Spellsinger

moment there was nothing flanking them save a couple of dark portals. One led

into a close that pierced a labyrinth of stairways. The other was heavily barred

with iron-studded shutters.

There was no one else in sight. Not a single stray celebrant, or better still,

any of the city's night patrol.

In front of them waited perhaps a dozen heavily armed humans. Most boasted long

scraggly hair and longer faces. They hefted clubs, maces, quarterstaffs, and

bolas. It was an impressive assortment of armament. Not until much later did he

have time to reflect on the fact that there was not a single serious killing

weapon, not one knife or spear or sword, among them.

The humans had spread themselves into a semicircle across the street, blocking

it completely. Jon-Tom considered the narrow close a last time. It had more the

look of a trap than a means of escape.

Two-thirds of the humans were male, the rest female. None wore decent clothes or

pleasant looks. All were roughly Talea's height. Even Caz was taller than most

of them. Their attention was on Jon-Tom and Flor, whom they regarded with

unconcealed interest.

"We'd appreciate it if you'd come along with us." This request was made by a

stocky blond fellow in the middle of the group. His beard seemed to continue

right down into his naked chest, as did the drooping mustache. In fact, he

displayed so much hair that Jon-Tom wondered in the darkness if he really was

human and not one of the other furry local citizens.

That led him to consider the unusual homogeneity of the group. Up till now,

every gathering of locals he'd encountered, whether diners or merchants, sailors

or pedestrians, had been racially mixed.

He looked backward. The lot who'd been trailing them had spread out to block any

retreat back up the street and yes, they were also wholely human, and similarly

armed.

"That's nice of you," Caz said, replying to the invitation, "but we have other

plans of our own." He spoke for all his companions. Jon-Tom casually swung his

staff around from his back, slipped the duar out of the way. Talea's hand

dropped to her sword. There was some uneasy shuffling among the humans

confronting them.

"I'm sorry. We insist."

"I wish you would encyst," said Flor cheerfully, "preferably with something

cancerous."

The insult was lost on the man, who simply blinked at her. Both clusters began

to crowd the travelers, edging in from front and back.

There was a light metallic sound as Talea's sword appeared in her hand. "First

one of you rodents lays a hand on me is cold meat."

In the dim light from the oil lamps Jon-Tom thought she looked lovelier than

ever. But then, so did Flores Quintera.

She'd assumed an amazonian stance with her own short sword and mace held

expectantly in front of her, the light gleaming off the saw teeth lining the

steel.

"Ovejas y putas, come and take us... if you can."

"Ladies, please!" protested Caz, aghast at the manner in which his attempted

diplomacy was being undermined from behind. "It would be better for all of us

if... excuse me, sir." He'd been glancing back at Talea and Flor but had not

lost sight of their opponents. One of them had jumped forward and attempted to

brain the rabbit with a small club, whereupon Caz had hopped out of the way,

offered his apologies, and stuck out a size twenty-two foot. His assailant had

gone tumbling over it.

"Dreadfully sorry," murmured Caz. His apology did nothing to stem the rush which

followed as the two groups of encircling humans attacked.

The narrowness of the street simplified defensive tactics. The set-upon arranged

themselves back to back in a tight circle and hacked away at their antagonists,

who threw themselves with shocking recklessness against swords and knives. The

light and sweat and screaming swam together around Jon-Tom. The duar was a heavy

weight bouncing under his arm as the blunt end of his staff-club sought out an

unprotected face or groin.

It occurred to him that a little magic might have frightened off their

assailants. He cursed himself for not thinking of it earlier. It was too late

now for singing. He couldn't stop defending himself long enough to swing the

duar around.

Three frustrated attackers were trying to get beneath his enormous reach. He

held them off with the club. One slipped underneath the staff and raised a mace.

Jon-Tom thumbed a stud on the staff and flipped it around in an arc as he'd been

shown. The spring-loaded spearpoint sliced across the mace-wielder's thighs. He

collapsed, moaning and holding his legs.

Something dark covered Jon-Tom's eyes as he was hit from below and behind.

Flailing wildly with the staff, he went over backward. The staff intercepted

something yielding, which yelped once.

A heaviness pressed down on his senses as well as his eyes. Then everything

turned to mush, including the noise of fighting. His thoughts swam sluggishly as

though he were trying to think through Jell-O. Dimly he could still make out

shrieks and screams from the continuing battle, but they sounded faint and far

away. He recognized the high-pitched challenge of Talea alternating with Mudge's

taunts and curses. Flor was yowling war cries in an interesting mixture of

English and Spanish. The last sight he'd glimpsed before the black cloth or bag

or whatever it was had been slipped over his head showed a starlit sky mottled

with clearing rain clouds and a sickle moon beaming bluely down between peaked

roofs that overhung the street like cupped hands. He hoped they were formed in

prayer for him.

Then even that wish faded, along with the remnant of his consciousness....

XX

At first he thought a fly had somehow tumbled into his brain. It was beating

against the sides, trying to get out. When the fly-feeling gave way to a

certainty that the buzzing came from elsewhere, he opened his eyes and hunted

for its source.

An oil lamp burned on a simply hewn wood table. A gruff announcement came from

someone unseen.

