Exceptions To Reality Part 11

Once, long ago, he was a bright and promising student who had done well in school. Well enough to be considered for attending the university, in Cairo. But his hardworking family, Allah's blessings be upon them, had been dirt poor-which in soil-poor Egypt is a description to be taken literally. Even with Ali being an only child, there had been barely enough money for food, let alone higher schooling. As for the university, it was made clear to Ali that such a notion was out of the question.

Forced to look for a job to help support himself and his increasingly feeble parents, the ever-resourceful Ali had seen how rich tourists paid incredible amounts of money to visit and view the fabled ancient wonders of his country. The guides who escorted such people through temples and tombs not only received substantial salaries from the tour companies, but were also the recipients of frequent tips, sometimes in hard currency, from the grateful visitors. Espying an opportunity where there seemed to be none-something Ali had always been good at-he proceeded to apprentice himself to one of the best-known and most successful of the local guide groups.

Alas, many years had pa.s.sed, and he was still carrying heavy luggage and fetching cold drinks and doing only the most menial of tasks for the guide service. They guarded their privileges jealously, did the guides. Many times, Ali had seen less qualified apprentices promoted over him, only because they had connections: this one was somebody's cousin or that one, wealthy Aunt Aamal's son. A poor boy like himself was kept down.

This sorry state of affairs continued despite his excellent and ever-improving command of English, as well as his knowledge of many things ancient that he had acquired from listening to the other guides, reading guidebooks, and humbly asking questions of the more knowledgeable tourists themselves. In truth, it had to be admitted that the visitors from overseas encouraged him in his efforts to better himself more than did his own countrymen.

Especially more than Harima. He was not good enough for her, she was fond of telling anyone who would listen. He was too short, too dark, he didn't make enough money, he was a lousy lover-ah, Harima, he mused! Wild-haired, lovely, full-lipped Harima-who once was the love of his life and he, he had thought, of hers. No longer. Black visions of drooling jackals and squawking buzzards helping themselves to hearty hunks of the hefty Harima filled his head. Unworthy thoughts, he knew. But he could not help them.

To get away from her he had taken Suhar, his favorite camel (truth be told, his only camel) for a nocturnal jaunt into the desert in the direction of the ca.n.a.l. A piece of the desert, the real desert, was very near to Ali's village. It was not hard to get away from contemporary civilization and back to those of the great Pharaohs and kings of ancient Egypt. It was their temples that brought the tourists to his town and kept them coming back. Neither Ali nor the guides for whom he worked were ashamed to admit that the best thing about the temples was the money they continued to bring in, thousands of years after their builders had vanished.

The moon that floated high in the star-flecked sky was nearly full. Ali enjoyed the ride, as did Suhar. The farther from the village they rode, the more a calming peace settled on both man and camel, and the farther the lights of the city of Zagazig faded into the distance. He took a different track than usual. As his mount's wide, splayed feet shusshed over the sands, away from the roads and trails that led to the main tourist sites, the steady yammering of televisions and of boom boxes and, yes, of Harima faded from memory as well as from earshot.

It was well past midnight when Suhar suddenly stopped. Ali frowned. Nothing lay in front of them but flat desert and the still-distant ca.n.a.l. Giving her a firm nudge in the ribs, he yelled "Hut, hut!" Still she refused to move.

What ails the beast? he wondered. Dismounting, he strode out in front of her. If he failed to return before sunrise, Harima would lay into him even more than usual. She would accuse him of spending their money, her money, on illegal liquor or women or khat. He winced as he envisioned the knowing smiles that would appear on the faces of his neighbors, and the disapproving expressions he would encounter the next time he went into town for coffee.

Taking the reins, he began tugging. Gently at first, then more forcefully. But neither sharp gesture nor angry words could persuade the camel to budge so much as a foot.

"Sp.a.w.n of the devil! Spewer of sour milk! Why do I waste good money on food for you? If not for the tourists who like to have their picture taken with you, I would sell you for steaks and chops!" Unimpressed, in the manner of camels, Suhar stood and chewed and said nothing.

"Come on, on," Ali snapped. Leaning back, he put his full weight into the reins. As he took a step, Suhar emitted an outraged bawl. This was overridden by the sound of a loud crack beneath his feet. With a yelp and a shout, he felt himself plunge downward and out of sight.

Above, Suhar stood quietly masticating her cud. She did not move forward toward the yawning cavity that had appeared in the desert.

