. “There’s water comin’ in ‘ere pretty good,”
The tine shuffled slightly and Jon-Tom could hear
the otters scratching around.
“Stone’s loose,” Memaw announced evenly. “We
could probably break through. If the lake didn’t
come in too fast we could get out this way.”
“Maybe you could,” said Selryndi, “but what about
the rest of us? We don’t know how long we’d have to
hold our breath.”
“Is not the chance of freedom better than the sure
death that awaits us all back in our prison?” Opiode
asked him.
“Easy for you to say, gill-wizard.”
“Memaw,” Jon-Tom broke in, “does the tunnel go
on?”
“Yes.”
“Then I think we should keep going. Maybe we’ll
THE MOMENT Of THE MAGICIAN
267
find a better place. If not, we can stilt come back and
try to break through here.”
“My thoughts are the same, young man,” she
replied. “We are not abandoning anyone.” A chorus
of ayes rose from the rest of the otters and the line
started forward once again.
As he stumbled past the place Frangel had found,
cold water spurted over Jon-Tom’s legs. The take lay
just beyond that feeble wall, ready to break in at any
” moment. If it gave way white they were further up
. -the tunnel…
He forced himself to concentrate on the path ahead.
They seemed to be walking in a wide curve back
toward the left, though the darkness had him
completely disoriented. It didn’t seem to bother the
otters, though. He wondered if they would eventual-
ly arrive back at their starting point beneath the cell.
Better the lake should break in.
Then Frangel’s voice from up ahead, “It’s opening
up!”
Moments later they emerged from the tunnel into
a vast open bowl- Jon-Tom’s back protested as he
straightened up. At first the big chamber seemed as
dark as the tunnel, but as his eyes adjusted he found
he was just able to make out dim outlines in the
darkness.
The source of illumination was weak with distance:
a tiny circle of light far above them.
“A well o’ some kind,” Quorly suggested, “inside
the bloomin’ Quorumate. That sound familiar to any
o’ you blokes?”
The Quorum members put their heads together
and considered. None of them had taken much of
an interest in the architecture of the rambling collec-
tion of structures they ruled from. Only Opiode had
any ideas.
“In less civilized times condemned criminals were
Alan Dean Foster
268
rumored to have been thrown into such pits. It may
be that this is such a place, long abandoned and only
recently rediscovered.”
“Damn!” Mudge shouted abruptly.
“What is it, what’s wrong?” Jon-Tom asked him-
“Tripped over somethin’, mate.” He fumbled a bit
in the darkness, lifted something for all of them to
feel. jon-Tom identified it immediately. It was a
primate skull.
Opiode took it from Mudge and they could see his
hands moving over the bone. “Cracked when the
owner was thrown from above,” he announced. Eyes
immediately went to that distant circle of light.
It was quiet for a moment. Then Sasswise said,
“Come on then, you lazy lot. Let’s see *ow big this ‘ole
is. Maybe there’s another way in.”
Everyone fanned out and began feeling along the
wall. Climbing was out of the question, even for the
agile otters. The damp stones arched to form a
dome overhead. Only Opiode might have been able
to manage it, in his younger days. Now he did not
have the strength to cling to such a slick overhang.
“Got an idea,” said Mudge. “Let’s make a pyramid.”
The otters discussed the proposal briefly, then
settled themselves in the center of the chamber and
proceeded to put. on an astonishing display of
acrobatics- They managed to stack themselves four
high, but Splitch was still yards shy of the point
where the vertical shaft of the well broadened out to
form the curved ceiling.
The pyramid was collapsed and the otters brushed
themselves off. “Wouldn’t ‘ave mattered if I could’ve
reached the bottom,” Spiitch told them- “The shaft’s
as slick as a snowslide, and there ain’t a ‘and’old in
sight. She’s too wide to bridge.” She eyed Jon-Tom
thoughtfully. “You’re long enough to do it, Jonny-
Tom, but we’ve no way to get you up there.”
THE MOMENT OF THE MAOICIAM
269
“We had best find some way out,” said Opiode.
This skul! is fresh.” Everyone shuffled about uneasily.
“Doesn’t mean a lot,” said Domurmur. “One of
Markus’s latest victims, no doubt.”
“No doubt,” agreed Opiode readily. “The question
is, if the victinvis a recent one, who or what has so
efficiently removed the flesh from the bone?” Faint
light glinted off his bulging eyes as he searched the
darkness.
“If I only had my duar,” Jon-Tom was muttering.
“I might be able to sing up a ladder or rope or
something. If only we—”
‘. He was interrupted by noise from above. Voices,
and the blare of ceremonial trumpets.
“Everyone, get back from the opening and keep
quiet!’* Opiode ordered them. They spread out quickly.
Sounds of a scuffle overhead, another blare of
trumpets, and then a horrible high-pitched scream
– that increased rapidly in volume. It stopped abruptly
t when something struck the stone floor with a wet,
sickening thud. The object bounced once and then
lay still.
The sounds from above went away. Jon-Tom leaned
cautiously into the light and saw nothing. Slowly, the
refugees gathered around the thing that had been
‘thrown down the well.
It was a small macaque, no more than four feet
tall. A torn white lace ruffle ringed the neck above a
green-and-blue jersey which was tucked into dark
green shorts of bright snakeskin- Gold embroidery
decorated the sleeves, and a belt of thin gold links
circled the narrow waist-
The neck was twisted at an unnatural angle. One
arm lay bent straight up behind the spine. Open eyes
stared toward the well.
“Died instantly,” commented .Opiode softly. “Neck
broke when he hit. Poor fellow.”
270 Aim Dean foster
Cascuyom pushed his way to the fore. “1 know
him. That is the honorable Jestutia.”
“Yes, I know him also.” Selryndi bent over the
body. ‘”One of our most respected citizens.” He^ glanced
up toward the top of the shaft. “Markus must be
feeling very confident, to begin murdering such promi-
nent individuals.”
“Quiet, be quiet!” That was Mudge, snapping at
them from somewhere far off to the left.
“Listen, otter, one of our colleagues and friends
has just been foully slain, and I see no reason to—”
“Shut up, nut-eater, or I’ll stuff that tail of yours
down your throat,” His voice dropped an octave.
“There’s somethin’ else in ‘ere with us.”
A chill raced down jon-Tom’s back. Something
had removed the meat from that first skull. “Mudge,
we checked out…”
“There’s another tunnel over ‘ere, mates. A big
one. And there’s somethin’ in it, and I think *tis
startin’ to move.”
“You are trying to frighten us,” Selryndi said
nervously.
“Oh, why sure, now, that’s it, guv’nor,” said Mudge
sarcastically. “I’ve got nothin’ better to do than make
up scary stories, right?” He rejoined them and put a
hand on the squirrel’s back. ” ‘Ow about you go and
‘ave a looksee over there, guv, and prove me out 10
be the liar you say I am.” Selryndi’s feet dug into the
floor.
“Listen, all of you,” Memaw urged them- Mudge
and Selryndi quit squabbling as something scraped
against distant stones. This was followed by a heavy
wheeze. Wind from another tunnel, Jon-Tbm thought-
Or something waking up.
Unconsciously, everyone retreated toward the drain-
age tunnel. “What do the old legends say about
this?” Jon-Tom asked the wizard.
THB MOMENT OF THE MAG/CMN 271
“Nothing,” came Opiode’s whispered reply. “There
is not supposed to be anything down here. This is
the place of the dead.”
Chunk! Gravel shifted underfoot, followed by a vast
exhaling and an odor like burning charcoal. Quoriy
clung to Miidge’s arm.
“Tis comin’ this way!”
“Stay still, don’t let it know we’re afraid,” Mudge
told her, trying to edge behind Memaw and Sasswise.
Optode raised a hand and muttered something
under his breath, but it had no effect on whatever
shared the chamber with them. It was moving nearer.
“It is no use- I am still constrained from working
magic by the spell Markus laid upon me. 1 cannot
break free.”
“Get ready to run for the tunnel,” Memaw told
them. It lay close at hand, but it would take time for
all of them to crowd inside the narrow opening, and
a sudden rush ran the risk of stirring to action
whatever was coming toward them.
There was a brief explosion of flame in the darkness,
accompanied by a thick acrid smell. Then a low
growl, rich and throaty.
“Try singin’ somethin*, matel” Mudge urged Jon-
Tom.
“But 1 haven’t got the duar.”
“Try anyway, mate. Try somethin’l”
“Sasswise,” said Memaw, “you, Flutz, and I will try
to divert its attention while the others file into the
tunnel. The rest of you prepare yourselves.” The
otters scrambled to salvage old bones, rocks, any-
thing that might be used as a weapon.
Jon-Tom began to sing. He had no plan in mind,
no brilliant ideas, and he was certain the magic
wouldn’t happen without the duar’s music, but he
had to try. If nothing else, it might concentrate the
thing’s attention on him while the others fled into
Alan Dean Porter
272
the tunnel. The first notes trembled, but his voice
steadied as he sang on. He could hear his companions
rushing for the tunnel entrance,
An immense outline turned toward him -.. and
hesitated. Mudge called out to him.