"He's awake!"

This was followed by the pad-padding of many feet. Jon-Tom struggled to a

sitting position. Gravity, or something, tried to pull off the back of his head.

He winced at the pain. It slowly dribbled away, down his neck and into oblivion.

He discovered he was sitting on the edge of a cot. In the dim lamplight he could

now make out the familiar shapes of his staff and duar leaning against the far

wall of the room.

Flanking his possessions were two of the humans who'd attacked him. One wore a

bandage across his forehead and over one ear. The other exhibited a deep purple

bruise and knot over his right eye. His mouth also showed signs of having been

cut.

Normally an execptionally pacific person, Jon-Tom experienced an

uncharacteristic surge of pleasure at this evidence of the damage he and his

companions had done. He'd made up his mind to make a rush for the club-staff

when a door opened on his left and half a dozen people marched in.

Leaning forward, he was disappointed to discover he could see nothing past the

door except a dimly lit corridor, though he could hear distant conversation.

The new arrivals stationed themselves around the room. Three of them took up

positions in front of the door while another closed it behind them. Two

additional lamps were lit. Everyone in the room looked very determined. Another

trio sat down at the table. Someone brought a few roughly forged goblets and a

couple of plates piled high with steaming meat and a close relative of boiled

potatoes.

There were no windows in the room. The only light came from the three oil lamps

and the crack beneath the door. Captors and captive examined each other with

interest for long minutes.

Then one of the three seated at the table spoke to him, and Jon-Tom recognized

the blond spokesman who had confronted him in the street.

"You hungry?" Jon-Tom shook his head. "Thirsty?" Again the negative motion,

accompanied by a smile and an obscene gesture. Jon-Tom was not thinking like a

would-be lawyer now. He was still light-headed and maybe just a little crazy.

His actions and silence did not seem to upset his interrogator, who shrugged and

said, "Suit yourself. I am." He picked up a potato-thing and spread some sort of

transparent glaze over it, using a spoon set in a small jar. Taking a bite out

of it, he chewed noisily. Glaze slid down his chin and onto his chest.

When he'd finished half the tuber he looked again at Jon-Tom. Then he asked

bluntly, "Head hurt?"

"You know goddam well it does," Jon-Tom told him, feeling of the lump that was

maturing on the back of his skull.

"We're sorry about that." And to Jon-Tom's surprise the man sounded honestly

contrite. "But you wouldn't come with us voluntarily, and we didn't have much

time to talk. Patrol could've come along."

"If you've been facing twelve armed people in an unfamiliar street, would you

have gone along?"

The blond smiled wryly. "I suppose not. We're not much on tact, I guess. But it

was imperative you come with us, and we had to get you away from the animals."

That made Jon-Tom take another anxious look around the room. No question about

it, he was the sole captive present.

"Where are the others? Where are my friends?"

"Where we left them. Scattered around the alleys of the Loose Quarter. Oh, they

didn't seem badly hurt," he added when Jon-Tom looked ready to rise from the

cot. "Far less so than our own people. We simply led the fight away from you

once we had you drugged and under control."

"Why me?" He leaned back against the rock wall. "What's so interesting about

me?"

The stocky speaker peered hard at him. "It is said that you are a wizard, a

spellsinger, from another world." He seemed at once skeptical and yet anxious to

have that skepticism disputed.

"Yes... yes, that's right." Jon-Tom stretched out his arms and waved his

fingers. "And if you don't let me out of here in ten seconds I'm going to turn

you all into mushrooms!"

The leader shook his head, looking down at the floor and then up again to smile

at Jon-Tom. He clasped both hands together on his lap.

"Any spellsinger requires his instrument to make magic." He nodded in the

direction of the closely guarded duar. "You threaten emptily. I had heard that

you controlled a river dragon. That plus your admission just now is proof enough

for me."

"How do you know that I'm controlling the dragon? Maybe I'm just trying to

frighten you into releasing me. Clothahump the turtle is still back at our

barracks, and he's a powerful wizard, much more powerful than I am. Maybe he's

controlling the dragon and even now setting up a spell to dissolve all of you

like so much tea."

"We know of the hard-shelled bumbler who accompanied you. We know also that he

and the great dragon are even now arguing absurdities back in the harbor

barracks. We know this not through magic but through our well-organized and

loyal network of observers and spies." Again the smile. "Sometimes that is worth

more than magic."

Network, Jon-Tom thought? What's this talk of spies and networks? Something

else, something about the attitude of the people in the room, their attacking

with nonlethal weapons, all bespoke something deeper than your everyday

garden-variety robbers.

"Who do you spy for? Aren't you all citizens of the city or county of

Polastrindu?"

"By birth," admitted the man, and there were murmurs of agreement from the

others in the room, "but not by inclination, or belief."

"You're losing me."

"We don't want to do that," said the man, unclasping his hands. "We want you to

join us."

"Join you? In what? I haven't got time to join anything else. I'm already into

something vitally important to your whole world." He started to recite

Clothahump's warning about the coming cataclysm.

"The Plated Folk are readying their greatest invasion of these lands in their

history, and they have--"

"We know all that," said one of the other guards impatiently.

