There was no road sign, no warning. They didn’t so much march into Strelakat Mews as stumble into it.

Jon-Tom had been too preoccupied with other matters to envision the town in his mind, so he wasn’t prepared for the enchanting reality. Neither were his companions. It cast an immediate spell over all of them. All the dangers and travails of the long journey were behind now. They could relax, take it easy, and let themselves succumb to the charm of this unique community carved out of the middle of the Mews.

At the edge of the town the jungle had been pruned rather than merely cleared away. Those trees and bushes which put forth large flowers had been left intact to lend their color and fragrance to the periphery. No one pointed this out to Mudge as he was still somewhat sensitive where the matter of blossoms was concerned. Any mention of flowers tended to tilt him to the homicidal.

A single cobblestone street wound its way through town, its very existence as astonishing as the precision with which the stones had been set. Jon-Tom could only try to imagine where the townsfolk had quarried perfect cobblestones in the middle of the jungle.

The first shop they passed was a bakery, from which such wonderful smells issued that even the grumpy Mudge began to salivate. As was true of every establishment they passed, the exterior reflected the inhabitant’s occupation. The roofing shingles resembled slabs of chocolate. Surely the window panes were fashioned of spun sugar, the doors and paneling of gingerbead, and the lintels of strudel. Ropes of red licorice bound candy logs together. Yet all was illusion, as Mudge discovered when he tried to steal a quick lick of spongecake fence only to discover it was made of wood and not flour.

A master sculptor’s residence was hewn from white marble which had been buffed to such a high polish not even a solitary raindrop could cling to it. Woodworkers’ homes were miracles of elaborate carving, baroque with curlicues and reliefs. Seamless joints were covered with fruitwood veneers. Such work was normally reserved for the fashioning of fine furniture.

A painter’s house was a landscape of mountains and clouds set down amidst green jungle. A rainbow seemed to move across the face of the building.

“Magic,” said Cautious.

“Not magic. Superior artistry. Superior skill and craftsmanship.”

They passed a mason’s house, an infinity of tiny colored stones set in an almost invisible matrix. A furniture maker’s establishment resembled a giant overstuffed settee surmounted by a dining room table. But nowhere did they see a storefront or home that suggested its owner was a maker of musical instruments.

They finally had to stop outside the house of a master weaver. Jon-Tom rang the bell set in the door of woven reeds, a rectangle of brown against walls of dyed wool, alpaca and qiviot. The weaver was a four-foot-tall paca, built like a pear and clad in a simple tunic. She rested against the door jamb while she pondered the stranger’s story.

“I don’t know that you should bother Couvier Coulb,” she said at last.

Jon-Tom relaxed slightly. At least they’d come to the right place. He said as much to the weaver.

“Oh, this is the right place, yes.” She looked into his eyes, studied his face. “You’ve come a long way. And you say you are a spellsinger?”

Jon-Tom slid the sack containing the remnants of his duar off his shoulder and exhibited the contents. “Yes. My mentor, the wizard Clothahump, said that in all the world only Couvier Coulb might have the skill necessary to repair my duar.”

“A magical device.” She eyed it curiously. “Not many of us here deal with magic, though visitors think otherwise. Shomat the baker now, he can make decorations dance atop his cakes and spin spun sugar webbing spiders mistake for their own. Couvier Coulb knows also a trick or two.” She sighed, apparently arriving at a conclusion to some unspoken internal argument. “I can show you where he lives.” She stepped out onto the cotton porch and pointed.

“You go to the end of the main street. A trail turns to the left. Don’t take that one. Take the one after it. The house you want lies at its end a short walk from town, back in the trees beside a waterfall. You can’t mistake it for anyone else’s place.

“Be quiet in your approach. If there is no response when you knock on the door, please leave as silently as you came.”

Jon-Tom was carefully repacking the pieces of his duar. “Don’t worry. I wouldn’t be here unless it was an emergency.”

“You do not understand. You see, I fear you may have come too late. Couvier Coulb is dying.”

XV

MUDGE KICKED PEBBLES FROM his path as they made their way down the street. “Great, just great. We slog ’alfway across the world to get your bleedin’ instrument fixed an’ the only bloke wot can maybe do it up an’ croaks on us.”