Spitting out dust and grit while mustering several suitable curses, a groaning Ali rolled over and climbed slowly to his feet. Though his backside throbbed where he had landed, the fall had wounded his dignity more than his body. Feeling carefully of himself, he decided that nothing was broken. Looking up, he saw that the hole through which he had fallen was no more than a meter wide. Sand continued to spill from the edges of the opening, the trickling grains illuminated by the moon that was still high in the night sky.

What had he tumbled into? An old well, perhaps. But a well would have been deeper. Turning as he continued to dust himself off, he let his eyes adjust to the subdued moonlight.

And sucked in his breath.

Surrounding him were beautifully painted walls. Fourth or Fifth Dynasty, he decided, drawing upon his years of acc.u.mulated knowledge about his ancestors' works. The elaborate murals were intact and completely undamaged. At the four corners of the chamber stood four ma.s.sive diorite statues of Bastet, the cat G.o.d of the ancient Egyptians. Except for them the tomb-for such it had to be with a stone sarcophagus in its center-was empty. His heart, which had leaped so high the instant he had recognized his surroundings, now fell. No golden chariots blinded his gaze, no metal chests of precious stones stood waiting to be opened. The tomb was in excellent condition, but it either had been looted or else was the resting place of some poor man.

And yet-the quality of the murals was exceptional. That did not square with the apparent emptiness of the chamber. And then there was the single sarcophagus, resting in isolated majesty in the exact center of the room. It was not large, indicating that this was perhaps the final resting place of a juvenile. Or maybe an intended resting place, given the barrenness of the chamber.

He consoled himself with the knowledge that while there might not be any great riches present, the four ma.s.sive and well-made statues of Bastet would surely be worth something. Even mummies themselves could be sold. He hesitated. That was provided there was a mummy here, of course, and that the sarcophagus was not empty.

It took him nearly an hour to shift the heavy stone cover far enough to one side to let him get at the inner sarcophagus. For a second time, his heart jumped, this time at the flash of gold within. Sadly, the inner container was only of gilded wood. It opened far more easily than had the upper cover. Another person might have been frightened, working there alone beneath the desert in a previously undiscovered tomb, opening ancient sarcophagi. Not Ali. The desert, the nearby ancient city of Bubastis, were his home. He had spent all his life among such relics of the distant past. The only danger in doing what he was doing, he knew, came from inhaling too much dust and mold or being discovered by the antiquities authorities.

The inner cover was muscled aside, allowing him to see within. His brows furrowed uncertainly. The inner sarcophagus contained a mummy, all right-but a mummy unlike any he had ever seen. It was too big to be a child, and the wrong shape for a man or woman. What could it be? From local excavations in and around Tell Basta, Ali knew that the rulers of Bubastis had sometimes caused selected holy cats to be interred beside them along with human members of their household. The statues of Bastet pointed the way to the answer, helping him to finally recognize the shape.

It was indeed a mummified feline, not unlike those from the famous graveyard of mummified holy cats-but this was no house cat. This was big, much bigger. Was it unusual or unique enough to be particularly valuable? There was no way of telling without calling on expert help. It did not look particularly heavy-certainly no heavier than had been the stone lid of the main sarcophagus. He knew a man who, for a reasonable price, could identify such things and who would ask no awkward questions.

Ali was very strong in the arms and shoulders from years of carrying tourists' overfilled luggage. Suhar could manage the dual burden of man and mummy easily. Reaching into the inner container, he carefully slipped both hands under the wrappings that had lain undisturbed for thousands of years, preparatory to lifting it out.

Something moved against his fingers. And coughed.

"Inshallah!" he exclaimed involuntarily as he dropped the weight and stumbled backward. Eyes wide, his back pressed against the far wall, he gaped in wide-eyed fear and wonder at the sarcophagus. he exclaimed involuntarily as he dropped the weight and stumbled backward. Eyes wide, his back pressed against the far wall, he gaped in wide-eyed fear and wonder at the sarcophagus.

The mummy was getting up.

It rose slowly on all four feet, a lean and lithe bundle of unimaginably ancient linen and encrusted, desiccated preservatives. Trembling violently, Ali scuttled to his right. But there was no stairway that led to freedom, no ladder with which to climb out of the chamber. Come to think of it, how had he intended to get the mummy out of the tomb, much less himself? Excited by his accidental discovery, he had not thought that far ahead. Now he looked at the circle of moonlight overhead as if it represented the route to Heaven. He would have screamed, but there was no one to hear him.