Jon-Tom gaped at the woman who'd spoken. She was one of the trio blocking the

doorway. "You know?" Nods of assent came from several of the others.

"But I thought... Clothahump said he was the only one perceptive enough to...

but how do you know?"

"Patience," the blond urged him. "All will be explained.

"You asked if we were not citizens of the city, and what we wanted you to join

us for. We are citizens of this city, yes, and we are something more, we

believe. As for what we want you to join, I have already told you. We want you

to join us."

"What the hell do you mean by 'us'? Some kind of political organization?"

The man shook his head. "Not really. Us. Us... we humans." He spoke patiently,

as though explaining to a child.

"I still don't follow you."

The man looked in exasperation at his companions, then once more back at

Jon-Tom. "Listen to me carefully, spellsinger. For tens of thousands of years

mankind has been compelled to exist as a lowly equal with the animals. With the

hordes of stinking, smelly, hairy beasts who are obviously our inferiors." This

was said with casual disregard for his own unkempt mat of fur. "With those who

are destined to be damned together with the rats and mice they so readily

discriminate against themselves."

Jon-Tom didn't reply. The man almost pleaded with him. "Surely you have felt the

inequality, the unnaturalness of this situation?" He paced in front of Jon-Tom's

cot, occasionally shaking clenched fists at him.

"We are more than animals, are we not? Clearly nature has intended us to be

superior, yet some unnatural force or circumstance has held us back from

achieving our birthright. The time to change that is near. Soon mankind shall

inherit this world, as nature intended him to!"

"You're talking, then," said Jon-Tom slowly, "about a race war?"

"No!" The stocky leader turned angrily on him. "This is to be a war for the

race, for the human race, to place it in its rightful position as leader of

civilization." He leaned near, stared searchingly into Jon-Tom's face. "Tell me

then, spellsinger: do the humans of your other-world exist equally with the

animals?"

My God, Jon-Tom thought in panic. What do I say? How perceptive are they? Can

they detect, through magic or otherwise, if I lie? And if so, and they learn the

truth, will they use that to gather support among the humans here for their own

hateful plans?

But are they after all so hateful? Do you hate what this man is saying, Jon-Tom,

or do you hate the thought that you might agree with him?

"Well?" the man prompted.

No reply was worse than anything he might say, he decided. "The humans I've met

are no more than the equal of the other animals here in size and intelligence.

Some have shown themselves to be a damnsight less so. What makes you think

you're so superior?"

"Belief, and inner knowledge," came the instant reply. "This cannot be the way

nature meant things to be. Something is wrong here. And you have not yet

answered my question about the relationship between humans and animals in your

world."

"We're all animals together. Intelligence is the determining factor, and the

other persons I've met here have been pretty much equal in intelligence."

"Ah... the other animals you've met here. What about your own world's

'animals'?"

Jon-Tom's voice rose in frustration. "God damn you, shape and size has nothing

to do with it!"

"It confirms what the dream raiders told us," murmured someone in the back of

the room. There were other unintelligible whispers, smug and self-satisfied.

Jon-Tom found them unsettling.

"Anyway, I won't join you." He folded his arms. "I doubt that many will. I know

plenty of humans already who can tell the difference between civilized and

uncivilized, between intelligent and ignorant, without having to think about it,

and it hasn't a fucking thing to do with body odor. So you can take your

'belief' and 'inner knowledge' and stuff it! Those are the kinds of groundless,

half-assed reasons dictators have used throughout history for discriminating

against others, and I don't want anything to do with it.

"Besides, humans are just another mammalian minority here. Even if they all went

nuts and joined you, you're far too outnumbered to even think the kind of

genocide you're contemplating has a chance of success."

"You're right on all counts," agreed the leader, "except one."

"I don't think I overlooked anything."

"Perhaps it would be better if I explained." The voice had a hoarseness to it

that suggested a severe cold or laryngitis. The man who'd spoken stepped out

into the light. He was as thickset as the leader and even more hirsute. Long

black hair flowed below his shoulders, and his beard almost obscured his face.

Brown and blue leathers were draped tentlike on his body.

Jon-Tom was by now almost too furious to think straight. "Who the hell are you,

jack?" He was thinking of Mudge and Clothahump, of the aristocratic but friendly

Caz, and the acerbic Pog. The idea that this motley mob of near barbarians

considered themselves good enough to lord it over his new-won furry friends was

almost more than he could stomach.

"My identity is perhaps better shown than stated," said the black-haired shape

as he reached up and carefully removed his head.

The skull thus revealed was smaller than a human head, but occupied almost as

much volume because of the bulging, bright green compound eyes. The chitin was

bright blue spotted with yellow patches. A slash of maroon decorated the

mandibles. Antennae drooped toward Jon-Tom. They were constantly in motion,

alternating like a swimmer's arms.

It spoke again, the same harsh, rasping tone. The mouth did not move. Jon-Tom

realized the insect was generating a crude approximation of normal speech by

controlling the flow of air through its breathing spicules.

"I am Hanniwuz," said the apparition huskily. "This suit I wear is necessary

lest the locals kill me on sight. They bear an unreasoning hatred for my people

and have persecuted us for thousands of years."