“That’s it, mate! Keep singin’. ‘Tis workin!”
It couldn’t be, Jon-Tom thought. There was no
magic without the duar, none, no way! It couldn’t be
working.
Yet there was no question of it: the thing had
halted in its leisurely approach,
A thunderous whisper filled the chamber then.
“Jon-Tom.”
“Blimey,” muttered Splitch, “it knows ‘im!”
“It knows the spellsinger,” Opiode observed aloud.
“Spellsinger,” the voice echoed in the darkness.
Jon-Tom squinted, trying to see in the poor light
as he took a reluctant step forward.
A blast of fire erupted over his head- Screams
came from the otters and the Quorum members as
they rushed in panic for the tunnel, running into
each other and stumbling over the bones on the
floor. But Jon-Tom didn’t move. The fire had passed
over him. Nor had it been directed at any of his
companions. It had been aimed ceilmgward, to gen-
erate light and not destruction.
The instant of brilliant illumination hurt his eyes,
but not so badly that he couldn’t recognize its source.
“Comrade Falameezar,” he asked hesitantly, “is that
you?”
XVI
A great clawed hand descended and picked Jon-Tom
off the floor. He could feel the thick, leathery mem-
brane that ran between the fingers. The hand lifted
him until it paused in front of a mouth full of
curving teeth. A single puff could incinerate him in
a second, sizzle his bones and melt his flesh. There
was heat and the smell of brimstone, but no hint of
cremation.
“It is you, Falameezar! I’ll be damned.”
“We are all damned, comrade Jon-Tom,” said the
dragon somberly. “What are you doing here?”
Jon-Tom sat down on the slick, scaly palm and
turned to his triends. “It’s okay. He’s a friend. This is
comrade Falameezar, a good proletarian.”
“What is the man talking about?” Memaw asked
Mudge.
The otter strode boldly out into the chamber. “We
know this bloke, we do, ‘E ‘elped us once before, on
our way to Polastrindu. Though wot ‘e’s doin’ ‘ere I’ll
be buggered if I know.” He looked back into the
tunnel, which was filled with anxious faces. “Everyone,
’tis all right. You can come out. Only,” he added
more quietly, “wotever you do, don’t say anythin’
about makin’ money.” He fought to recall some of
273
Alan Dean Poster
274
the confusing but effective conversations Jon-Tom
had held with the river dragon as it had carried
them up the river Tailaroam toward far Polastrindu
not so very long ago. The dragon was. – – what had
Jon-Tom called it?… a Marked Met. No, something
more compact. Marxist, yeah, that was it. The drag-
on was a Marxist, whatever that was.
But he was certainly sensitive about it. Dedicated,
Jon-Tbm had called him. Mudge knew better. The
dragon was nuts.
He spoke to his friends as they hesitantly emerged
from hiding. “Just act collective,” he told them.
“What does that mean?” Memaw asked him.
” ‘Ow the ‘ell do I know? Just make sure everybody
does it.”
Jon-Tbm was patting the dragon on the snout.
“Comrade Falameezar, it appears we are to be com-
panions in misfortune.”
“So it would seem.” The dragon set him down
gently, then looked around and opened his mouth.
Another blast of flame spewed forth. The members
of the Quorum cowered against the nearest wall. but
Opiode and the otters edged forward.
Falameezar’s well-aimed blast set a huge pile of
debris on fire. It burned fitfully at best but provided
enough light for everyone to see ctearly for the first
time since they’d fled from their cell. They gathered
around while the dragon lay down on his belly, crossed
his arms, and rested his head against them.
“How did you get here?” Jon-Tom asked him.
“I wasn’t having much luck trying to raise the
consciousness of the masses who live on the shores of
the Tailaroam,” the dragon explained, “so 1 deter-
mined to try to find a group of the oppressed who
were more receptive.
“I’d heard much of this land, where the lakes are
large and the fish plentiful. So I made my way here
TffB MOJttEiVT OF TaE MAOICIAS
275
and, surely enough, found the workers badly in need
of organizing.” He sighed and a puff of smoke drifted
ceilingward. “But as so often seems to happen, the
people here were reluctant to listen to me”
“Can’t imagine why,” Quorly whispered.
“So I decideokthis time to try to convert the heads
of state instead of the people.”
“Uh-oh,” said Jon-Tom.
“Precisely, comrade. 1 allowed myself to be de-
ceived by the honeyed words of the local ruler, a
strange human very different from yourself.”
“Markus the Ineluctable.”
“Yes. I did not know at first that he had deposed
the rightful rulers of this place, nor that he was a
powerful magician as well as a disgusting fascist
whose only aim is the exploitation of the masses for
personal gain. But by the time I learned all this he
had rendered me sleepy. I vaguely remember being
brought to the large room above. The floor was
removed and I was dropped down here, and then
walled up.
“I’ve tried to break out but the stone is solid and
thick. It will not burn. So here I have remained,
trapped by this evil imperialist. He does feed me
well. though. The trumpet calls me when a meal is
ready.” Falameezar moved his head and sniffed at the
body of Jestutia. “A banker this time. Markus is
clever. He has learned that I will only eat capitalists.”
“I’m surprised at you.” Jon-Tom said accusingly.
“Even a banker can be converted to the cause of the
people.”
“Not if he’s dead.” The dragon sniffed again. “Yes,
a dead banker. I’m sure of it- I hate bankers, you
know. Filthy robber-barons.”
Near the back wall Newmadeen was hurriedly
going through her pockets. Like the recently de-
ceased macaque, she was also in the business of
Alan Dean Poster
276
lending money. Until now she’d never had reason to
regret it. Fortunately, Falameezar was too involved in
conversation with his newfound friends to do any
serious sniffing, and she was able to unburden her-
self of money, notes, and assorted usurious I.O.U.’s.
“Besides,” he was saying, “a dragon has to eat.” He
extended his long neck and snapped up the unfortu-
nate Jestutia in a single bite, chewed noisily.
” *Ere now,” murmured Sasswise, looking at New-
madeen, “this one’s gone and fainted.”
Falameezar noticed it, too, sniffed curiously as he
chewed. “What’s wrong with your companion? If I
didn’t know better I’d …”
Jon-Tom hurried to distract the dragon. “It’s the
air down here. These are the legitimate rulers of
Quasequa, by the way. They have no more love for
Markus than you. They constitute the legitimate, uh,
soviet that the magician has deposed.”
“I did not realize that this government was so
advanced,” Falameezar replied in surprise.
“They’re working on it,” Jon-Tom assured him.
“Aren’t you?”
“Yes, yes, yes!” The conscious members of the
Quorum managed to reply with enthusiasm, if a bit
too quickly.
Falameezar looked pleased. “It is good to have
right-thinking company in such sad circumstances-
As it is good to see my old comrade again. You, too,
Mudge. even if you did express the occasional reac-
tionary thought.” The otter allowed himself to be
stroked by a single swordlike talon.
“If only I could get ahold of my duar,” Jon-Tom
mumbled. “Markus hasn’t placed any anti-magic spells
on me.”
“That is so,’* admitted Opiode. “I would have
sensed it if he had.”
TUB MOMEATT Or THE MAGICIAM 277
“Then there’s only one thing left to try.” He started
toward the tunnel. “I have to go back to our cell.”
“You’re jokin’, mate.” ‘
“No, Mudge. It’s the only .way. I’ve got an idea.
Mudge, will you and Quorly come back with me?”
“Count on me, Jenny-Tom,” she replied. Her ready
agreement made Mudge’s acquiescence a foregone
conclusion.
“I’ll be back in a little while, Falameezar”
“Good luck, comrade.”
“Just a minute.” Men-law stepped in front of Jon-
Tom as he bent to enter the tunnel. She looked
significantly past him. “What do we talk about with
the dragon?”
“Anything you can think of. He likes to chat- The
last weather we saw outside, jokes… Falameezar’s
great with jokes. Simple things. Just make sure no-
body talks about how rich they’d like to be. Fame you
can talk about, but not fortune. Tell him how much
you all despise the capitalist bosses.”
“What are those?”
“Never mind. Just do it. It’ll please him.”
Memaw was still reluctant to let him leave. “What
are you going to do, work some strange magic on
our behalf?” He nodded. “But I thought you told us
you required your duar in order to work magic.”
“There’s magic, and then there’s magic.” He winked
at her, then bent and began gathering bones. As
many as he could carry. He directed Mudge and
Quorly to do likewise.
“Oi, it works better when you use the duar, mate.
There’s less to carry.” Staggering beneath his grue-
some burden, he followed Quorly and Jon-Tom into
the tunnel.
Making their way through the narrow tube had
been difficult enough with their hands free. With the
armfuls of bones it was twice as hard. But the otters
Aim Dean Foster
278
never complained, and Jon-Tom was damned if he
was going to be the one to call for a rest.