An odor reached his nostrils: the smell of something incredibly ancient but rapidly reviving. Suhar caught a whiff of it, too. He heard her snort once, in fear, before the clomp-clomp of her big, oversized, suddenly lovable feet commenced to recede rapidly into the distance.

Now he was well and truly alone. Alone with-something.

Oh G.o.d, he thought. It's looking at me. It's looking at me.

Indeed, the bandage-swathed head had turned toward him. Behind the rapidly disintegrating wrappings, a pair of intense yellow eyes were gazing directly back into his own. They seemed to burn into his soul, to squeeze his very heart. And yet, and yet-there was no murder in them, but something else. Curiosity, perhaps. Curiosity, and-intelligence.

That was impossible, he knew. But then, to have a millennia-old mummy suddenly stand up and stare back at you was not exactly possible, either, and that was happening before his very eyes.

The feline shape coughed again. Louder, this time. Then it seemed to stretch, to expand, as if taking a deep breath. It shook furiously. Before his terrified eyes, desiccated, ancient linens snapped and crumbled. Chewing hard enough on the knuckles of his left hand to bring blood to the surface, Ali could only stare and pray.

In the full flush of vibrant, new life, the cheetah concluded its yawning stretch. When it turned toward him again, there was no mistaking what it was. When it started toward him, he closed his eyes. Mummy or magic, anything this old with teeth like that was bound to be hungry.

Shivering, Ali felt a powerful paw reach out to touch his thigh. He could smell the creature clearly now, much as Suhar had smelled it-and fled. He waited for the sharp caress of claw against his throat. It would all be over in an instant, he knew. His friends in the village would never know what had happened to him. Maybe someday someone would find his gnawed, whitened bones. At least, he reflected, he would no longer have to listen to Harima's shrill, shrewish insults. There were some small good things to be said even for a premature death.

"Open your eyes, man. I'm not going to kill you."

Somehow the idea of a talking cheetah struck him as even more absurd than that of a revivified mummy. But since there was no one else in the tomb with him, the words had to be coming from the revived cat. Opening his eyes, still shaking with fear, Ali found himself looking down at the creature. A truly magnificent specimen it was, too, he thought.

"Thank you," the cheetah responded politely, which was when Ali realized that they were not speaking aloud, but speaking athink, as it were. Whether he was reading the cat's mind or it his, he did not know. Nor did it seem to matter much.

"It doesn't," the cat thought at him. Slowly, deliberately, it looked around the chamber before its eyes settled on him once more. Some of his trembling having ceased, Ali could not keep from thinking half-sensible thoughts.

"Who are you, peace be unto him?"

"I do not know who 'him' may be, but I am Unarhotep, Pharaoh of Egypt, son of Arenatem the Fourth, grandson of Arenatem the Third, Lord of the Upper and Lower Kingdoms, Ruler of the Nile. Who are you you?"

"Just Ali. Ali Kedal. That's all. I'm a guide. I show to visitors the wonders of this part of my country." He took a chance. He had always been a bit of a gambler. "Our country."

"I see. Then you are not a servant of Osiris, and this is not the Underworld." The cheetah paced thoughtfully for a moment before looking up again. "What year is this, Ali Kedal?"

Ali considered. The modern calendar would mean nothing to someone from so ancient a time. Unarhotep would have no reference for it. "As near as I can tell, it has been some four thousand eight hundred years since your entombment, my lord."

"So long! The mere thinking of it makes me tired. If this is the truth, then I cannot be your lord. You may call me Unar. My mother did. The kingdom of Egypt still exists, then?"

"As it ever has been, Egypt remains a wonder of the world. Its history and its monuments are still revered by all mankind." He hesitated briefly. "Might I ask, oh lor-Unar, how you came to be in this...form?"

The Pharaonic feline began to pace restlessly; back and forth, back and forth. "I was Pharaoh only for a very short time. I contracted a wasting illness with which my court physicians were, sadly, unfamiliar. There was at that time a certain mystic working in Thebes. A sorcerer named, if I remember correctly, h.o.r.exx. A venerable man. Nubian, I believe. He claimed to be able to oversee the transfer of a soul from one body to another. But not to that of another human person. To do that would require chasing the soul from that other person's body. This feat was beyond h.o.r.exx's powers.

"But he felt certain that, if given the opportunity, he could shift a person's soul into any other kind of body. As it rapidly became clear that the disease that was consuming my person would leave me with nothing in which to dwell in the other world, it was left to me to choose the vessel for my soul's life after death. Following much discussion among my most learned advisers, it was decided to put me in this body, of my beloved pet Musat, and consecrate the result to the cat G.o.d Bastet." Raising up on hind legs-a thing Ali had never before seen or heard of-the cheetah pawed gently at the air in the direction of the open sarcophagus.