Jon-Tom had recovered from the initial shock of the revelation. "The way I hear

it, it's your people who have been doing the hating, trying to invade and

enslave the locals for millennia."

"I will not deny that we seek control, but we do not seek conquest. It is for

our protection. We require security of some kind. The warm-landers grow

constantly stronger. One day their hatred will overwhelm their lethargy and they

will arise en masse to massacre the Plated Folk. Do we not have the right to

self-defense?"

Oh boy, Jon-Tom thought: history and legalisms. He felt suddenly at home. "Don't

try and bullshit me. Whenever one nation claims it requires 'secure borders'

with another, that border is usually the far border of the neighboring country

and not the common one. That 'border' country gets swallowed up, and the secure

borders have to be moved outward again, and then again. It's a never ending

process. Security may never be satisfied that way, but greed usually is."

The insect's head swiveled to look up at the blond man. "Spellsinger or not, I

think this one more dangerous than useful. I do not think he will be of use to

us." Jon-Tom went cold and still.

"No, he's not as positive as he sounds." The leader turned imploringly,

smilingly back to the lanky youth. "Please tell Hanniwuz you'll join us."

"I don't see the connection between you two."

"The Plated Folk recognize that among the warmlanders only we humans think like

they do. Only we have the ability to make war with detachment and then to govern

properly. That's our natural right, and the Plated Folk are willing to recognize

that. If we help them, they will allow us to rule in their stead. That will give

them the security they seek."

"You really believe that? Then you people are either dumb or morally bankrupt.

You have no 'natural right' to rule anything. Genetics has worked out

differently here."

One of the other guards said worriedly, "Careful, he speaks magic words."

Candlelight glinted on swords and spears, a sparkling forest of death suddenly

aimed threateningly at Jon-Tom.

"Watch your mouth, stranger!... Don't try magicking us!"

"See the effect he has?" The leader turned to Hanniwuz. "Consider how important

an ally he could be to the cause."

" 'Could be' are the key words, my friend." The insect envoy lifted a hand,

turned his head sideways, and preened his ommatidia. "He remains violently

opposed."

The stocky chieftain walked up to Jon-Tom, who tensed, but the man only put his

hands on the youth's shoulders.

"Listen to me, spellsinger. You have the size and bearing of a warrior along

with your gift for magicking. You could be a leader among us, one of those who

lord it over these lands. The climate here suits not the Plated Folk. They have

need of our services now and they will have need of them when the war is done."

"So they say." Jon-Tom eyed the impassive insect. "It's astonishing how fast a

conquerer can get acclimated."

"Control your first reactions, spellsinger. Think rationally and without

bitterness on what I say. With your stature and abilities you could rule whole

counties, entire reaches of the Lands. A dozen or more cities like Polastrindu

could be under your absolute control. Anything you wanted could be yours for the

asking: riches, fine goods, slaves of any species or sex.

"You are a young man still. What future does your mentor Clothahump offer you in

comparison? A chance to go to an unpleasant death? Is it so very wrong that

humans rule over the animals? So you do not agree with the moral justification

of our cause. Can you not rationalize what it would bring to you personally?

"Think hard, spellsinger, for the Plated Folk are destined to conquer this time,

no matter who or what opposes them. It is easy to support a martyr's death for

others... but what about for yourself? Is that what you have hoped for all your

life, to die young and bravely?" His hand slashed at the air. "That is stupid."

"I don't think your victory is assured just yet," Jon-Tom said quietly, "despite

your"--he caught himself just in time, having been on the verge of saying

"despite your secret magic," and instead finished--"despite all the quislings

you can recruit, and I don't think there'll be all that many."

"Then there are no circumstances under which you would consider joining us?

Think hard! The world can be yours."

"Shit, I wouldn't know what to do with it. I don't..." He stopped.

Seriously now, what did he owe to this world into which he'd been rudely,

unwillingly, and perhaps permanently yanked? If he ever succeeded in returning

to his own place and time, what would he become? A corpulent attorney, fat and

empty of real life? Or a sour, doped-up musician playing cheap bars and

sweet-sixteen parties?

Here he could be one step above a mayor and one step below a god. Weren't all of

them, for all their veneer of civilization and intelligence, nothing more than

oversized animals? Mudge, Caz, Pog, all of them? He considered the way Flor had

occasionally looked at Caz. Was it right that he should consider himself, even

momentarily, in competition for the love of his life with an oversized hare? Was

that less repugnant than cooperation with these people?

Why shouldn't he join them, then? Why should he not look out for himself for a

change?

"That's very good, man," whispered Hanniwuz. "You think. Death, or ascension to

a throne we will create for you. It seems an easy choice to make, does it not?

The day we attack there will be uprisings of humans throughout the warmlands.

They will flock to our cause. Together we shall force these bloated, soft,

smelly creatures back into the dirt where they belong... aahhh-chrriick!"

"I'm not sure--" Jon-Tom began.

Yells and shouts from the other side of the door and all eyes turned in that

direction. Then the opening was full of flying bodies, blood, and steel. Talea

darted in and out of the crowd, her sword taking bites out of larger and more

muscular bodies. Caz wielded a rapier with delicacy but far more ferocity than

Jon-Tom had suspected him of possessing, a furry white demon in the candlelight.