Eventually they found themselves beneath the en-
trance to their cell. They dumped their loads. Mudge
went up Jon-Tom’s back as lithely as he would have a
tree, and listened.
“Dead quiet, mate. They ‘aven’t checked on us
since we took our little walk. No need to, really.
Wasn’t likely we’d be goin’ anywhere, now, was it?”
“Move those stones and let’s get up there.”
“Right, mate, but you’d better know wot you’re
about.”
“You’ll understand soon enough.”
Sure enough, once their cargo had been arranged
according to his instructions, Mudge knew just what
his lanky, furless friend had in mind.
“What was that?” The javelina turnkey spoke to
the fennec seated across the table. The fennec’s
oversized ears immediately cocked sideways.
“Beats me. 1 heard it too.” He put aside his
handful of odd triangular cards and shouted toward
the stairway. “You prisoners be quiet or you won’t get
your next ration of slop!”
The eerie moaning which had interrupted their
game grew louder.
“Don’t sound like the otters,” said the javelina,
cleaning a nail on one upthrust tusk. He then used
it to strip the bark from a piece of cane, stuck the
clean pulp in his mouth and chewed thoughtfully.
When the moaning continued he put down his cards,
careful not to reveal them to his companion, and
issued an irritated grunt-
“We’d better see what’s going on down there.”
“Maybe they’re killing each other.”
“They’d better not be. Thomrack himself ordered
me to make sure they stay healthy until the new
magician decides what’s to be done with them.”
THB MOMENT or THE MAGICIAN 279
He took a three-foot-long knife off the wall. The
fennec opted for a long spear. This was excellent for
poking at prisoners through bqrs.
Each grabbed a torch as they started down the
stairs. Soon they were on the lower level, staring
through the bars^of the big cell. Staring hard.
“By the curl in my grandmother’s tail!” the stunned
javelina muttered. “What’s happened to them?” His
initial irritation had turned to panic.
“Dead,” moaned a quavering voice from the back
of the cell, “they’re all deeeaddd.”
“What do you mean, all dead?” the fennec stuttered
as he struggled to locate the speaker. The voice
responded with a moan.
“Open it up,” he told the turnkey. The javelina
nodded, used his keys and then his hands to swing
the huge grate slightly ajar. Hefting the long knife,
he entered cautiously while the fennec waited by the
door in case any of the prisoners tried to make a
break for it-
No one did. There was no one in the cell.
Except… in the farthest corner he found the tall
man sitting with his back against the wall. His hands
half covered his face, and he was shaking in terror.
“What’s the matter with you?” The turnkey’s eyes
roamed the deserted darkness nervously. “Where are
the rest of them?”
“The wizard, it was the wizard who did it,” Jon-
Tom moaned feebly. He gestured with a shaky hand.
“Pid it to all of them.”
“Did what?” The javelina’s blunt muzzle twitched
as he followed the pointing Fingers.
A substantial pile of white bones lay nearby, heaped
up in a jumble against the wall. Had the turnkey
taken the time to look closely he might have seen
that none of the skeletons belonged to otters, or a
salamander, or a pangolin, but to entirely different
Al«n Dean Foster
280
species. It might not have mattered anyway. His
knowledge of anatomy was pretty much restricted to
knowing where the best place to stick a knife was.
**By the Ovens of Suranis!” he whispered fearfully.
“What is it, where are all the prisoners?” The
fennec stuck his head into the cell, trying to see.
“Gone, all gone. Nothing left of them except their
bones.” The javelina swung his torch to illuminate as
much of the cell as possible, “What manner of sor-
cery is this?”
“He did it. The salamander did it,”
“Old Opiode?”
“Yes, yes, the slimy one! He said he was tired of
this, tired of everyone and everything, and he did
this. Only I was s-s-spared.”
“A spell was put on him to prevent him from
working magic. The new wizard did that himself. We
were told,” the javelina insisted.
“I know, I know, but the slimy one struck a bargain
with the creatures of the dark, and now he’s going to
do that to all who oppose him.” Jon-Tom pointed
toward the pile of bones- “1 saw, 1 saw him do it. He
made the flesh run like butter from their bones.
made it melt and drip…”
The fennec couldn’t stand it anymore. His mind
told him there was only one live prisoner left in the
cell and his curiosity was killing him. He held his
spear in front of him as he entered.
“What’s this garbage this fool’s saying?” he asked
the turnkey.
“Look, they’re all dead,” stuttered the javelina. He
pointed at the bones. “The wizard Opiode killed
them. A great sorcery.” There was fear in his voice
now.
“1 don’t know about that,” muttered the fennec,
“but we’d belter tell Thomrack.” He started backing
toward the exit,
THB MOMEWT OF THE MAGJC&W
281
As he did so, Mudge and Quorly dropped from
the crevices in the ceiling where they’d been hiding
and flailed away at the guards with the leg bones
they’d been holding in their teeth. The javelina
[, dropped his long knife, the man he’d been question-
ing underwent-a miraculous transformation, and in
seconds both guards lay dead on the floor of the cell.
Mudge netted the fennec’s spear while Quoriy
helped herself to the knife from his belt. “Now, that,”
Mudge said with ghoulish satisfaction, “is wot I calls
magic!” He kicked the javeiina in the side.
“I’m sorry we had to kill them,” Jon-Tom murmured.
“I don’t like unnecessary slaughter.”
“Oi, but this were necessary slaughter,” Quoriy
observed. She glanced at Mudge. “Wot is ‘e. squeam-
ish or somethin’?’*
“Or somethin*, luv, but don’t ‘old it against *un.”
They crept out of the cell and started up the stairs.
No one challenged them when they entered the
deserted guard room, where they helped themselves
to handfuls of weapons. Thus equipped, they took
the place apart searching for Mudge’s bow and Jon-
Tom’s duar.
“No luck,” grumbled Mudge as he finished exca-
vating the last cabinet. “Maybe further up. I thought
I saw a barred storeroom on our right when they
| were bringin’ us down ‘ere.”
Jon-Tom nodded. They climbed to the next level.
Where they found the storeroom Mudge remem-
bered. They also saw a pudgy but alert hare standing
in front of the half-open door.
At the same time, the rabbit saw them and turned
to slam the door shut. Mudge threw his spear and
the swinging grate slammed against it. The guard
did manage a piercing scream before Quoriy could
cut his throat. Nothing can scream like a dying hare.
“Shit!” Quoriy snapped, her eyes going immediately
Aim Dean roster
282
\
to the stairwell leading upward. “That’ll bring ’em
down on us in a minute. I’ll watch while you and
Mudgey get your stuff.”
Jon-Tom rushed into the storeroom. Tossed indif-
ferently on a pile of spears was his ramwood staff.
He grasped it like an old friend’s proffered hand.
But where was the duar?
“Right, mate, let’s go.”
He turned. Mudge stood waiting nearby. His quiv-
er of arrows and longbow were slung against his
back. and he was staggering beneath a load of metal
and rock. Long links of gold coins were draped
across his chest like bandoliers while necklaces of
pearls and gems hung from his neck and wrists. His
arms were full of gem-encrusted plates and goblets.
Two tiaras rested askew on his crushed cap.
“Mudge, what the hell are you doing?”
The otter blinked, then looked embarrassed. He
dropped his heavy load. Coins and gems went rolling
across the floor.
“Sorry, mate. For a minim there 1 kind o’ forgot
where we are.” Reluctantly, he unburdened himself
of the rest of the treasure. “Couldn’t we maybe take
just a wee bit with us?”
“No, we could not.” Jon-Tom snapped angrily.
“Will you two kindly get your arses in gear?”
Quorly’s shout reached them along with pounding
footsteps from the stairs. There was a startled squeal
and a four-foot-tall armored hedgehog went sprawling
into the room, bleeding from a stab wound in the
belly. “I can’t hold this lot off forever.”
Jon-Tom turned to search the room, but Mudge
spun him around. The otter’s eyes were wide as he
pointed, not into the storeroom, but across the floor.
“There she is, mate!”
Jon-Tom fairly flew across the stones toward the
crackling fireplace. He ignored the heat and the
THE MOJOBVT OF THE MAOICIAH
283
cinders as he yanked the priceless duar from the top
of the fire. It was blackened in a couple of spots, but
the strings were intact and so was the body. He
tested it, was rewarded with a familiar mellow ring.
“That,” he gulped, “was too close.” He tried the
tremble and mass controls. Everything worked. A
slight shudder went through the paving stones as the
music filled the room. “Let’s get out of herel”
Only the fact that the stairwell was so narrow had
enabled Quorly to hold off the guards. Mudge glee-
fully went to work with his longbow, and in a couple
of minutes the passage was blocked by the bodies of
the fallen. Those guards who hadn’t been shafled
retreated.
• “That ought to ‘old the bastards,” Mudge said with
satisfaction.
They plunged down the stairs, for the moment
pursued only by confused shouts and angry cries.
Jon-Tom had thoughtfully requisitioned the unfortu-
nate javelina’s keys. Now he used them to lock the
cell from the inside. Arrows flashed past him. The
guards had finally managed to bring up archers of
their own.