"Though the procedure was both torturous and painful, in the end Musat's body welcomed me. It is a powerful form, handsome, swift, and elegant. A fitting container for the soul of a Pharaoh. Unfortunately so shocking was the transfer that it resulted in the death of Musat's body as well as mine." The big cat dropped back down onto all fours. "It was declared by h.o.r.exx that the first person who should touch my preserved form would have the ability to think 'with' me, and that that person alone should be my guide through the Underworld for all eternity." A paw gestured, taking in the modest chamber.

"I determined to be interred here, in this simple place, so that my person would not be disturbed by those low-born ones who live by pillaging the tombs of better men who went before them."

"I am sorry, Unar." Ali was genuinely apologetic. "I have disturbed your sleep of thousands of years only to have to welcome you yet again to the real world, and not that of Osiris and Horus, of Bastet and Anubis." Privately he knew that such imaginary beings did not exist, nor did the Underworld they were supposed to rule. But he could hardly venture that opinion to one who believed in them as deeply and personally as did Unarhotep. One man's superst.i.tious nonsense is another man's true religion.

But the revived Pharaoh surprised him.

"Perhaps it is just as well. I was never so certain of the existence of Osiris's realm myself. To the unending frustration of my scholars, I was always a freethinking sort of man. Such beliefs could be discussed freely only on rare, private occasions." The cat's head came up proudly. "A Pharaoh must be strong for his people.

"If I am to live again, perhaps this real world is not such a bad place or time in which to do so. Is Egypt still the ruler of the known world?"

Emboldened by both his knowledge and the continued friendliness of the most ancient one, Ali stepped a little bit away from the beautifully painted wall.

"The world has changed in ways you cannot imagine, Unar. There are many more countries and lands than when you reigned. Science has changed the way the world runs. There are great things about it that even I do not understand. Computers, atomic energy, the Internet..."

The cat raised a paw to forestall him. "Do men still lie with women, and thus make children?"

"Yes." Ali could not keep from smiling. "That, at least, has not changed."

"And what of riches, of the material wealth of men? Do they still value such things as gold and silver, and precious stones?" Once again, Ali nodded. "Then it may be," the cheetah thought clearly, "that it is only the superficial things that have changed as much as you say, and that at heart and at base, men are still much the same. Do they still choose others to rule over them?"

"It is, indeed. If I may say so, Unar, you are handling this very well."

"Though I did not rule long, I ruled well. To do so, one must learn to adapt to new things very quickly, be they an unexpected war, foreign alliances, or something as small as a new way of raising building stones. Even for a Pharaoh, a living G.o.d, life is a constant battle to learn and to retain mastery over others." He looked down at himself. "Yet I confess that for all my experience and knowledge, I cannot see how I can make myself again even a little bit of what once I was: a lord over men, wealthy and admired, with a host of concubines at my side and great men trembling and waiting at my every utterance. Because for as long as I may live again, I will have to live in this form and no other."

It was then that Ali had the idea. He was, after all, sophisticated from extensive contact with foreign tourists. And while his village was poor, it was not isolated. There were things about the world that Ali had learned and remembered. Things that anyone who lives in the real world learns very quickly.

"I think, my lo-Unar-that I may be able to help you to regain some of what you once had. Some of your stature, some of the effect you had on other people. Maybe even the company of beautiful concubines."

"This is a true thing? You do not lie?" The cheetah grinned, which, unfortunately, had the opposite effect on Ali than what was intended. "If you can do such a thing, Ali, then you will truly be my friend for the remainder of my life in this world, as well as in the next."

"We can but try," Ali confessed. Turning, he looked up at the circle of moonlight overhead. "Hopefully someone will come along and find us before the desert overtakes us." He gestured helplessly. "I found this place by accident, by falling in, and have no way out."

"Is that all?" Unarlotep asked. And with a single bound, he leaped upward and through the opening.

It does not matter how Unarhotep helped Ali to get out of the tomb. It only matters that he did. Nor need it be dwelled upon how the two got themselves out of Egypt. Only that they did.

So it was that one day, camel guide and resurrected cat found themselves in another country far, far from the dehydrated delights of Thebes and that haranguing harridan Harima. A tall man was standing next to Ali. He wore a very fine shirt and pants along with sungla.s.ses that themselves would have cost Ali six months' earnings as a guide's a.s.sistant. The tall man was nervous, and made no effort to hide it.

