"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

 Alan Dean Foster

 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."

 Alan Dean Foster

 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.

 Aim Dean Foster

 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.

 Alan Dean Foster

 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

 Alan Dean Foster

 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 "

 Alan Dean Foster

 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

 Alan Dean Foster

 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."

 Alan Dean Foster

 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.