“Then I don’t guess you’d have one for sale, either.”

“Ah ah, because I do not myself personally me deal with magic does not mean I am unwilling or unable to trade in it. Sadly unfortunately discouragingly I have no duar to sell you. In fact, in all the years I have been in this business I have never so much as seen set eyes upon viewed a duar. I however have an item or two that might do for you.”

The first instrument he produced from below his counter resembled a piccolo with Pinocchio syndrome. Tiny secondary pipes emerged from the central tube like the branches of a tree. It was fashioned of holly wood and inlaid with mother of pearl.

“Difficult hard troublesome to play, but it is said that in the right hands it can make rain and snow.”

“I’m not a weatherman. I need something more versatile.”

“I understand comprehend got you.” Izzy put the flute aside and placed a pocket accordion on the counter. There were only four keys on each side of the little squeezebox. Jon-Tom gave it a try out of curiosity. It made a sound like a overweight hog trying to sing Wagner. Mudge looked pained.

“What does it do?”

“A proper musician can bring food and drink into being and the quality of the food varies according to the sweetness of the song.”

“Forget that then,” said Mudge. “If we ’ad to depend on the smoothness of ’is voice to get us out o’ trouble we’d ’ave been dead a ’undred times over by now.” He nodded curtly at the squeezebox. “Tryin’ to make food with that we’d bloody well starve to death.”

Jon-Tom made a face at the otter but pushed the instrument back across the counter. “I don’t know how to play the thing anyway.”

Izzy looked discouraged. “Then I suppose assume guess I must let you have the one item which might really be of use to you.”

Jon-Tom’s face lit up when he first saw the instrument the indri removed from a locked box behind the counter, but his initial excitement faded as he inspected the workmanship more closely. There were similarities to his own instrument, but a duar it was not. There was a resonating chamber, smaller and simpler than his own, different controls, and only one set of metal strings. They did fade into insubstantiality where they crossed the resonating chamber, but they did not vanish entirely into another dimension.

“A suar.” Izzy plucked idly at the strings. “This little beauty was owned by a pinheaded prestidigitator who used it only on holidays.”

Mudge had sauntered over to inspect the instrument closely. “Stuff the sales pitch, bug eyes. Do it work?”

“So I am told, though the owner was hardly what one would call a master of magic. Perhaps in more skilled hands. …” He left the thought unfinished.

“Looks a lot like an ordinary mandolin.” Jon-Tom accepted it from the indri. “If it wasn’t for this,” and he indicated the place where the strings faded from view, “I’d say you were trying to sell me an ordinary musical instrument.”

“Not for three hundred gold pieces I’m not.”

“Three hun…” Mudge choked on the figure, then put a hand on Jon-Tom’s arm. “Come on, mate. I never thought I’d meet a bigger thief than meself, but ’tis finally ’appened.”

“Too expensive,” said Jon-Tom.

The indri tried to appear indifferent. “As you wish. Another willing to pay will come along. Music is cheap. Magic is expensive.”

Jon-Tom hesitated, ran his fingers experimentally over the strings. Strange to be strumming one set instead of two, but it reminded him of his electric guitar back home in a way the duar never could. “Can I try it out?”

“Certainly of course naturally.” The indri bestowed a frosty stare on Mudge. “I wouldn’t want you to think I was trying to cheat you.”

Jon-Tom tried a few impassioned stanzas of Pink Floyd’s “Money.” The result was not what might have been hoped, but neither did it prove the storekeeper a liar. A tiny white cloud materialized in the air of the shop, drifted about uncertainly for a minute, then excreted a miniature lightning bolt. Instead of thunder the cloud made a noise like a cash register and a shower of coins began to rain on the indri’s counter. The cloud eventually gave out and dissipated, but not before exactly three hundred large coins lay in a gleaming pile on the hardwood. The only problem was they were silver rather than gold.

“Best I can do,” Jon-Tom said apologetically.

“Ah well.” Izzy surveyed the pile. “It is a suar and not a duar.”

“But the magic works. I can spellsing with this.” Jon-Tom held the instrument out at arm’s length. “The power is there, but not the strength. I’ll just have to scale down my expectations. Will you take the silver and,” he considered carefully, “five pieces of gold? We still have an ocean voyage to pay for.”

“Done! Finished, completed, agreed upon.”

Mudge sidled up close to his friend. “You could’ve bargained ’im down and got it for a lot less, mate.”

“A lot less than what, Mudge? We got it for a song.”

The otter was eying the pile of silver hungrily. “Then ’ow about givin’ us another demonstration, mate? Just for entertainment value, wot?”

“Mudge, you ought to know by now I can’t get results by singing the same song more than once. Not with this. It just doesn’t have the power.”

“Pity. Well, at least you’re a spellsinger once more, ’eaven ’elp us.”

Jon-Tom nodded. “It’s not a duar, but it seems to be the next best thing. Properly utilized it ought to get us there and back in two pieces.” He turned to the delighted shopkeeper. “Thanks, Izzy. See you again sometime, maybe.”

“I most sincerely surely hope so, friend.”

Mudge trotted alongside his taller friend as they started down the street. “I thought you had just enough lucre to get us to this Scream Cat place and back. You just ’anded that big-eyed thief five gold pieces.”

“No matter, Mudge. We have this now.” He tapped the suar.

“I was afraid that was wot you were goin’ to say,” the otter sighed.

“Come on, Mudge. Have you forgotten already? I sang us up a boat once before. Given all the practice and study I’ve had these past months I see no reason why I can’t sing up another. That way we can save our money and enjoy a few luxuries along the way.”

“Yeah, like stayin’ alive,” the otter grumbled.

“Have a little confidence. You’ve seen what I can do.”

“That’s wot worries me.”

“Don’t. Let’s find ourselves a fine inn and have a good night’s sleep. In the morning we’ll find an empty dock and I’ll sing us up some automatic piloting yacht or something.”

“Or something,” Mudge mumbled, but under his breath.

Despite Jon-Tom’s insistence he’d prefer to work without an audience, Mudge managed to hustle up a bevy of spectators to watch the spellsinger at work.

“Step right up, folks! Feast your eyes on the wonder o’ the day, a real live spellsinger about to perform ’is bafflin’ an’ mystifyin’ trade.” He stepped in the path of a strolling merchant. “’Ere now mister moneybags, ’ave you ever seen real magic before? I mean real magic, in the light o’ day, without any tricks or gimmicks?”

“No, but I. …”

“See the spellsinger conjure up a ’ole ship out o’ thin air! Bet you ain’t never seen nothin’ like that in your simple, dull-as-daffodils life, ’ave you?”

“No, but I. …”

“Much less a ship crewed by as sexy a lot o’ naked lovelies as ever twisted their legs ’round a mizzenmast?”

The merchant suddenly halted and strained to see through the rest of the assembling crowd. “How much?” he said enthusiastically.