"You're sure about your animal, now, Ali? We can't take any chances here. I'm not using a double for Tiffany. She really wants to do this shot herself, and I want her to do it. But if anything goes wrong, the studio, the insurance company, and the ASPCA will have my a.s.s in a grinder for it."

Ali waved off the concerns. "I a.s.sure you, Carl, that my cat will do exactly as I instruct it. You have nothing to worry about. Nothing whatsoever."

The director still looked uncertain. "Yeah, well, you'd better be right. I mean, when the time came to do the animal casting for this picture, your name was at the top of the list. I'm told you're the best big cat trainer in the business, even if you only work with the one animal."

"I only need one," Ali replied loftily. "Do your shot, Carl. I'll be right here, watching in case I am needed."

But he would not be needed, he knew, as he watched the final touches being put on the elaborate setup for the next sequence. He wouldn't be needed because Unar, the wonder cheetah, the best-trained and by far the most famous big cat in Hollywood, who was now known and admired all over the world, had demonstrated again and again an astonishing ability to carry out the most complex series of owner commands in response to hand and eye gestures even the most experienced animal trainers were unable to detect.

So it was that Ali was able to relax and watch the action unfold as the director called for action, the cameras rolled, and the snarling cheetah, guardian of the mysterious lost temple of Unak-Pathon, approached the two nearly naked heroines. It proceeding to paw and lick them threateningly and thoroughly, but yet with the most astonishing self-control...

Serenade

When, after years of writing science fiction, I decided to try my hand at novel-length fantasy, I determined not to write anything that included sweeping pseudo-medieval empires, all-knowing wizards with long white beards (if they possess such deep and unfathomable knowledge, why can't they keep their hair from turning white?), n.o.ble elves, evil dragons, and all the other all-too-familiar-paraphernalia of traditional European-derived fantasy.

So the Spellsinger books include references to drug-taking and much fooling around, fairies too fat to get off the ground (aerobics are in order), flying horses afraid of heights, a Marxist dragon who only wants to organize the ma.s.ses (except that the ma.s.ses are terrified of dragons and run like h.e.l.l at the sight of him), misplaced stage magicians, a unicorn who cannot be lured to his death by a virgin because he's gay, and much, much more. For better or verse, Tolkien and Rowling it is not.

Of those who have read the series, one of their favorite characters is a five-foot-tall talking otter named Mudge. Mudge is a consumer of mind-altering substances, a drunk, a thief, an irrepressible lech (irrespective of species), a coward at heart, and a l.u.s.ter after money obtained through any means possible. He is also a great deal of fun to be around and a true friend (most of the time) to the nominal hero of the stories, a displaced university law student and would-be rock guitarist named Jon-Tom Meriweather who can make (usually bad) magic with the aid of a unique instrument called a duar.

"Serenade" eventuated as the result of a request by an editor in England who was planning a series of extended graphic novels and wished to include a Spellsinger story among them. Sadly, his financing for the series fell through, but the story remained. Here it is-alas, sans graphics-though Mudge's antics may be sufficiently graphic for most...

I.

The young woman was beautiful, her male companion was shy, and the hat was surrept.i.tious. This feathered chapeau of uncertain parentage bobbed along innocently enough behind the stone wall on which the two young paramours sat whispering sweet nothings to each other. The hat dipped out of sight an instant before the girl's lips parted in shock. Reacting swiftly to the perceived offense, she whirled and struck the startled young man seated beside her hard enough to knock him backward off the wall. But by that time the intruding hat had hastened beyond sight, sound, and probable indictment. was beautiful, her male companion was shy, and the hat was surrept.i.tious. This feathered chapeau of uncertain parentage bobbed along innocently enough behind the stone wall on which the two young paramours sat whispering sweet nothings to each other. The hat dipped out of sight an instant before the girl's lips parted in shock. Reacting swiftly to the perceived offense, she whirled and struck the startled young man seated beside her hard enough to knock him backward off the wall. But by that time the intruding hat had hastened beyond sight, sound, and probable indictment.

Occupying the s.p.a.ce beneath the hat and having happily strewn amorous chaos in his wake was a five-foot-tall otter, clad (in addition to the aforementioned feathered cap) in short pants, long vest, and a self-satisfied smirk. Ignoring the occasional glances that came his way, the hirsute, bewhiskered, and thoroughly disreputable Mudge continued wending his way through the busy streets of downtown Timswitty. Eventually his sharp eyes caught sight of his friend, companion, and frequent irritant from another world leaning against the wall of a dry-goods shop while soaking up the sun. Dodging a single lizard-drawn wagon festooned with clanging pots and pans for sale, he hailed his companion with a cheery early-morning obscenity.