Jon-Tom tossed the keys into the hole in the floor
and followed them down.
“Wot about puttin’ the stones back in place?” Quorly
, asked as she fell on top of him and slid off to one
side.
“Take too much time,” he told her. “They saw us
come in here. As soon as they get the door open, the
first thing they’ll do is start checking the walls and
the floor.” He started running down the tunnel,
cursing as he bumped against the unyielding ceiling
while trying to juggle his burden of staff, duar, and
extra weapons.
They weren’t halfway back to the well chamber
when excited yells sounded behind them. Some of
Alan Dean Footer
284
Jon-Tom’s initial confidence evaporated and he tried
to run faster, but it was hard to speed up in the
confines of the tunnel.
“I didn’t think they’d follow us down here,” he
yelled to his companions.
“I imagine they figure they can follow anyplace we
can go, mate.”
“You go on ahead. I’ll catch up.”
“Now wot kind o’ cowards do you think we are?”
Mudge replied, outraged. “Do you think that after
all we’ve been through together, you and I, ‘avin’
come all this ways, that I’d for a minute think o’
leavin’ you behind to get your behind shot off? Wot
do you take me for?”
Jon-Tom was gasping for breath now but still couldn’t
keep from replying. “There’s also the fact that unless
I can manage to do something with this duar, we’ll
all likely never get out of here.”
“Well, yeah, that ‘ad occurred to me, too,” Mudge
confessed –
Jon-Tom grinned, though he knew the otter couldn’t
see him. “Glad to hear it. For a second I thought the
dampness might’ve addled your brain.”
“Now, mate, you do old Mudge an injustice.” But
the otter didn’t complain very strongly.
Meanwhile their pursuit continued to gain ground
on them. Occasionally a flicker of light from closing
torches would reach the refugees, spurring them to
run still faster. The tunnel seemed to have stretched
in their absence, lengthening like a rubber tube. The
only advantage they possessed was the assurance of
knowing their destination.
Even so, by the time the faint circle of light that
marked the entrance to the well chamber appeared
ahead, the guards were near enough for Jon-Tom to
pick out individual voices. The three of them stum-
bled into the room, tripping and spilling weapons in
THB MOMENT OF THS MAOICIAM 889
all directions. The otters grabbed them up and waited
tfor whatever might come.
Jon-Tom rolled over, discovered a pair of crossbow
bolts protruding from the back of his cape. Once
again he’d been saved by the thick leather. He plucked
them out as several guards emerged from the tunnel
mouth, only to find themselves confronted by not
three but more than a dozen armed opponents.
Thornrack struggled to catch his breath, held his
sword over his head. “All right, you’ve had your fun.
You’ve led us a hard chase, but that’s over now.” He
glared around until he located Jon-Tom- “We’ll see
how well you run with your calf muscles cut.”
At that point Falameezar lifted his head, closed
^one eye, and spat. A small globe of very intense
flame struck the jaguar’s sword, which melted like
taffy. Eyes bulging at the immense outline which was
slowly rising behind the otters, Thornrack dropped
the glowing metal and bolted for the tunnel. He ran
into the guards who were clustered thickly behind
him.
Falameezar sighted and went poof with his lips.
Thornrack’s tail burst into flame, and he redoubled
his efforts to push past his own troops. They could
hear ‘him cursing and screaming halfway back through
the tunnel.
*T don’t think we’ll have any more trouble from
that direction,” observed Jon-Tom dryly.
“No,” agreed Opiode, dampening their euphoria,
“but he will report what has happened back to Markus,
and you can be certain the magician vail do something-
There are only two openings to this room: the tunnel
and the mouth of the old well above us. Both could
easily be plugged- We could be sealed in here to
starve or suffocate, and no magic would be required
to accomplish those ends. Somehow we must get out
Alan Dean Foster
286
before Markus has time to react to our escape.”
Those salamander-slick eyes turned to Jon-Tom.
“Clothahump must have had confidence in you to
send you by yourself in response to my request. If
you are any kind of spellsinger, you must free us
from this prison now. Even a wizard needs room to
maneuver, and we have none of that here.”
*”E’s right, mate. We got your bloomin’ music box
back. Now show ’em wot you can do!”
Every eye turned to him. He was glad it was dark
so they couldn’t see how nervous he was- A song—
what would be the right song?
johnny Cash’s “Fol&om Prison Blues” created no
openings -in the stone walls, nor did any song of
prisons or chain gangs. He started to sweat despite
the coolness. Mudge sat down, looking resigned.
He’d been through this before. Opiode looked disap-
pointed and the rest of the party confused. It hurt
Jon-Tom’s recall, though his playing was as smooth
as ever.
“Wot’s wrong?” Quorly leaned over Mudge and
snuggled close. “Nothin’s ‘appenin’.”
Mudge ran fingers lightly over her fur. tt Tis just
the way it works sometimes. ‘E’s a spellsinger for
sure, but ‘e’s still new to ‘is profession and don’t quite
*ave the *ang o’ it quite. Sometimes the magic works
and sometimes it don’t. And sometimes you just ‘ave
to be patient.”
“I’ll try,” she murmured worriedly, “but Opiode
said we didn’t have a lot of time.”
Jon-Tom sang until he began to grow hoarse, and
still the singing produced no results. Only a few idle
gneechees, who didn’t hang around long enough for
him to finish a single tune.
More to cheer himself than out of any hope of
doing anything, he launched into a spirited ren-
THE MOMEWT OP TBB MAQSCIAS
287
dition of Def Lepard’s “Rock of Ages.” StBl no magical
escape hatches appeared, no stairways or corridors.
He got something else, though. ^
The otters stirred. Awed whispers rose from die
Quorum members. Opiode’s eyes narrowed, and he
stroked his chin as he tried to analyze the meaning
of this bizarre conjuration. Powerful sorcery it was,
but of what kind, and what could it portend?
Only Mudge knew the origin of the shifting, glow-
ing shapes that had appeared and now danced glee-
fully around the spellsinger’s feet. He knew because
he’d encountered them once before.
“Wot did you call ’em, mate?” he asked softly,
staring along with the others.
The duar continued to produce thunderous, ring-
ing chords. “Geolks,” Jon-Tom shouted at him, “but
what are we going to do with them?”
XVII
The exquisite phosphorescent worm-forms continued
to multiply, until they occupied much of the floor
and most of the walls. They twisted and flowed
through the stone in a peculiar cadence all their
own, sometimes in time to the rhythm of the duar,
sometimes in time to one utterly alien. The chamber
was alive with living rainbows.
Jon-Tom concluded a brazen chorus, kept playing
as he spoke. “Hello! Do you remember me?”
“It is good to see you again, music-maker.’* The
speaker might have been the same one who’d con-
versed with Jon-Tom back among the karst pinnacles
in the Wrounipai, or it might have been another.
There was no way of knowing for certain- Color was
no clue. “Singing still, we see.”
“Yes, but not freely. We’re trapped in this place.”
He tried to alter the melody subtly, to substitute his
words for Lepard’s lyrics. “Trapped in this awful
dark place.”
“Awful? What is the difference between one vacu-
um and another?” the worm asked him.
“Freedom of movement. Something you take for
granted. Can you help us out of here? I’ll play
whatever you like for as long as you want if you’ll just
288
THB MOKEWT W TOS MAQICIAM
289
help us get out of here. There’s an opening higher
up. Can you make something we can climb?”
“What is ‘climb’?” inquired a coolly curious geolk.
The other prisoners looked on in mesmerized silence.
“What is ‘out’? We like your emptiness but your
movements concern us not.”
There had to be something they could do, he
thought desperately. What could the geolks do? They
could move freely through solid rock, come and go
as they pleased and…
They could make earthquakes.
“Find a crack in this wall… in the rock that sur-
rounds us. Link together as I saw you do before. Feel
the music.”
“Nothing to do with us,” the geolks insisted distantly.
“To tremor we have to work together, and right now
we do not feel like working together.”
“Don’t feel like working together?” a new voice
said. Jon-Tom continued to sing while trying simul-
taneously to quiet Falameezar, but the dragon’s politi-
cal consciousness was up and he refused to be shushed.
If anything, he looked inspired.
“Leave this to me, comrade. This is a matter of
organization”
“But you don’t understand, Falameezar,” Jon-Tom
said desperately. “These aren’t your usual folks. They
won’t—”
“Workers of the world, arise!” Falameezar bellowed.
“Join together in solidarity and nothing can stop
you!”
“Nothing can stop us now,” a bright blue geolk
replied. “And we are not workers.”
Falameezar would have none of it, continued to
lambast the glowing shapes with the profoundest
barrage of Marxist rhetoric Jon-Tom had ever heard.
It made absolutely no sense to him, but it seemed to
hypnotize the geolks.
Alan Dean Foster
290
“Make Vladimir Ilyich proud of you,” Falameezar
rumbled. “Show the world what true collective action
can do!”
Whether it was Jon-Tom’s music or the dragon’s
rhetoric or a combination of both, the geolks started
to line up on the far wall, twisting and curling
against one another.
