But other voices were present.
It was not unknown for wizards to entertain visitors at odd hours, but such meetings were always held in the front parlor, not in the kitchen. He hesitated as he thought about returning home to get his ramwood fighting staff. But having already refused to bring it, such a return would only make him look foolish in Talea’s eyes. Anyway, he didn’t need the ramwood. He had his duar.
He felt his way down the steps that led into the tree. They led him into the back of the pantry, which was filled with preserved crawfish, river greens, bottles and jars of spices and flavorings and dressings and every other sort of victual that might appeal to the palate of a discriminating two-hundred-and-fifty-year-old turtle.
Carefully he opened the pantry door. A dim glow bulb cast faint light through the kitchen. The voices, much louder now, came from beyond. The lab was to his right down a narrow corridor. The dining room lay straight ahead. Closing the door quietly behind him, he tiptoed past the stove where Sorbl the owl toiled daily and leaned against the kitchen–dining area divider.
It was easy to make out what was being said. The voice that was currently speaking did not sound like that of an invited guest.
“Where is it? I’m getting tired of asking the same question, wizard!”
Jon-Tom clutched the duar close to his chest and slowly nudged the door outward. The glow bulbs in the dining room were running at maximum intensity and he could see clearly. Wings fastened to his side, his clawed feet tied together and his beak taped shut, Sorbl sat bound to a chair. Clothahump had been secured to another chair in the center of the room. The dining table had been shoved to one side.
Three figures confronted the stubborn wizard. None looked to be the sort one would invite to elevate the general level of conversation at a casual soiree. A tall, muscular wolf leaned on the shaft of his battle-axe and picked his teeth. Jon-Tom saw that he had only one eye. The other socket had been filled with a large cabachon citrine which sparkled piss-yellow in the glow-bulb light.
A civet cat lounged against a chair next to him. The cat’s sword rested in its sheath and he held a bucket from which rose thick steam. To his right stood the portly individual who had been doing most of the talking Jon-Tom had overheard. The guinea pig was not cute. At four feet he had to stretch to lean over the back of the chair to which Clothahump was tied. He wore a suit of thin chain mail which jangled as he hopped up and down in anger and frustration.
Clothahump had retreated completely into his shell. The wizard’s hands, feet and head were not visible. The guinea pig was leaning over the opening in the top of the shell and screaming inside. Ugly scars showed on his neck where the hair had never grown back.
“Come out of there, damn you! I’m tired of talking to a carapace.” He started to reach inside with a paw, thought better of it and did not. Then he stepped back and nodded to the civet cat. To Jon-Tom’s horror he saw that the bucket held boiling hot mud, which the cat was preparing to dump down Clothahump’s shell.
The threat was sufficient to induce Clothahump to slowly stick out his head. He squinted in the light, his hexagonal glasses unsteady on his beak. Obviously he and Sorbl had been surprised while sleeping, before either could take any defensive action.
“For the last time, I am telling you to get out while you still have a chance.” Clothahump sniffed disdainfully. “I am the world’s greatest wizard. Tying me to a chair will not prevent me from turning all of you into walking flagons of pain. I will strip the flesh from your bones, slowly and agonizingly. It is only out of the goodness of my heart and out of sympathy for such blatantly ignorant morons as yourselves that I have not done so already!”
The wolf cast a hesitant glance in the direction of his leader, but the boss of the bandits wasn’t fazed in the slightest by the wizard’s threat.
“Typical turtle drivel. If you could do anything to us you would have done so already. Without ready access to your potions and powders you’re helpless. Empty threats irritate patience already grown thin. For the last time, I say, tell us where your gold is hidden!”
“For the last time,” Clothahump replied in an irritated mutter, “I tell you that I have no gold. I have better things to do with my time than spend it amassing a useless fortune. My house is rich in knowledge only, a treasure beyond compare which lies forever beyond the grasp of your soiled fingers. As my servant can attest, I keep on hand only enough money to pay my household expenses, which are not exorbitant.” At this blatant attempt to deflect the thieves’ attention to him, Sorbl squirmed nervously in his chair, his vast yellow eyes wider even than usual.
The guinea pig spat on the clean floor. “Everyone knows that wizards like to keep treasure close about ’em.” He cast sharp glances in all directions. “There are riches in this tree. I can smell them.” His whiskers quivered as he looked back into Clothahump’s eyes.
