cursing himself for becoming involved.
"That deferential tone doesn't fool me, Mudge." Clothahump eyed him warningly.
"I know your opinion of me. No matter, though." Turning back to Jon-Tom he
examined the young man's attire: the poorly engraved leather belt, the scuffed
sandals, the T-shirt with the picture of a hirsute human wielding a smoking
instrument, the faded blue jeans.
"Obviously you can't go tramping around Lynchbany Towne or anywhere else looking
like that. Someone is likely to challenge you. It could be dangerous."
"Aye. They might die alaughin'," suggested Mudge.
"We can do without your miserable witticisms, offspring of a spastic muskrat.
What is amusing to you is a serious matter to this boy."
"Begging your pardon, sir," Jon-Tom put in firmly, "but I'm twenty-four. Hardly
a boy."
"I'm two hundred and thirty-six, lad. It's all relative. Now, we must do
something about those clothes. And a guide." He stared meaningfully at Mudge.
"Now wait a minim, guv'nor. It were your bloomin' portal 'e stumbled through. I
can't 'elp it if you pinched the wrong chap."
"Nevertheless, you are familiar with him. You will therefore assume charge of
him and see that he comes to no harm until such time as I can make other
arrangements for him."
Mudge jerked a furry thumb at the watching youth. "Not that I don't feel sorry
for 'im, your wizardship. I'd feel the same way toward any 'alf mad creature...
let alone a poor, furless human. But t' make me responsible for seein' after
'im, sor? I'm a 'unter by trade, not a bloody fairy godmother."
"You're a roustabout by trade, and a drunkard and lecher by avocation,"
countered Clothahump with considerable certitude. "You're far from the ideal
guardian for the lad, but I know of no scholars to substitute, feeble
intellectual community that Lynchbany is. So... you're elected."
"And if I refuse?"
Clothahump rolled up nonexistent sleeves. "I'll turn you into a human. I'll
shrink your whiskers and whiten your nose, I'll thin your legs and squash your
face. Your fur will fall out and you'll run around the rest of your life with
bare flesh showing."
Poor Mudge appeared genuinely frightened, his bravado completely gone. "No, no,
your sorcererness! If it's destined I take the lad in care, I ain't the one t'
challenge destiny."
"A wise and prosaic decision." Clothahump settled down. "I do not like to
threaten. Now that the matter of a guide is settled, the need of money remains."
"That's so." Mudge brightened. "Can't send an innocent stranger out into a cruel
world penniless as well as ignorant."
"Mind you, Mudge, what I give the lad is not to be squandered in wining and
wenching."
"Oh, no, no, no, sor. I'll see the lad properly dressed and put up at a
comfortable inn in Lynchbany that accepts humans."
Jon-Tom sounded excited and pleased. "There are people like me in this town,
then?"
Mudge eyed him narrowly. "Of course there are people in Lynchbany Towne, mate.
There are also a few humans. None your size, though."
Clothahump was rummaging through a stack of scrolls. "Now then, where is that
incantation for gold?"
" 'Ere, guv'nor," said Mudge brightly. "Let me 'elp you look."
The wizard nudged him aside. "I can manage by myself." He squinted at the mound
of paper.
"Geese... gibbering... gifts... gneechees... gold, there we are."
Potions and powders were once more brought into use, placed in a shallow pan
instead of a bowl. They were heaped atop a single gold coin that Clothahump had
removed from a drawer in his plastron. He noticed Mudge avidly following the
procedure.
"Forget it, otter. You'd never get the inflection right. And this coin is old
and special. If I could make gold all the time, I wouldn't need to charge for my
services. This is a special occasion, though. Think what would happen if just
any animal could wander about making gold."
"It would ruin your monetary system," said Jon-Tom.
"Bless my shell, lad, that's so. You have some learning after all."
"Economics are more in my line."
The wizard waved the wand over the pan.
"Postulate, postulate, postulate.
Heavy metal integrate.
Emulate a goldecule,
Pile it high, shape it round,
I call you from the ground.
Metal weary, metal sound, formulate thy wondrous round!"
There was a flash, a brief smell of ozone. The powders vanished from the pan. In
their place was a pile of shining coins.
"Now, that's a right proper trick," Mudge whispered to Jon-Tom, "that I'd give a
lot to know."
"Come help yourself, lad." Clothahump wiped a hand across his forehead. "That's
a short spell, but a rough one."
Jon-Tom scooped up a handful of coins. He was about to slip them into a pocket
when their unusual lightness struck him. He juggled them experimentally.
"They seem awfully light to be gold, sir. Meaning no disrespect, but..."
Mudge reached out, grabbed a coin. "Light's not the word, mate. It looks like
gold, but 'tis not."
A frowning Clothahump chose a golden disk. "Um. Seems to be a fine edge running
the circumference of the coin."
"On these also, sir." Jon-Tom picked at the edge. A thick gold foil peeled away,
to reveal a darker material underneath. High above, Pog was swimming air circles
and cackling hysterically.
"I don't understand." Clothahump finished peeling the foil from his own
specimen. He recognized it at the same time as Jon-Tom took an experimental
bite.
"Chocolate. Not bad chocolate, either."
Clothahump looked downcast. "Damn. I must have mixed my breakfast formula with
the transmuter."
"Well," said the starving youth as he peeled another, "you may make poor gold,
sir, but you make very good chocolate."
"Some wizard!" Pog shouted from a sheltered window recess. "Gets chocolate
instead of gold! Did I mention da time he tried ta conjure a water nymph? Had
his room all laid out like a beaver's lair, he did. Incense and perfume and
mirrors. Got his water nymph all right. Only it was a Cugluch dragonfly nymph
dat nearly tore his arm off before..."
Clothahump jabbed a finger in Pog's direction. A tiny bolt of lightning shot
from it, searing the wood where the bat had been only seconds before.
"His aim's always been lousy," taunted the bat.
Another bolt missed the famulus by a greater margin than the first, shattered a
row of glass containers on a high shelf. They fell crashing, tinkling to the
wood-chip floor as the bat dodged and skittered clear of the fragments.
Clothahump turned away, fiddling with his glasses. "Got to conjure some new
lenses," he grumbled. Reaching into his lower plastron, he drew out a handful of
small silvery coins, and handed them to Jon-Tom. "Here you are, lad."
"Sir... wouldn't it have been simpler to give me these in the first place?"
"I like to keep in practice. One of these days I'll get that gold spell down
pat."
"Why not make the lad a new set of clothes?" asked Mudge.
Clothahump turned from trying to refocus a finger on the jeering famulus and
glanced angrily at the otter. "I'm a wizard, not a tailor. Mundane details such
as that I leave to your care. And remember: no care, no fur."
"Relax, guv'nor. Let's go, Jon-Tom. Tis a long walk if we're to make much
distance before dark."
They left Clothahump blasting jars and vials, pictures and shelving in vain
attempts to incinerate his insulting assistant.
"Interesting character, your sorcerer," said Jon-Tom conversationally as they
turned down a well-trod path into the woods.