Arms crossed over his chest, duar slung across his back, scabbard flanking his right leg, Jon-Tom Meriweather opened one eye to regard his much shorter friend. In this world of undersized humans and loquacious animals, the six-foot-tall involuntary visitor stood out in any crowd. Except for his unusual height, however, he was not an especially impressive specimen of his species.

"Back already? Let me guess-you've been making mischief again."

"Wot, me, guv'nor? You strike me to the quick! Why, I didn't even know the la.s.s."

Jon-Tom frowned. "What la.s.s?"

The otter mustered a look of innocence, at which self-defense mechanism he had enjoyed extensive practice. "Why, Miss Chief, o' course."

"One of these days I'll strike you for real." Pushing away from the wall, Jon-Tom nearly stepped into the path of a goat hauling firewood. Apologizing to the annoyed billy, he started up Pikk Street, only to find his path blocked by a lean human little taller than Mudge. Of an age greater than that of the two travelers combined, the well-dressed graybeard wore a colorful cloak, and trousers woven of some soft red and blue material. The cloak's cowl covered his head, and he carried a simple wooden staff finialed with a polished globe. Mudge eyed the sphere with cursory interest. This flagged the instant he identified the opaque vitriosity as ordinary gla.s.s not worth pilfering "Excuse me, good sirs." Though he addressed them both, it was Jon-Tom's face that drew the bulk of the visitor's interest. Jon-Tom had spent enough time in this world to be wary of strangers. Even those who were elderly, polite, well-dressed, and to all intents and purposes harmless.

"Is there something we can do for you, esteemed sir?"

"I am called Wolfram. I am in need of a.s.sistance of an uncommon kind." With a nod he indicated a nearby doorway. Swaying from an iron rod above the portal was a sign that identified the establishment as the WILD BOAR INN. WILD BOAR INN. "Perhaps it would be better to discuss matters of business somewhere other than in the street." "Perhaps it would be better to discuss matters of business somewhere other than in the street."

Mudge, who had been tracking the progress of an attractive lady mink, responded without taking his eyes from the pa.s.sing tail. "Me friend an' me don't interrupt our day to shoot the scat with just anyone who accosts us in public." As the mink tail vanished, so, too, did the otter's interest in its slinky owner. He sighed. "You buyin'?" The stranger nodded again. Mudge's whiskers quivered appreciatively. "Then I guess we're shootin'." He preceded the two humans into the establishment, his short tail twitching expectantly from side to side.

Like most such Bellwoods establishments, the Wild Boar Inn was already crowded with drinkers and natterers, characters unsavory and tasteful, trolling wenches and amenable marks. The owner, a husky but amiable wild boar name of Focgren, paused in the careful ladling out of questionable libations long enough to grunt in the direction of an unoccupied booth near the back. Their order was taken by an obviously bored but nonetheless attractive vixen whose agility as she avoided Mudge's wandering fingers was admirable to behold. Spangles and beads jangled against the back of her dress and up-raised, carefully coiffed tail. The booth's battered, thick wooden walls served to mute the convivial chaos that swirled around the newly seated trio.

"You were saying something about a.s.sistance of an uncommon kind?" Jon-Tom sipped politely at his tankard while Mudge made a conscious effort to bury his snout in the one that had been set before him.

Having set his walking staff carefully aside, Wolfram indicated the duar that now rested alongside the tall young human. "Your instrument is as conspicuous as your height, and not the sort to be carried by just any wandering minstrel. You are, perchance, a spellsinger?"

Jon-Tom's interest in the stranger rose appreciably. Recognizing a duar for what it was marked the older man as more sophisticated than originally supposed. There might be real business to be done here.

"While lacking in experience, I a.s.sure you I try every day to improve my art."

Wolfram nodded appreciatively. "Excellent! I am most of all in need simply of your musical talents, but I will not deny that a touch of wizardry would also prove useful."

Suds foaming on his whiskers, a suddenly wary Mudge extracted his face from the tankard. His bright brown eyes flicked rapidly from friend to benefactor and back again. "Wizardry? Spellsingin'-type magic-making?" He pushed the tankard aside. "Oh no, mate. Count me out! I've 'ad enough o' your so-called singin' o' spells to last me a lifetime!" Rising from the table, he moved to leave.