Mudge charged into the thick of the fray, his energy and activity compensating

for his usual lack of good judgment.

Dim light was reflected from fast-moving metal. There were screams and curses

and the sound of flesh hitting stone. Blood hit Jon-Tom in the face, temporarily

blinding him. Flores Quintera towered above the mob, her black mane flailing the

air as she cut with mace and her small saw edge at anyone who tried to get near

her.

Above them all, clinging precariously to a chink in the roof and occasionally

tossing a knife down into the milling cluster below, was Pog.

That explained how the others had tracked him. When the fight in the street had

broken away from Jon-Tom, Pog had thoughtfully left the battle to shadow Jon-Tom

and his captors. Then he'd returned to lead the others to the rescue.

A large, spiked mace rose in front of Jon-Tom's gaze. The man hefting it was

bleeding badly from the neck and sanity had left his face.

"Die then, otherworld thing!"

Jon-Tom closed his eyes and readied himself for oblivion. There was the shock of

concussion, but it was in his right shoulder instead of his forehead. Opening

his eyes he found the mace-wielder sprawled across his legs. As he watched, the

dying man slid to the floor.

Talea stood above the corpse, a knife in each hand, her clothes splattered with

the darker stains of blood. She looked back into the room. Another door had

opened in the far corner. His few surviving captors were retreating via the new

exit. Of Hanniwuz there was no sign.

The redhead was breathing heavily, her chest heaving beneath the shirt. She had

a wild look in her eyes. It became one of concern as she focused on the slumped

shape of Jon-Tom. He blinked at her as he held his throbbing shoulder.

"I'm all right. But just barely. Thanks." He looked past her. "Pog? You

responsible for this?"

"Dat a fact. Sometimes da coward's course is da best. When I saw da fight all

revolving around you, I knew it was you dey were after. So I held myself in

reserve in case I had ta follow or bring help."

"I'll bet you 'eld yourself in 'reserve,' you sanctimonious 'ypocrite!" bellowed

Mudge from across the room. The last of Jon-Tom's captors had fled or been

dispatched, and the otter was walking toward the table, wiping at a cut across

his chest.

"Near ruined me best vest, bugger it! Cost me thirty coppers in Lynchbany." He

smiled then at Jon-Tom and let out a pleased whistle-whoop. "But it don't matter

much, mate, because you're awright."

"Your vest's in better shape than my shoulder." Jon-Tom sat up with Talea's

help. She felt of it ungently, and he yelped.

"Don't be such a cub. It's not broken, but I wager you'll have the devil of a

bruise for a few weeks." She cleaned one knife on a pants leg and used it to

point at an overhead set of iron bars. Jon-Tom walked beneath them. They'd been

invisible from his seat on the cot.

"Crawl space up there. We heard you talking with this bunch before we

interrupted the party." She looked back at him interestedly. "What were you

talking about?"

"Nothing much." He looked away. "They wanted me to join them."

"Huh! Join them in what?"

"Sort of an outlaw band," he muttered uncomfortably.

"And what were you going to do?"

He looked angrily at her. "I didn't give it a thought, of course!" He hoped he

appeared suitably outraged. "What do you take me for?"

She regarded him silently for a moment before saying, "A confused, stubborn,

naive, brilliant, and I hope sensible guy."

With that she left him, joined Flor in inspecting the escape door to see if any

wounded remained.

Caz was at his back, undoing his bonds. "Rather awkward situation, my friend."

" 'Ere now, it were bloody well more than 'awkward,' flagears!" Mudge had

adopted a familiar swagger, now that the fight was won. "When I shot into the

room and saw that mace comin' down I was afraid we were goin' t' be a second too

late. Good thing sweet flame-top's as fast with 'er 'ands as she is with 'er

'ips," and he glanced around quickly to make certain Talea hadn't overheard him.

"I'm okay, Mudge." The ropes came loose. Circulation stabbed back into his

wrists. Rubbing them, he stood, towering once more over his rescuers.

Mudge, Caz, Pog. Not only were they not "annuals," he decided, they were a hell

of a lot more "human" than the so-called humans who'd kept him prisoner. The

thought of betraying their trust on behalf of the Plated Folk now made him

almost physically ill. As for dreams of power and mastery, they vanished from

his thoughts. Not because they were unattainable, not because they were morally

repugnant, but because Jon-Tom had always been utterly unable to do less than

the Right Thing.

I'd make a lousy lawyer, he thought. And if I can't help thinking about power

and mastery, well hell, I'm only human.

Maybe if I work real hard, he told himself, I can manage to overcome that.

"There was an insect envoy with them," he said. "One of the Plated Folk. They're

trying to find allies among the locals. We have to inform the authorities."

"We'll do that for a fact, mate," said a startled Mudge. "Cor, t' think o' one

o' them great ugly bugs a-sneakin' about in this part o' the world!"

"How could he get in here?" Caz wondered.

"He looked as human as any of the others," Jon-Tom told them. "Clothahump should

know."

Talea and Flor crawled back out of the secret doorway. "No sign of the one

Jon-Tom says he saw here, nor the scum that got away."