“We don’t know that. He isn’t dead yet.” Jon-Tom shifted his pack higher on his back. “The weaver said he was dying, not that he was deceased.”

“Dyin’, dead, wot’s the difference. You think ’e’ll be in any kind o’ shape to work? The inconsiderate schmucko could’ve waited a couple of weeks till we’d finished our business before gettin’ on with ’is.”

“I’m sure if he’d known we were coming he would have postponed his fatal illness just to accommodate us.”

“Precisely me point, mate.”

Jon-Tom looked away. Just when he thought the otter might be turning into a halfway decent person he’d up and say something like that. Though by the standards of this world his behavior was hardly shocking.

They found the second trail and turned into the trees. It was a short hike to the house of Couvier Coulb. They were able to hear it before they could see it because the house itself reflected the mood of its master. This morning it was playing a funeral dirge, which was hardly encouraging. The melancholy music permeated the air, the earth, their very bones, filling them with sadness.

The walls of the house were composed of pipes: some of bamboo, others of dark grained wood, still others of gleaming metal. The ropes which bound them together vibrated like viola strings. Bright beams thrummed with the sonority of massed muffled trumpets. The waterfall which tumbled over a nearby cliff splashed in percussive counterpoint to the melody the house was playing. Sight and sound affected all of them equally. Even Mudge was subdued.

“This ’ere chap may not know ’ow to cure ’imself, but ’e sure as ’ell knows ’ow to make music. Rather wish ’e weren’t dyin’. I’d give a gold piece to see this place when ’e were ’ealthy.”

“Maybe we ought to just leave,” said Cautious. “Go back to town, try find somebody else.”

“There is no one else. That’s what Clothahump told us. That’s why we’ve come here. We have to see him.”

“Wot if ’e ain’t receivin’ no visitors, mate? Blimey, wot if ’e ain’t even receivin’ air no more?”

“We have to try.”

As they approached the front door the stones on which they trod rang like the plates of a gamelan. The doorbell was a flurry of flutes with an echo of panpipes. It was opened by a matronly possum. Her wise old eyes flicked over each of them in turn, stopping to rest on Jon-Tom.

“Strangers by the look of you. We don’t get many visitors. I don’t know from whence you come or why, but this is a house of the dying.”

Jon-Tom looked to Mudge for advice, found none available. He had come to this place for reasons of his own. Now he would have to deal with the results of his decisions in the same way.

“It’s about an instrument. Just one instrument. I don’t know where else to go or what else to do. I’ve come so far in the hope that Master Coulb might be able to fix it.”

“Master Coulb cannot rise from his bed, much less replace a reed in an oboe. I am Amalm, his housekeeper.” She started to close the door.

“Please!” Jon-Tom took a step forward, forced himself to be patient. “The wizard who teaches me insisted only Coulb could repair my duar. I must have it fixed or I can’t spellsing.”

The door opened a crack. “You be a spellsinger, young human?” He nodded. The door opened the rest of the way. “A wizard sent you here?” Another nod. “Then there is magic involved. Truly only Master Coulb could help you. If he were capable of helping anyone.” She hesitated, then sighed resignedly. “Because you have traveled far and magic is involved I will see if Master Coulb will speak to you. But be warned: he can do nothing for you. Perhaps he can recommend another.”

As they entered Jon-Tom had to bend to clear the opening. Their guide continued to talk. “There are other master instrument makers, but none like Master Coulb. Still, he may know of one I do not. After all, I am only the housekeeper. This way.”

She led them into a living room which was dominated by a tall stone fireplace. The wind whistled mournfully down the chimney, perfectly in tune with the melody the house was playing. There were several couches, each fashioned in the shape of some stringed instrument.

“Rest yourselves while I see to the Master.”

They sat and listened and stared. Wind whistled through the rafters while loose floor slats chimed against one another. The windowpanes resonated like drumheads.

“Gloomy sort o’ place,” whispered Mudge. “Too bleedin’ dignified for me.”

“What did you expect?” Jon-Tom asked him. “Bells and laughter?”

The housekeeper returned. “He is worse today, but then he is worse each day.”

“What kind of disease is he suifering from?”

“Maybe ’e’s just old,” Mudge said.