“Get back, everybody,” Mudge warned the onlookers.
“And don’t be surprised no matter wot ‘appens. Be
ready” He grinned at his friend the spellsinger. “Bugger
me for a blue-eyed bandicoot if I don’t think we’re
gettin’ out o* ‘ere!”
Still the geolks continued to gather, until the oppo-
site wall of the well chamber was alive with blinding
light- Jon-Tom had to close his eyes to shut out the
intense glow.
Falameezar roared something about the worker’s
imperative at the same time that Jon-Tom and his
duar thundered out the opening words of Quiet
Riot’s “Cum On Feel the Noize.” The earth trembled
as the huge rope of geolks convulsed. The concus-
sion knocked Jon-Tom off his feet, and even Falameezar
was tossed sideways.
His head rattling, he tried to keep playing, tried to
do it as fluidly as Jimi or Robin Trower or Eddie van
Halen would have. Finally he had to stop because the
dust in his nostrils was choking him.
He opened his eyes to a different kind of light,
The geolks were gone, and so was much of the far
wall. Light washed over the bottom of the well be-
cause the right side of the roof had collapsed. In
place of wall and roof was a pile of rubble that
reached all the way to the main floor above.
Falameezar shoved his way clear of the talus. “Free!
Free from the imperialist neo-colonialist yoke!” He
started pawing up the steep slope. “Where is he, lead
me to him!”
THE MOMENT OF TUB MAGICIAN 291
“Easy, easy, comrade!” Jon-Tom struggled to catch
up to the angry dragon- “If he sees you, he’ll only
put you to sleep again.”
“No, he will not,” said Falameezar decisively. “The
people are awake to reality now, and not4ing can put
them to sleep again.” Flame and smoke billowed
from his jaws. ^’I’ll reduce the fascist dictator to a
cinder.” He started climbing again.
“Don’t underestimate him!” Jon-Tom shouted
up at the dragon, but to no avail. Falameezar
wasn’t dumb, but he was more than a litde impulsive,
especially when the revolutionary fever was on
him.
Shouts sounded from the floor above, and they
found themselves looking up at Markus’s guards.
Their expressions were more than a little fearful as
they stared down into the gaping hole that had
materialized practically under their feet. If that
wasn’t enough to send them running, the sight of
Falameezar climbing rapidly toward them finished
the job. The floor cleared with gratifying swift-
ness.
“He’ll keep the sohders busy,” Jon-Tom muttered,
“but I’ll have to handle Markus. Somehow.”
“You can do it. mate. You’re the only one who
can,” Mudge said.
Jon-Tom looked grim. “Maybe I can convince the
geolks to concentrate in his spine. Hell, we’ll get him!
I just managed a Marxist earthquake, didn’t I?” He
looked past the otter, waved to the others. “All right,
let’s go!”
Yelling and barking enthusiastically, the otters
followed him up the slope. Opiode and the Quorum
members trailed at a discreet distance. They were
administrators, not fighters.
Falameezar was searching the intact part of the big
room, hunting for fascists. Occasionally a guard or
Alan Dean Foster
292
two would peer through a doorway, Only to be sent
fleeing by a ferocious blast of flame. Falameezer
launched into a spirited rendition of the “Internation-
ale.” He was out of tune and had the words aU wrong,
but Jon-Tom wasn’t about to correct him. The scaly
Marxist was having too good a time incinerating
capitalist dupes.
“We’ve got to Find Markus as fast as possible,
before he can get his wits together. Fatameezar will
keep his guards occupied.” He looked at Trendavi,
the deposed premier. “Can you show us the way to
his tower?”
The aged pangolin nodded. “Without fail, my
friends.” He led them through a still-standing door.
Occasionally they encountered some of Markus’s
guards, but while the otters were usually outanned
and outweighed, they were never intimidated. Guards
broke and ran without Fighting. No doubt word of
the escape was already racing through the Quorumate,
and no solider wanted to risk the chance of encounter-
ing a bunch of hyperkinetic fanatics who might be
backed up by a Fire-breathing, if somewhat verbose,
dragon.
“This way,” Trendavi told them, turning to his left.
Then they were outside, on the parapet Jon-Tom
had been marched across not so long ago, racing
toward Markus’s sanctuary.
“He has outsmarted himself,” Opiode commented
as they slowed. The members of the Quorum were
near collapse from the run, but not. the salamander.
His eyes glittered. “None can approach from three
sides, but by the same token there is only this way
out.”
“I’m going in,” Jon-Tom told them. “The rest of
you stay behind me”
“I was about to suggest that meself,” said Mudge.
They rushed forward. There was no sign of the
TUB MOMEWT Of THE MAGJCIAJf 293
two armed lions who had flanked the entrance when
Jon-Tom had been brought here before.
Actually, now that the final confrontation was at
hand, Jon-Tom wasn’t quite sure how to proceed. He
didn’t tell his companions that.
Attack. Always keep the opposition off balance.
That was how he’d been taught and that was what he
intended to do- The advice had come, not from a
class on warfare, but on courtroom procedure. Jon-
Tom didn’t see why it wouldn’t apply as well on the
battleField as in the courtroom.
Each inner door opened at their touch, until they
confronted a door-sized slab that did not. Instead of
moving aside, it leaned forward and growled. Black
leather armor gleamed in the torchlight. Prugg ges-
tured threateningly with his enormous club.
“You stop,” the bodyguard growled menacingly.
Frangel tried to dart past the bear. The club
descended with frightening speed and dented the
rock where the otter had been a split-second earlier.
Only Frangel’s exceptional quickness saved him. Any-
one slower than an otter would have been smashed
to pulp.
That was the signal for the rest of the band to
charge- Dodging Prugg’s lethal swings, they darted
all around him, poking and prodding with their
spears and swords while yelling encouragement to
each other-
“Get ‘im!… take ‘is bloomin* ‘ead off!… kill ‘imi… get
the ugly bastard down!”
“Knock ‘im over, tear ‘is throat out!” a solitary
voice yelled from behind Jon-Tom. The spellsinger
turned, tapped Mudge on the shoulder.
•/ “Kill? Tear his throat out?” he said dangerous-
ly-
Mudge put his paws behind his back and tried to
Aim Dean FoBter
294
smile. “1 was just sort o’ coverin’ our rear, mate.
Don’t want to be taken from behind, we don’t”
“Guarding our rear, my ass!”
*’0i, that’s wot 1 said, weren’t it?”
There were times when Jon-Tom could tolerate his
friend’s shameless displays ot cowardice. This wasn’t
one of them. Not with petite warriors like Sasswise
and Splitch fighting to make a path for him.
Actually, he went a little crazy.
“You rotten, smelly, no-good…!” Reaching down,
he grabbed Mudge by the tail and the ruff of his
neck. The otter’s feet bicycled through the air as he
fought to free himself.
“Hey, take it easy, mate!”
“Get in there and fight alongside your cousins,
damn you!”
Jon-Tom threw the Otter forward, harder than he
intended. He was too mad to judge his strength. To
his horror, Mudge performed a single somersault
and landed neatly on top of Prugg’s head. The
otter’s impact shoved the bear’s helmet down over
his eyes, temporarily blinding him. Seeing this, Quorly
lowered her head and charged underneath a deadly
but badly aimed swing to hit the bodyguard head-
first between pillarlike tegs. Prugg let out a low
grunt, bent over, and tried to find Mudge, who was
frantically retreating down the bear’s back. The club
fell to the floor.
Memaw, Knorckle, and Wupp immediately dropped
their own weapons in favor of the club. Turning the
business end toward their opponent, they rushed
forward at full speed, short legs churning, and made
loud contact with the leather helmet Mudge had so
recently abandoned. The impact sent them tum-
bling.
Prugg let out a strange low sigh and sort of keeled
THJB MOMEMT OF TUB UAOICIAM 29B
over, like a falling redwood. He hit the floor with a
muffled brrouummmf, out cold.
Jon-Tom and the others raced past while the club-
wielders tried to collect themselves.
The last door beckoned. Were they in time? Hadf
they moved fast enough? Or was Markus the Ineluc-
table waiting just inside, prepared to strike all of
them dead with whatever new evil he had drawn into
this world?
Jon-Tom pushed on the latch. Somewhat to his
surprise, the door was not locked. The otters crowd-
ed in around him.
At the far end of the Room, Markus the Ineluctable,
nee Markle Kratzmeier, sat waiting on his throne.
He looked different somehow. He’d straightened his
bow tie and his white shirt gleamed. He did not seem
particularly upset by the intrusion.
“Heard what was going on, kid. Didn’t think you’d
get this far. Congratulations.” He tried to see past
Jon-Tom, out into the hall, searching for his bodyguard.
“Sleeping,” Jon-Tom told him wolfishly. “My friends
here took care of that.”
“Let me at the bald bastard!” yelled Drortch. Jon-
Tom had to put out an arm to restrain her.