They moved cautiously to the main door. Jon-Tom gathered up his belongings. It

felt good to have the smooth bulk of the duar under his arm and the staff in his

hands. While his companions formed a protective cordon around him, Mudge checked

the stairway. It was empty now.

Then they were racing up the hallway toward the street, Jon-Tom and Flor taking

the steps two at a time. Mudge and Talea burst outward into the mist, one

looking right, the other left.

"All clear," Talea called back. The others soon stood on the cobblestones.

They started back up the street. Eyes searched windows for drawn bows as they

walked rapidly between dark buildings. Pog overflew alleys in search of ambush.

But there was no sign of any attempt to block their progress.

Jon-Tom stumbled once as his shoulder flared with pain. Talea was alongside. She

remained there despite his insistence that he was all right.

"This outlaw band," she inquired, still warily inspecting the street ahead, "you

sure you didn't consider joining up with them? They might do real well if they

have Plated Folk support."

"Why would I do an asinine thing like that?" he snapped. "I've no love for the

insects."

"They've done nothing to you or yours. Why should you not be as willing to join

with them as with us?"

How much did she overhear through that grating? he wondered. Then it occurred to

him that she was nervous, not angry. The unaccustomed expression of

vulnerability made him feel suddenly and oddly warm inside.

"I didn't like those people," he told her calmly. "I didn't like that envoy

Hanniwuz. And I do like you. And Caz, and Mudge, and the others."

"As simple as that?"

"As simple as that, Talea."

She seemed about to say something more, lengthened her stride instead. "Let's

hurry it up." She moved out in front of them and the others, even the

long-limbed spellsinger, had to hurry to keep pace.

A disturbed Pog suddenly dipped low overhead. "Jon-Tom, Jon-Tom! There's

something wrong up ahead!"

"What? What's wrong, Pog?"

"Big commotion, boss. Many people running like da Naganuph's after dem. I can't

see a cause yet."

They turned a corner and were nearly trampled. Dozens of citizens poured down

the wide street, bumping into the new arrivals and each other. Anxious raccoons

cuddled masked infants in their arms, squirrel tails bobbed hysterically, and

nightgown-clad anteaters stumbled into panicky simians. All were screeching and

yelling and bawling in fear, and all were obviously running away from something

utterly terrifying.

"What's wrong, what's the matter?" Talea demanded of one of the fleeing

inhabitants.

The elderly bobcat beat feebly at her with her cane. "Let me go, woman. He's

gone mad, he has. He'll kill us all! Let me go!"

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

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

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

grasp.

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

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

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

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

the barracks."

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

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

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

help him if he is."

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

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

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

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

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

that flew toward him.

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

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

altogether.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

that had engulfed the barracks.

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

the cobblestones toward the gate.

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

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

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

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

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

blaze.

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

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

heard from somewhere inside the blazing barracks.

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

appeared to be deep in thought.

"What happened, sir?" asked Flor concernedly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

their bravery by remaining in the dragon's presence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

so I was hard put to rationalize their replies.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

day.

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

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

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

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

communicate with him.

"He started raving about revolutions betrayed and capitalist moneymongers and

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

master of magic. Make him stop!"

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

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

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

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

looked at Jon-Tom. So did everyone else.

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

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

desire to save his own highly flammable skin.

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

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

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

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

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

down physically.

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

Flor. None of the others tried to dissuade him. They had not the right, and they

knew he had to try. They wanted him to try.

The near barracks' wall suddenly collapsed in a Niagara of flaming embers and

hot coals. He shielded himself with the duar and his green cape. There was a

roaring in his ears from the flames, and wood exploded from the heat ahead.

"You! Deviationist! Counterrevolutionary!" The epithets emerged fast and

accusing from the fire, though so far without accompanying arcs of flame.

Jon-Tom looked up from beneath his cape and found himself only a couple of yards

away from the glowering visage of Falameezar. Red eyes burned down into his own,

and plate-sized teeth gleamed in the orange light as the dragon-skull dipped

dowr toward him....

XXI

"Lies, lies, lies! You lied to me." A massive clawed foot gestured toward the

inner city. "This is no commune, not even in part, but instead a virulent nest

of capitalistic vice. It needs not to be reformed, for it is beyond that. It

needs to be cleansed!"

"Now hold on a minute, Falameezar." Jon-Tom tried hard to sound righteous. "What

gives you the right to decide what should happen to all these workers?"

"Workers... pagh!" Fire scorched the cobblestones just to Jon-Tom's right. "They

have the tasks of workers, but the souls of imperialists! As for my right, I am

pure of philosophy and dedicated in my arms. I can tell when a society is

capable of achieving a noble state... or is beyond redemption! And besides," he

spat a petulant burst of fire at a nearby market stall, which immediately burst

into flame, "you lied to me."

Since indecision was clearly the path leading to imminent incineration, Jon-Tom

replied boldly. "I did not lie to you, Falameezar. This is a commune-to-be, and

most of the population are workers."

"It means naught if they willingly condone the system which exploits them."