“The sun will be up soon and I’m tired of talking. I’ve no time for visiting noseybodies.” He nodded to the civet cat. “Let’s see how the old fakir likes having something a little warmer than his shell next to his skin.”
The cat grinned and raised the steaming bucket. Clothahump eyed it until the first drop of hot mud began to slide over the rim. “No, wait. I’ll tell you.”
Holding the bucket in position, the cat glanced to his leader for instructions.
“All right, that’s better. What’s a little lost gold to the ‘greatest wizard in the world’?” The guinea pig shoved his bristly face right up against Clothahump’s. “Tell us your secret place, then, and be quick about it.”
“A moment, if you please, to catch my breath.” The bandit gestured curtly for the civet cat to back off. “I must think—I am very old and have not had the need to check on the condition of my hoard for some time. As your small minds have no doubt already noticed, this tree contains many more rooms than one would think to look upon it from outside.”
“I’ve seen dimension-expanding spells at work before.” The guinea pig was tapping his sword sheath impatiently. “Don’t try to impress me with such as that, and don’t think to stall me, either.”
“Please be quiet.” Clothahump closed his eyes, bowed his head forward. “I have to concentrate.”
Heretofore, Clothahump’s reputation had been enough to keep would-be thieves away from his sanctuary. These three were much bolder than the rest—or much stupider. They didn’t know enough to be frightened. That did not lessen the threat they posed to the old sorceror.
Three common thugs. Well, he could deal with them easily enough.
He took a step back and kicked open the door. It slammed against the dining room wall with a sound like a cannon going off. The civet cat nearly dropped the bucket of hot mud he was threatening Clothahump with while the guinea pig did a complete turn in midair. Raising his battle-axe, the wolf bared his fangs and assumed a defensive pose.
Jon-Tom glared down at the trio of intruders, well aware that he towered over the tallest of them. “It’s too early in the morning for fun and games.” He ignored wolf and civet cat and spoke directly to the guinea pig. “That means it’s time for sensible beings who want to live to see another morning to be in bed. That includes bewhiskered butterballs with bad table manners. The lot of you have five seconds to clear out before I reduce you all to gibbering mush.”
So saying and having already chosen a suitable tune, he plucked out a few chords on the duar. The civet cat jumped away from the noise and tossed the mud bucket aside, splattering the floor. The wolf winced visibly. So did Sorbl for that matter, but not Clothahump.
“My boy, I cannot recall a previous occasion when I had reason to compliment you on your usually atrocious timing, but this makes up for it. Thank you for saving me from an indecorous situation.”
Wary but far from trembling in his sandals, the guinea pig glanced back at the bound wizard. “Who is this singing fool who carries no weapon and challenges us clad in his nightclothes?”
“This is Jon-Tom,” said Clothahump. “Just as I am the greatest of all wizards, so is he the greatest of all spellsingers. And while I do not have access to my magic potions and powders, as you have so carefully noted, you will also note that he carries his instrument of power with him. With a few fragments of song he can spin the world like a top. Or strip the fur from incautious intruders.” He looked past the guinea pig. “Have mercy on them, Jon-Tom. I know your temper, but none have suffered yet.” Now he turned to fix a warning stare on the civet cat.
“You still have a chance, albeit a fast vanishing one, to leave here with your heads still attached to your disreputable necks. Avail yourselves of it or I will not be responsible. I cannot restrain the spellsinger forever.”
The wolf was starting to retreat toward the far door. “Mebbee we better do as he says, Squig.”
“Sure is a strange looking one,” agreed the civet cat in a rasping tone.
Having chanced so much and nearly accomplished all, the guinea pig was not quite ready to concede defeat.
“So you’re a spellsinger, eh?” As he spoke he was drawing a short, thick-bladed knife from his belt. Jon-Tom did his best to ignore this as he glared down at his adversary.
“That’s right, fatso. I’ve defeated demons with powers beyond your comprehension, have freed wandering perambulators to cavort openly between the stars, have battled otherworldly sorcerors and whole armies of plated folk. Now take your weakling minions and begone, lest I loose my wrath on you all!”
As a threat it was magnificently purple, but ineffective. The guinea pig gestured with the knife, twisting the blade through the air.
“How about if I loose the blood in your veins? Since your throat is out of reach, I think I’ll start on your legs.”