“This looks easy. 1 don’t think it’s going to be”
“No, it ain’t, kid.” said Markus quietly as he rose.
Standing there on the dais, silhouetted by torchlight,
he did not look anything like the cheap stage magi-
cian from Perth Amboy that he’d once been. There
was a dark radiance about his person, a palpable
aura of evil. It poured down from the throne to
cascade over the onlookers clustered in the doorway,
and several of the otters reflexively shrank back.
Markus stepped off the dais. He was wearing white
gloves now, Jon-Tom noticed, and his shoes had been
polished to a blinding sheen. Still brown, though.
Aim Dean Foster
296
The speUunger held his ground as the magician
raised his plastic wand.
“Oops.” Mudge did his own disappearing act,
retreating back behind the door.
Markus lowered the wand and smiled. “See how
fast your companions desert you.”
“They’re not deserting me,” Jon-Tom told him. He
turned and looked down at his friends. “All of you:
this is between Markus and me- Wait in the hall.”
Obediently, they filed out, leaving him with words of
encouragement and a promise to rush in no matter
what the danger should he call out to them.
“That takes care of my friends. Where are yours?”
Markus lost his smile. “Wise-ass. You’ll be sorry.”
He glanced at the duar. “So that’s what you’ve been
so keen to get your hands on. Weird-lookin’ gadget.”
jon-lbm let his fingers fall casually across the
duar’s strings. An explosive note Filled the room.
“Hey, pretty good trick!” Markus complimented
him. “Here’s one of mine”
He aimed the wand at Jon-Tom and mumbled
under his breath.
Jon-Tom prepared to duck or sing, as the attack
demanded. Instead he nearly brokq^out laughing. A
steady stream of brightly colored scarves emerged
from the magician’s sleeve. It was exactly the sort of
trick you’d expect to see someone like Markus per-
form at a neighborhood party.
Except that the scarves knotted themselves around
his ankles and began enveloping his legs, winding
steadily upward. Meanwhile the flow from the
magician’s sleeve showed no signs of slowing.
If he didn’t do something fast, in a couple of
minutes he’d look like a psychedelic mummy. But
what songs did he know about clothing? About scarves,
or ties? Suddenly the flood of silk didn’t seem so
THE MOMENT w THE MAOICIAH 297
funny. There was an old cartoon song about”*? Chi-
nese laundry… no, that wouldn’t work.
In desperation he tried some lyrics from Carole
Ring’s “Tapestry” album. The scarves quivered but
didn’t vanish. Instead^they began to unknot themselves*
fold up neatly, and stack in piles according to color
on the nearby table. They unwound from his thighs
and calves, then his ankles, until they were twisting
and folding and stacking themselves as quickly as
they emerged from Markus’s sleeve.
Furthermore, each one bore in its upper right-
hand corner the monogram JTM.
Markus frowned, lowered his arm. The silk assault
ceased. “You’re fast, kid. Not fast enough to make it
in Atlantic City. but pretty good for here.” This time
he raised both hands. “For this one we need an
assistant.”
Something began to coalesce in the space between
them. A faint silvery glow that drew shape as well as
substance from his wand-and Fingers. An hourglass
.outline traced in air.
It didn’t have fangs or talons. Jon-Tom was enrap-
tured by it.
She was tall, as tall as he was. Blond, alluring, clad
in. next to nothing.. She was walking toward him and
whispering through puckered, inviting lips; cajoling
him, tempting him. pleading with him.
“Please, can 1 have a volunteer from the audience?**
Jon-Tom found himself stumbling forward, a step
at a time. He couldn’t be certain, but he thought he
could see Markus through her. A single gold tooth
flashed in the magician’s mouth. He was smiling
again. ,
Somehow Jon-Tom retreated, though the effort
of will required to back away from that seductive
‘ vision was tremendous. And she was still coming
i toward him,, one perfect hand outstretched to lead
Alan Dean Foster
268
him, lead him up onto the stage. How could he resist
her? She was obviously so beautiful, so innocent, so
badly in need of this job.
He couldn’t resist her. But he could sing to her.
Sure, nothing wrong with that. What gentle, reassur-
ing ballad could he dedicate to her?
Hesitantly at first, then with growing strength, he
began to play “Killer Queen,”
The blond houri contorted as the first chords
filled the room. She shimmied and twisted in front
of him, though not the way he wanted her to shim-
my and twist. But as she spun he was able to see the
knife she clutched in her other hand. With a cry she
lunged at him. Maybe he should have raised the
duar to absorb the force of the blow, but he just kept
on singing, trying to match the notes perfectly, trying
to imitate Freddie Mercury as best he could.
The instant before the knife started to come down
toward his throat, it, the girl, and the conjuration
dissolved before his eyes like a lump of sugar in a
cup of hot tea. *
He blinked. Markus growled something vile and
looked past him, mumbling and gesturing with his
wand. His black cape stood out behind him even
though there was no wind in the room.
A snarl came from behind Jon-Tom, familiar and
yet alien to this place. The sound of the faceless
demons.
They leaped from their alcoves, their curved teeth
aiming for his face. He ducked the Fokker and ran
for cover behind a table as they soared and dove at
him, thirsting for his eyes. He knew nothing about
airplanes. The only tune he could remember that had
anything at all to do with Hying machines seemed
insufficient to counter the threat, but maybe it would
buy him some tune.
THE MOMKHT W THB UAOSCIAM
299
So he sang, ” ‘Up, up and awaaay. in my beautiful
balloon;” £”
They filled the room in an instant: hundreds of
1 them. Thousands, in all colors and shapes and sizes.
| Dozens of pops and/bangs made it sound like, the ,
Chinese New Year as Markus’s metallic demons dashed
through the brightly colored obstacles.
The Fokker’s wing brushed Jon-Tom’s scalp as it
shot over him. Its sharp propellor, the same one that
had nearly decapitated a raven named Pandro, was
entangled in a hundred strips of thin latex. It execut-
ed a Final desperate Immelmann turn before it crashed
into the wall behind him. A minute later the second
demon bounced off the floor and skidded to a halt,
its engine gasping and completely jammed by dozens
of broken balloons.
When the third and last demon flew out a window,
sputtering and wheezing as it plunged to its death in
the waters below, jon-Tom concluded his song, sent a
silent thank-you from the Fourth Dimension to the
Fifth, and waited while the balloons evaporated to
see what Markus might try next.
He didn’t look scared. Not yet. But neither did he
look quite as sure of himself-
“You were right, kid. You were right and I was
wrong. You’re not a punk. You know your stuff.
Maybe we should make a deal after all.” He started
toward the younger man. “Here, a peace offering:
okay? Better we work something out between us than
we keep trying to knock each other off.”
Jon-Tom eyed him suspiciously, but this time
Markus’s hand brought forth no homicidal houris,
no mechanical assassins. Just a simple bouquet of
flowers.
“Be more appropriate if you were a broad,” Markus
said, “but this is the best 1 can think of. Don’t flowers
Aim Dean FoBter
300
say it ail?** He waved the bouquet at his erstwhile
opponent.
Jon-Tom grinned, found himself nodding in
agreement. Only problem was, he didn’t want to
nod. Nodding he was, though. Maybe it was because
the Howers smelled so beautiful, so fresh and relaxing.
Relaxing. He hadn’t been able to relax in a long
time. The flowers told him it was okay to relax, to
take it easy. A wonderfully reassuring, cloying mias-
ma issued from the bouquet.
“That’s it, kid. It’s all over. Nothing else to fight
about. We’ll just kiss and make up. Hell, what’s there
to fight about? There’s plenty here for us to
shareeeeee….”
Somehow Jon-Tom backed away from that soporific
spiel, until his back was against the near wall and he
couldn’t retreat any further. Did he want to retreat?
The small part of him that hadn’t been drugged by
the bouquet’s aroma was frantic. Sing something! Sing
anything, the first thing that comes to mind, so long
as it has something to do with flowers!
Van Halen didn’t sing about flowers. Neither did
Men With Hats or Motley Crue or Godwanna. Blooms
and daisies weren’t the stuff heavy metal anthems
were made of.
Not every great new group was that heavy, though.
In fact, there was one…
He started to sing, amazed at how appropriate the
music was. So it would be better if he were a broad,
would it? Somehow that fit too.
This time he didn’t sing to Markus. He sang to the
bouquet. “‘Karma, karma, karma camelliaaa, you
come and go, you come and go, oh-oh-oh.'”
It was hard for him to duplicate Boy George’s
smooth, slightly buttery sound, but he managed, and
the duar spit out everything from the background
guitar to the harmonica solos. As Markus stared in
THE MOMENT or Tax MAGJCWT 301
I shock at his hypnotic handful of blossoma^they
began to depart in time to the lyrics. Their petals spin-
ning like the blades of tiny helicopters, they lifted
[from his fingers and, traveling neatly in single Hie,
|circled once around Jen-Tom’s head before flying off
gin perfect formation through the nearby high window.
| Leaving behind in Markus’s hand a paper cone
|,which concealed a five-inch-long stiletto.
t Markus stumbled away from the spellsinger, re-
I’treating back toward the throne- His hat was askew
^on his head, and he’d lost a couple of buttons off his
cheap white shirt. He looked less like Markus the
Ineluctable and more like a cheap bum.
