“Cellar?” Jon-Tom let his gaze travel upward. “I didn’t know the tree had a cellar. How come you never showed it to me before, sir?”
“It is not a place that is used for storage. It is a place used only for certain things. There was no reason to use it—until now.”
The famulus extended the glow-bulb pole. “Here you are, Master. I’ll be going now.”
“Going? Going where? You’re coming with me, Sorbl. How do you ever expect to learn anything if you keep running off?”
“From books, Master.”
“Books are not enough. One must also gain experience.”
“But, Master, I don’t like the cellar.”
Clothahump looked disgusted and put his hands on his hips—well, on the sides of his shell, anyway. Being a member of the turtle persuasion, his hips were not visible.
“Sometimes I think you’ll never progress beyond famulus. But I am bound by our contract to try to hammer some knowledge into you. Keep the light if it reassures you.” He shook his head. “An owl that’s afraid of the dark.”
“I am not afraid of the dark, Master,” Sorbl replied quickly, seeming to gather some of his self-respect around him. “I’m just afraid of what’s down in the cellar.”
“Wait a minute,” said Jon-Tom, “is this something I ought to know about? What’s this all about? What are you so frightened of, Sorbl?”
The owlet gazed up at him out of vast yellow eyes. “Nothing.”
“Well, then,” asked a thoroughly confused Jon-Tom, “what’s there to be afraid of?”
“I told you,” the famulus reiterated, “nothing.”
“We’re not making a connection here,” said the exasperated Jon-Tom. He glanced at Clothahump. “What’s he so scared of?”
“Nothing,” the wizard informed him solemnly.
Jon-Tom nodded sardonically. “Right. I’m glad that’s cleared up.”
The wizard glared at his assistant. “Sorbl, you must stay with me. I may require your aid. We have to do this because it is the only way I can divine the location of the perambulator. That should be obvious to anyone.” He eyed Jon-Tom expectantly. “Shouldn’t it?”
“Absolutely,” said Jon-Tom without hesitation, simultaneously wondering what he was concurring with.
“Furthermore,” Clothahump went on, turning his attention back to Sorbl, “you will be accompanying me on the journey to come.”
“Me?” Sorbl squeaked. “But I’m still just a famulus, a lowly apprentice. And besides, someone will have to stay to look after the tree, pay the bills, take out the—”
“The tree can look after itself. I’m ashamed of you, Sorbl.” He gestured at Jon-Tom. “This lad is coming with me, so how can you think of staying behind?”
“It’s easy if I put my mind to it.”
“He comes from another world entirely and has no desire to apprentice in wizardry matters, yet by persevering he has developed into something not unlike a spellsinger. He should be an example to you. What happened to your ambition, your drive, your desire to experience and learn about the mysteries of the universe?”
“Can’t I just stay and take care of the laundry?” Sorbl pleaded hopefully.
“You are my apprentice, not my housekeeper,” Clothahump reminded him sternly. “If I’d wanted just a housekeeper, I would have contracted with someone far more comely and of the opposite sex. As my apprentice, you will follow and learn whether you like it or not. You signed the contract. At the time I thought you were doing so with half a brain. I did not realize you were in the afterthroes of a drunken stupor, nor did I know that was your preferred state of consciousness. But a contract is a contract. I will make a wizard of you even if it kills both of us in the process.”
“How about just one of us?” Sorbl muttered, but to himself.
“Besides,” Clothahump continued in a more conciliatory tone, “on this particular journey you can be especially useful.”
“I can? I mean, I can.”
“Indeed. During the perturbation we experienced this mom-ing, you displayed none of the panic one would have expected from one of your intellectual temperament.”
“Perturbation? What’s that?” Sorbl appeared genuinely bemused.
“Don’t you remember?” Jon-Tom stared at the owl. “The change. The tree turned into a cave, the forest outside into an ocean. Clothahump and I became giant blue crabs and you turned into some kind of squiggly centipede thing.”
“Oh, that.” Sorbl looked relieved. “For a moment I thought I’d missed something. You mean you saw it too? That’s a switch.”
“Sorbl,” Jon-Tom explained patiently, “the change was for real. The perturbation actually happened.”
“No kidding?” He glanced from wizard to spellsinger. “Really?” Both man and turtle nodded somberly. “Well, so what? I mean, what’s to get excited about?”
“You see?” Clothahump continued talking to Jon-Tom while examining his innocent-eyed famulus the way he would a new metal or something interesting found beneath a stump. “We are witness to the single beneficial effect of the long-term consumption of alcohol. Sorbl was not fazed by the perturbation because he exists in a state of perpetual perturbation already—though perhaps perpetual inebriation would be more accurate.”
“I get it,” Jon-Tom said. “You mean that since he lives with the D.T.’s every day, the sudden transformation of the world around him isn’t any more upsetting than anything he experiences during his regular binges?”
“I do not have regular binges,” protested Sorbl indignantly. “Each one is the result of glorious spontaneity.”
“And that is why, my good famulus,” Clothahump informed him, “you will be of such help on this journey, for nothing that overtakes us will faze you, since you are used to such transformations. So that you may remain in this benign state I will even permit you to bring along a supply of liquor, which I myself will allocate to you on a liberal daily basis. A cart runs best when properly lubricated, and so, it would appear, does a certain famulus.”
Sorbl couldn’t believe what he was hearing. His beak all but fell to his foot feathers.
“I will come, Master—since I have no choice in the matter, anyway.” He hesitated. “Did you really mean it when you said I would be allowed to bring along, ah, liquid refreshment?”
Clothahump nodded. “Much as the idea distresses me, it is important that you remain in the state to which you would like to become permanently accustomed. Your intake will be carefully moderated. You will be kept ‘happy’ but not unconscious.”
“No need to worry about that, Master!” The owl all but saluted. “I shall follow your instructions to the letter.”
“Hmmmm. We’ll see. And now that we have settled the matter of who is going where, let us continue on our way downward. We have little time to waste. If the perambulator is not freed as soon as possible, the frequency of the resultant perturbations will increase and we run the risk of becoming encased in permanent change.”
“I know, Master,” murmured Sorbl as he led the way down, “but the cellar.”
Clothahump gave him a shove. “I said there was no other way. And pick up your feet or I’ll set fire to your feathers and use you for light.”
Sorbl’s pace increased markedly.
The tunnel walls were composed of nothing more elaborate than packed earth. There was nothing in the way of visible support: no wooden beams, no concrete pillars, no metal flanges or masonry. Only the damp, thick-smelling soil. It muddied his boots. Tiny crawling things retreated from their advancing light, burrowing hastily into walls or floor. Maybe they didn’t need the light, as Clothahump had insisted, but Jon-Tom was very glad of its presence nonetheless.
Perhaps the tunnel’s stability was maintained by another of Clothahump’s complex dimensional spells, or perhaps this was merely part and parcel of the tree-home spell itself. The notion of a tree with a cellar was even more outre’ than the reality of one that had been dimensionally expanded.