"How much choice does an oppressed worker have, comrade? It is easy to speak of

revolution when you're twenty times bigger than anyone else and can spit fire

and destruction. You expect an awful lot of some poor worker with a family to

take care of. You don't have those kinds of responsibilities, do you?"

"No, but..."

"Then don't condemn some poor bear for protecting his family. You're asking them

to sacrifice cubs and children. And besides, they don't have your education.

You're expecting revolutionary sophistication from uneducated workers. Shouldn't

you try and educate them first? Then if they reject the True Path and continue

to accept the capitalistic evils they live with, then it will be time for

cleansing."

And by that time, he thought hopefully, we'll be safely away from Polastrindu.

"They still willingly countenance an antibourgeois life," said Falameezar

grumblingly, but with less certainty.

Meanwhile Jon-Tom was still furiously trying to recall an anti-dragon song. He

didn't know any. "Puff the Magic Dragon" was pleasant but hardly restrictive.

Think, man, think!

But he had no time to think of songs. He was too busy trying to tie the dragon's

tale into semantic knots.

"But would it not be best for all concerned if a warning was to be given?"

Falameezar's head rose high against the glowing night. "Yes, a warning! Burn out

the evil influences so that the new order can be installed. Down with the

exploiting industries and the factories of the capitalists! Build the commune

anew, beneath the banner of true socialism."

"Didn't you hear what I just said?" Jon-Tom took a worried step backward.

"You'll destroy the homes of the innocent, ignorant workers."

"It will be good for them," Falameezar replied firmly. "They will have to

rebuild their homes with their own hands, cooperatively, instead of living in

those owned by landlords and the bosses. Yes, the people must have the

opportunity to begin afresh." He turned his attention speculatively to the

nearest multistoried building, considering how most efficiently to commence

"cleansing" it.

"But they already hate their bosses." Jon-Tom ran parallel to the loping dragon.

"There's no reason to put them out in the rain and cold. What's needed here now

isn't violence but a sound revolutionary dialectic!"

Falameezar's claws scraped on the cobblestones like the wheels of a vast engine.

"Remember the workers!" He shook his fist at the unresponsive dragon. "Consider

their ignorance and their personal plights." Then, without thinking, his fingers

were flying over the duar, the necessary words and music having come to him

abruptly and unbidden.

"Arise ye pris'ners of starvation!

Arise, ye wretched of the Earth.

For justice thunders condemnation, a better world in birth.

No more tradition's chains shall bind us.

Arise, you slaves, no more in thrall!"

At the first stirring words of the "Internationale," Falameezar halted as if

shot. Slowly his head swung around and down to stare blankly at Jon-Tom.

"Watch 'im, mate!" sounded the faint voice of Mudge. Similar warnings came from

Caz and Flor, Talea and Pog.

But the dragon was utterly mesmerized. His ears remained cocked attentively

forward as the singer's voice rose and fell.

Finally the anthem was at an end. As Jon-Tom's fingers trailed a last time over

the duar's strings, Falameezar slowly emerged from his stupor, nodding slowly.

"Yes, you are right, comrade. I will do what you say. For a moment I forgot what

is truly important. Compassion was lost in my desire to establish proper dogma

among the proletariat. I had forgotten the more important task before us in my

rage at petty injustice." His head drooped low.

"I lost control of myself, and I apologize for the damage."

Jon-Tom whirled and frantically waved his arms, shouting the all-clear.

Immediately the wagons of the Polastrindu fire brigade trundled forward,

trailing hoses like brown slugtracks. Hands and paws were laid to pumps, and

water was soon attacking the burning barracks. Thicker dark smoke filled the sky

as the flames were pushed back and hot embers sizzled.

"I shall cause no more trouble," said the downcast dragon. "I will not forget

again." Then the great lean skull turned to one side, and a crimson eye locked

on Jon-Tom. "But before long we will make revolutionary progress here, and the

bosses will be thrown out."

Jon-Tom nodded rapidly. "Of course. Remember that first we have to defeat the

most repressive, most brutal bosses of all."

"I will remember." Falameezar sighed and a puff of smoke emerged from his mouth.

Jon-Tom winced instinctively, but there was no flame. "We will strike to protect

the workers." He curled up like a great cat, laid his head across his right

foreleg.

"I'm very tired now. I leave the night in your hands, Comrade." With that he

closed his eyes, oblivious to the activity and smoke and yelling all around him,

and went peacefully to sleep.

"Thank you, Comrade Falameezar." Jon-Tom turned away. He was starting to shiver

now, recalling the feel of heat on his face and the fury in the dragon's gaze

when he'd first confronted him.

His friends were cautiously running to him. Their expressions were a mixture of

relief and awe.

"What in hell did you sing?... What spell did you use?... How did you do it?"

were some of the amazed comments.

"I don't know, I'm not sure. The words just came to me. Old studies that stick,"

he muttered as they walked back toward the city gate.

Clothahump was waiting there to greet him. The old turtle solemnly offered his

hand. "A feat worthy of a true wizard, whether you believe yourself that or not,

my boy. I salute you. You have just saved our journey."

"I'm afraid my principal motivation was to save myself, there at the last." He

couldn't meet the wizard's eyes.