“You’re through here, Markus,” Jon-Tom told him,
“Quit while you’re ahead, before 1 really gel into my
music. I^s over, finished.”
i’ Markus pulled himself together, seeming to draw
fresh strength from his proximity to the throne and
the power it represented. “You think so, kid? You
think I’ve had enough? Hell, I’ve just been playing
up till now. Kid stuff. 1 thought that would be
enough, but I was wrong. It’s over, all right, but not
for me. For you.”
His face was wild, his expression full of concentrat-
ed fury. Everything he’d built here, everything he’d
taken from a world he’d been pulled into against his
will, was slipping out of his grasp. He was hanging
onto his sanity by emotional fingernails. No, he
wasn’t finished. He was Markus the Ineluctable, Em-
peror of Everything, and no skinny punk-rocker was
going to take that away from html,
Removing the top hat, he held it in his right hand
while whispering and passing the wand over the
i opening. Then he tapped the brim several times. At
f first nothing happened, and Jon-Tom found himself
^hoping that the magician had finally reached his
I limits.
302 Alan Dean Foster
Then something came creeping out of the hat.
The room darkened as the sickly green vapor
emerged. It pulsed with inner evil, curling around
the legs of chairs, clinging to the floor as it crept
down the steps from the dais. It moved slowly, explor-
ing the environment into which it had been summoned.
Markus eyed it uncertainly, and it occurred to
Jon-Tom that his opponent, in his anger and fury,
might have overextended himself, might have called
forth something stronger than he’d intended to.
Certainly that expanding cloud of poisonous green
sprang from a source of evil far stronger than per-
fumed bouquets and faceless demons. There was
nothing even faintly amusing about it. Despite its
apparent insubstantiality, it was real in a way none of
Markus’s previous conjurations could match.
The magician glanced down into his hat. Appar-
ently he saw something he didn’t like, because he
dropped it as if it had burned him and stepped back
toward the throne, never taking his eyes from it. The
hat tumbled down the steps, rolling to a stop on the
floor. The frightening cloud continued to pour forth
from the dark opening,
You could see through it, but the effort wa& dizzying.
Furthermore, there were shapes inside the cloud,
shapes that wrenched and heaved in agony at their
surroundings. They moaned softly as they fought to
escape their nebulous prison. The sound was chill-
ing.
Vapor reached the ceiling and began to spread out
sideways. Jon-Tom wanted to run, to get out of that
room. The threat that was Markus had been reduced
to insignificance by the cloud. Markus no longer
mattered. Only getting away, getting out of there,
getting away from that, mattered.
But a wispy tentacle of ichorous green brushed
his foot, and he found he couldn’t move. It was Just a
303
THE MOMENT OF THE MAOTCLUI
tiny thing, an airy caress. It paralyzed him in his
tracks.
And it was so cold.
Eyes in the cloud then, small and piercing, floating
above a round oval of a mouth. They hovered within
the fog, sleepy and indifferent. The shapes flashed
and slipped around eyes and lips as they fought to
escape.
The cloud spoke softly in a patient, irresistible
voice. Jon-Tom felt a chill strike him with each word.
“I’ve come for you. It is good that you called me.”
Green vapor filled most of the room now. It was
starting to spread out along the wall behind him.
Soon it would engulf him completely. He knew what
would happen then. It would suck him up inside
itself, to join those other helpless, moaning stiapes.
Then he knew what it was that Markus had con-
jured up, had called forth out of the depths of his
fury and frustration. Instinct told him.
His body might be frozen to the spot, but he
found he could still talk. Maybe the vapor wanted
him to talk. Maybe that was a final gift it gave to all
that it swallowed up.
“You… you’re Death, aren’t you?”
An eloquent silence was his reply. Jon-Tom could
feel the cold dosing in around him, patient, irresistible.
“I didn’t know you could see Death.” The cloud
was thicker now, an icy green cold that began to
prick at his bare skin.
“Any man who cannot see Death approaching is
blind.” The mouth-oval drifted closer. It was going
to touch his own lips. The kiss of Death.
Jon-Tom listened to his own voice and was terri-
fied at how feeble it had become. “But… you said
you came for me. and that 1 called you. I didn’t call
you.
For an instant oblivion retreated. The wisps of
^
Alaa Dean Foster
304
green foulness drew back and the cold fell away.
Jon-Tom found he was shivering, and it was the first
time in his life he regarded it as a sign of health.
“You called me.”
“No.” He tried to raise a hand to his duar, but
his fingers suddenly weighed a thousand pounds
apiece. He tried the other one, straining with his
whole being. It rose, slowly, but it rose. He moved it
because he had to. He didn’t try to touch the duar
this time. There was no point. Here was an opponent
his spellsinging could not defeat.
Fingers weak and trembling, he pointed through
the cloud.
“He called you.”
“No,” came a quavering voice from far across the
chamber. Markus cowered down on his throne, trying
to hide. “No, it wasn’t me. I didn’t call you!”
The eyes didn’t free Jon-Tom from their relentlessly
peaceful gaze- Perhaps another pair appeared else-
where within the cloud. There was a pause, a brief
eternity while the room hung suspended in the void.
Then Death whispered, “Markie Kratzmeier, age
forty-eight, of Perth Amboy, New Jersey. You fell into
a dynamo. You were electrocuted instantly. You died.”
“No!” Markus shook as he waved his wand errati
cally toward the cloud. He was hysterical now, his
eyes wide as the vapor moved to envelop him. “No, I
didn’t diel I came here. I am here.”
“You died,” Death insisted softly. “I came for you
but you had gone. I couldn’t find you. I do not enjoy
being cheated.”
Then there was another sound in the room, a
sound that chilled Jon-Tom more thoroughly than
the touch of that annihilating fog. It was the sound
of Death laughing.
“And now you have called me back to you. And the
living say that life is full of little ironies.”
THK MOMENT OF THE MAGICMJT
305
“NOI” Markus screamed. He fell to whimpering.
|”I didn’t call you, I didn’t. Go awaaay.” The wand
.twitched feebly in the air. “I send you back to where
| you come from. 1 command you.”
t The cloud was pulling away from the shivering
|Jon-Tom, dragging itself across the floor toward the
| throne. As it left him he found that he could move
i again. He started to head for the door, slowed
‘ thoughtfully. If Death wanted him, no door was
; going to stop it. Somehow he didn’t think that was
. going to happen. What had happened was that he
had almost been the victim of a fatal case of mistaken
identity.
He turned. The fog had surrounded Markus
•completely. He could still hear the unfortunate
| magician. The shapes inside the cloud reached out
| to welcome him into their company. The torches
1 winked out and there was only the green light left to
[‘see by-
t There were no dramatic shrieks or screams. The
|whimpering from the throne simply stopped. Then
| the cloud began to retreat, sucked back down into
^the hat from which it had been summoned forth. An
^-innocent-looking black top hat that the late Markus
the Ineluctable had probably paid no more than ten
bucks for in some cheap magic shop in Jersey City.
Then it was gone. Fresh air hesitantly wafted into
^ the room. All that remained of Markus the Ineluctable,
the All-Powerful, Ruler of Quasequa and the Lakes
District, was a piece of white-tipped black plastic a
foot long.
Still shivering, Jon-Tom strode over to the throne
and picked up the wand. He tapped it against the
wood. It made a soft clicking noise. On the side was
the legend Made in Hong Kong. Handling it gingerly,
he descended to the floor and dropped it into the
open hat. It vanished.
Alan Dean Foster
306
Then he took a deep breath and did the hardest
thing he’d ever done in his life. He picked up the
hat. Carrying it carefully in his right hand, he walked
over to the window nearby and threw it as far as he
could. It sailed out into the night and he watched it
fall. When it hit the water it was too light to make an
audible splash. Either it would sink or the current
would carry it into the river that drained the Lake of
Sorrowful Pearls, and the river would take it out to
the Glittergeist Sea to sink in thousands of fathoms
of sunless, specterless water.
He found himself feeling sorry for Markle Kratz-
meier. But not for Markus the Ineluctable.
Something creaked behind him. He jumped.
“You okay, mate?” inquired a hesitant voice. Mudge’s
face peeped uncertainly around the rim of the door.
Jon-Tom relaxed. “It’s all right, Mudge. It’s all
over. You can come in now.” He swallowed. “Everyone
can come in now.”
“Right, mate.” But Mudge made a thorough sur-
vey of the empty throne room before he entered.
Weapons drawn, the rest of the band rushed in
around him.
Memaw crossed her arms over her chest. “Brrri
Young man, it’s freezing in here. What happened?”
“Markus unintentionally called up an old friend of
his. They went away together.” Suddenly he was very
tired, searched for something to sit on. The throne
was out of the question, so he chose a pile of richly
embroidered cushions stacked in a corner.