"Tut, motivation! It is accomplishment and result that count. I welcome you to

the brotherhood of magicians." Jon-Tom found his fingers clasped in the cool but

emphatic grasp of the elderly sorcerer.

"Perhaps it would be a good thing if you were to teach me the words to that

spellsong, in case something were to happen to you. My voice is not particularly

melodious, but at least I would have the words. It sounded especially powerful,

and may serve to control the beast another time."

"It specializes in control, for all sorts of beasts," Jon-Tom replied.

The others listened as well, but the words had no special effect on them. Across

the courtyard the fire brigade was bringing the last of the blaze under control.

Falameezar snored unconcernedly nearby, his rage spent, his conscience assuaged.

Possibly it was because of Falameezar's tantrum, but in any case the summons to

council came the following day. A much subdued beaver informed them that the

representatives they'd wished to meet were already assembled and waiting for

them.

Jon-Tom had spent much of the previous night coaching Caz in socialist jargon,

realizing that Clothahump could not remain behind this time. The fact that the

rabbit had volunteered to remain behind and keep a watch on the still somnolent

dragon pleased Jon-Tom.

The fact that Talea and Flor had decided to remain and assist him did not. So he

was in a foul mood as they neared the city hall.

"My boy," Clothahump was telling him, "if ever you live to be half my age you

will learn that love is a lasting thing, while lust is but transitory. Are you

so sure that you've sorted out the degree and direction of your feelings?

Because if you are drowning in the former, then you have my wholehearted

support. If merely the latter, then I can only sympathize with your subservience

to the follies of youth, which are locked to but physical matters."

"It's just physical to me." He slammed the butt end of his staff angrily into

the road with each stride. "Anyhow, you can't be objective about it. Aren't

turtles by nature sluggish in such matters?"

"Occasionally yes, sometimes no. What is important is one's mental reaction,

since it is the mind that makes the separation between love and lust, not the

body. You let your gonads do your thinking, my boy, and you're no better than a

lizard."

"That's easy for you to say. I'd imagine the internal fires are barely simmering

after two hundred and a few odd years."

"We are not talking about my situation but of yours."

"Well, I'm trying to control myself."

"That's the good lad. Then I suggest you stop trying to find water beneath the

street."

Jon-Tom eased up on his staff.

Mudge strode cockily alongside the youth. He was basking in the attention of the

pedestrians who stopped on the street to stare at them, in the curious looks of

others peering down from windows. Pog fluttered and soared majestically

overhead, darting past aerial abodes with seeming indifference to their

feathered inhabitants. While Clothahump did not anticipate treachery, he'd still

insisted the bat remain safely out of arrow shot. Pog was their link with the

unspoken dragonthreat sleeping back by the harbor gate.

"We're here, thirth." The beaver came to a halt, and directed them onward. They

climbed a series of stone steps. Two guards stood on either side of the arched

entrance. They snapped to attention, ceremonial armor shining in the sun and

giving evidence of much laborious polishing. Dents in the metal were testimony

to other activities.

Life quickly returned to normal around the fountain that dominated the small

square in front of the city hall. Jon-Tom paused to study the peaceful scene.

A young wolf bitch nursed two cubs. Young hares and muskrats played a crude

variety of field hockey with sticks and the battered skull of a recent

guillotine victim. Two grizzled oldsters chatted casually about weather and

politics. The aged possum hung from an oak tree branch while his corpulent

companion, a fat fox clad in heavy overcoat, sat beneath him on a bench. The

fact that one was upside down and the other rightside up had no effect on their

conversation.

A clockmaker and candleshop owner stood in their doorways and argued business in

the warmth of the unusually benign winter day. A customer entered the clock shop

and the proprietor, an aproned gibbon, returned reluctantly to ply his trade.

Maybe the warm day was a good omen, Jon-Tom thought as he turned away from the

peaceful scene. It was hard to imagine that all who frolicked or chattered in

the square might soon be dead or locked in slavery.

It looked heartbreakingly normal. He felt that if he could only blink, refocus

his mind, when he opened his eyes again there would be old men sitting and

talking, boys and girls running and playing. And yet they were old men, boys and

girls, for all their shapes were different and they were covered with warm fur.

It was the warm blood that mattered. Everything else was superficial.

He turned to gaze into the hallway before them. They would have to face and

convince a hostile, suspicious Council of the danger that was imminent. Somehow

he would have to master the magic inherent in his duar and in his voice. He was

not going to confront a group of teachers now, not about to present a scholarly

master's thesis on some obscure portion of history. Millions of lives were at

stake. The future of this world and maybe his own.

Except... this was his world now, and the dark future foreseen by Clothahump had

become his future. His friends stood alongside him, ready to offer support and

comfort. Flor Quintera never looked as beautiful shouting inanities beside a

field of false combat. He would talk loud and hope silently.

"Let's go, and may the strength of our ancestors go with us," announced

Clothahump, trundling up the last steps.

Jon-Tom could only agree, though as they passed beneath the appraising stares of

the soldiers lining the hallway, he wished fervently for a little grass, and not

the kind that grew in the courtyard outside.

REVISION HISTORY

v2.1 wg

-found v2.0 html in IRC

-added chapter links

-minor reformatting