Trendavi waddled over to him. “What of our city?”
“It’s been restored to you. You got it back.” Trendavi
accepted this information solemnly. Then he bowed
before Jon-Tom, who was too exhausted to tell him
not to, and went off to tell the other members of the
Quorum.
Opiode had paced the length of the room, sniffing
THE MoJcswr or TUX MAOicxiur 307
at the chilled air. Now he peered down at the
speltsinger out of wise, knowing eyes.
“Death has been in this place. You called it forth?”
“No, not me. Markus did it- I don’t think he knew
what he was doing when he did it. See, he’d died in
the other world. My world. He escaped by being
thrown through to here. Death had been looking for
him ever since.”
“So in his anger and greed he called up his own
fate,” Opiode murmured. “Justice.” He sniffed again.
“There has been much magic worked here this night.
Great magic.”
“I don’t know how great it was”—Jon-Tom rubbed
his face with both hands—”but 1 feel like I’ve just had
the shit stomped out of me by an angry elephant.”
Quorly put a comforting paw on hisr shoulder.
** ‘Tis done with, spellsinger. ‘Tis all over now.”
A voice from across the room drew their eyes.
“Hey, you lot, look at me!” Mudge was sitting on
the throne, his short legs a foot above the floor, both
arms resting on the carved armrests. “Oi, I’m Emper-
or o’ Quasequa, 1 am, and you louts can all pay me
*omage.” He grinned down at Splitch. “Ladies first.
o’ course.”
Jon-Tom spoke casually. “That is precisely where
Markus was sitting when Death itself took him.”
Mudge’s legs abruptly stopped swinging. “You don’t
say. If that’s supposed to scare me, why, it don’t.” He
hopped down from the seat. ” ‘Tis a mite chilly up
there, though. Not really to me taste.” He retreated
in haste.
“Then there’s nothing more for us to worry about,”
said Memaw.
“Well, there is one thing,” Jon-Tom mused. “You
all seem to have forgotten that we have a revolution-
minded dragon running loose in the Quorumate’s
tower levels.”
Alan Dean Porter
308
“Is that a problem?’* Domurmur frowned. “If he is
your friend, can’t you tell him to leave us in peace?”
“He’ll leave you in pieces if he finds out what kind
of government you’re running. You’re going to have
to move to eliminate bribery and corruption, stamp
out the blatant buying of public office.”
Selryndi sputtered a reply. “But that’s impossible!
How else do you govern?”
Jon-Tom grinned up at him. “I should let Falameezar
instruct you, but I’ll talk to him and see if we can’t
work out some kind of compromise that will satisfy
all the concerned parties.”
“We thank you,” a relieved Trendavi said humbly.
So Falameezar was permitted to run a political
reeducation center on the shore of Isle Quase, and
the citizens were taught not to run in fear from his
presence. Before too much time went by he was no
longer frightening them, only boring them to death
with his droning recitations of Marxist ideology. De-
spite his threats they began to drift away, and even
the city troops couldn’t force them to stay and listen.
As Cherjal the innkeeper put it one day, “I’d
rather bee fried than forced to leesten to that
garbage anymore!”
So Falameezar swam off one evening in search of
more willing converts, bidding Jon-Tom and his friends
adieu, singing the “Internationale” as he disappeared
into a sunset which was, appropriately enough that
evening, bright red.
It was the following night that Jon-Tom was com-
pelled to go with a group of grim-faced police to the
end of an empty municipal pier. At the far end of
the pier was a large pile of fur. The pile sported a
bunch of eyes, many of which were closed or bloodshot,
an indistinguishable dutch of arms and legs, and
reeked of liquor.
The sergeant of police was a three-foot-tall cavy,
TBX VQMSMT OF THE MAGJCJAH
309
short and testy. He gestured at the pile. “These your
friends?”
“Uh, yes sir.”
“Well, do something with them. We had to shovel
them out of the Capering Gibbon tavern. They were
being drunk and disorderly and obnoxious.”
“Is that so oad? They did help save your city from
the rule of Markus the Ineluctable, you know.”
“Aw, that was weeks ago,” said the sergeant. “Since
then they’ve busted up half of what they helped save,
insulted most of the ladies and some of the males,
parlied until all hours in quiet zones, and generally
made a spectacular nuisance of themselves.”
One lump of fur wiggled out of the pile and
focused rheumy eyes on the sergeant. “Who’re you
callin’ a nuisance, you sorry-lookin’, worm-infested
lump o’ snake crap?”
“Mudge, watch your mouth!” The otter twisted
’round to squint up at him.
“Hiya, mate! Say, where was you the other night?
You missed a hell of a party.”
The cavy looked up at the much taller Jon-Tom, its
nose twitching in distaste- “This party has been going
on for a month now, and the patience of the Quo-
rum is at its end. So in gratitude for what you have
done for the city ofQuasequa, it was decided to send
you safely on your way.” He gestured at the pile of
‘otters. “We dumped them here, more or less intact.
See that they don’t come back.”
/’I’m sorry if they’ve caused you any trouble,”
Jon-Tom told him apologetically. The cavy threw
him a sideways glance.
“Trouble? Oh, no trouble, no trouble at all. At
least three dozen of my best people are stuck in
infirmaries all around the city because of run-ins
with your friends here.” He jerked a tiny thumb
Alan Dean Foster
310
toward the pile. “You sort ’em out any way you want
to. Just keep ’em out of my Jurisdiction, okay?”
Jon-Tom waited until the police had left the pier.
Then he gazed down at the pile of fuzz. “Aren’t you
all ashamed of yourselves? Aren’t you disgusted? You
win the gratitude of an entire population, and then
you throw it back in their faces.”
Sasswise appeared, waving her sword dangerously
about. “Nobody better not throw nothin* at mel”
“Ow!” Drortch emerged, flaring at her cousin.
“You stick me with that again, you sodden slut, and
I’ll pull your tail out by its roots!”
“You and wot army, bitch?”
The two of them went at it enthusiastically, biting
and kicking and pulling fur. The distraction was
energetic enough to bestir their companions to action.
The hill unpiled. Knorckle crawled weakly to the
edge of the pier and proceeded to vomit violently
into the Lake of Sorrowful Pearls.
Jon-Tom stood and watched, shaking his head in
despair. Then he said something he regretted more
than anything else he’d said since he’d left the rela-
tive sanity of Clothahump’s tree.
“What am I going to do with you?”
A drunken Memaw gazed up at him, “Now, don’t
you worry, young fan… man, because we’ve taken a
vote on thish, and we decided that we couldn’t possi-
bly think of letting you make that nasty old trip all
the way back up to these Bellwoodsies you come
from all by yourselves.”
“Oh, that’s all right,” Jon-Tom said quickly. “I
mean. I appreciate the offer, but Mudge and I
managed to make it down here by ourselves, and we
can make it home the same way.” He looked around
wildly for support.
A head appeared. “More company the better, mate,”
declared a thoroughly sozzled Mudge.
THE MQMBWT Of THB MACUCSAH
311
Weaving, drunken oUers gathered around the dis-
traught spellsinger, cheering and waving their swords
about with complete disregard for the bodily integri-
ty of their neighbors.
“Aye, mate.. .We’re with you all the bayway!.. .Glad
to come along!.. .Three cheers for the spullspung-
er…!”
Jon-Tom dodged a sword stroke that came perilously
near taking a chunk out of his thigh. He found
himself being backed toward the otters’ boat, which
the police had thoughtfully tied up at the end of
the pier.
Mudge lurched along in front, one arm around
Quorly, the other around Sasswise. “It’ll be fun,
mate, to ‘ave a little good company goin’ ‘ome. Besides.
I’d like for me friends ‘ere to meet Clothagrump.”
He leaned over to whisper to Quorly. “This ‘ere wizbiz
‘as got ‘imself an apprentice name o’ Sorbl who can
conjure up the best damn batch o’ ‘omemade ‘ootch
I you never tasted, luv. Burn the linin’ right out o’
your bloomin’ throat.”
Quorly pressed tight against him. “Sounds wonder-
ful. Mudgey.”
“No, no,” Jon-Tom told them, pleading desperately,
| “you don’t understand. Clothahump is a very serious,
sober-minded sorcerer. It’s important that he see me
in the same light or he won’t send me home someday.”
“Then we’ll get along fine, Jon-Tome… Tom,” said
Wupp happily, “because we’re damn sure serious
about not stayin’ sober.”
Paws reached forward and lifted the protesting
spellsinger, carried him down into the boat. Hands
bent to oars, and after some initial confusion, the
boat began to slide out onto the Lake of Sorrowful
Pearls. Drortch launched into a spirited if slightly
sloppy rendition of “Row, Row, Row Your Boat!” The
melody was quickly taken up by her companions and
312 Alan Dean Foster
the boat was soon producing enough noise to attract I
every water-going predator between Quasequa and i
the river Tailaroam. E
jon-Tom lay in the bottom of the boat and won-
dered if maybe Markus the Ineluctable hadn’t been
the lucky one.