“Though she needs none, I will look after Talea in your absence, Jon-Tom. I pity anyone who troubles her while you are away.”
“So do I. Talea can take care of herself, but I appreciate the concern. What about you, sir? Are you doing all right?”
“Actually, my boy, I am feeling fitter than I have in some time.” He glanced back over his shell. “Things would be better still if I could beat some sense into that useless famulus of mine. Time will tell if Sorbl is to become something more than an alcoholic sponge. I have only just completed an extensive insurance spell for the city of Folklare and I may have to go up there in person in order to check the installation.” He lowered his head and peered over his glasses to where a bored Mudge was leaning impatiently against the tree.
“Your education is proceeding apace, I see, for it must have taken magic indeed to convince that one to accompany you.”
“Not my magic. Talea’s.”
Clothahump nodded knowingly. “I always thought that young woman had hidden talents, in addition to the visible ones.”
“Pity I never ‘ad the opportunity to plumb ‘em,” commented Mudge. The otter’s hearing was acute.
“Lay off, Mudge. We’re married now.” This warning only served to increase the width of the otter’s smirk. Jon-Tom gave up and looked back down at his mentor. “I have this,” and he gestured with his ramwood staff, “but I feel naked without the duar.”
“Try not to dwell on what you do not have, my boy. Soon Couvier Coulb will make it whole again. Perhaps you can convince him to fashion you a new set of interdimensional strings. Though made of metal, those you have salvaged will not last forever. Now then, when you reach Yarrowl and after booking your passage to Chejiji, I suggest you stop at a certain shop in the commercial district. It is known only by the name of its owner, which is Izfan ab-Akmajiandor, but who is called locally Dizzy Izzy. He is something of an eccentric, something of a local legend, and very much a dealer in precious and unique articles. He trades in clocks, toys—and musical instruments.”
Jon-Tom felt a rush of excitement. “You think maybe he...?”
“No, my boy. No one but Coulb himself might repair your duar. Still, there is no telling what Dizzy Izzy conceals beneath his shop counter. It is said he deals in devices as eccentric as himself. You might find something to your liking in his inventory.”
“Another duar?”
“Too much to hope for, but who can say? Certainly it is worth a visit to find out.”
“You hear that, Mudge? If this merchant has another duar in stock we may not have to go all the way to Strelakat Mews.”
“Much as that’s a development devoutly to be desired, mate, I ain’t ‘oldin’ me breath.” The otter was cleaning beneath his claws with a pocket knife. “ ‘Tis occurred to me that if duars o’ such power as yours were that common, the roads would be overflowin’ with would-be spellsingers.”
“If Clothahump thinks this shop is worth checking out we’ll certainly pay it a visit.”
Mudge shrugged. “Makes no matter to me. I’m just an indentured servant on this excursion, I am.”
“Don’t belittle yourself. I’ve always valued your advice and I don’t value it any less now.”
“Is that so?” The otter stopped picking his nails and jabbed the knife in Jon-Tom’s direction. “ ‘Ere’s a bit o’ advice, then. Before you destroy yourself and any unfortunates who ‘appen to be unlucky enough to be in the immediate vicinity, give up this spellsingin’ business and take up some practical profession.”
“Mudge, spellsinging is all I’m trained to do. That and the law.”
“Never thought I’d live to ‘ear meself say it, but better a live solicitor than a dead spellsinger.”
“Thanks for the advice, but you’re not getting out of this that easily.”
“Easily? Hell, you watch me, mate. I’m just warmin’ up, I am.”
‘They bought seats on the southbound coach, changed at the small town of Wourmet, and rattled into Yarrowl several days later. Located where the Tailaroam River emptied into the Glittergeist Sea, the port was abustle with traffic as cargo was transferred from barges and keelboats to ocean-going freighters or animal-drawn wagons destined for the numerous towns and cities sprinkled through the vast forest known as the Bell woods. In such a crossroads of commerce anything might be purchased. Perhaps, Jon-Tom thought to himself, even something as exotic as a duar.
They found the shop of Dizzy Izzy without much difficulty, only to find themselves confronted by drawn shades and a sign in the window that read:Open from 8 to 8
Jon-Tom tried to see through the beveled glass and around one of the shades. “Nothing moving.”
“There wouldn’t be. Tis too early, or ‘ave you forgotten wot ‘is wizardship told us? This ‘ere storekeeper’s a member o’ the lemur persuasion. ‘E’s open from eight at night ‘til eight in the mornin’, not the other way ‘round.”
“I remember now. So we’re too early, not too late.” He checked the nearby public clock. “We have enough time to eat first.”
Mudge licked his chops. “ Supper it ‘tis , then! Washed down with a pint or two, wot?”
“No booze, Mudge. Not here, not yet. First we have to get on the boat, then you can drink yourself silly if you’ve a mind to, but if you get yourself good and plastered in a strange city I might not be able to find you again. You tend to wander aimlessly when you’re liquored up.”
“I do not,” replied the otter with some dignity, “ever get ‘liquored up.’ Drunk occasionally, inebriated once in a while, but never liquored up. Sounds like someone fillin’ a bloomin’ ‘orse trough.”
“Yes, that’s not a bad metaphor.” The otter made a rude noise as they started up the street.
Lights showed behind the shades when they returned from eating. It was not quite eight and they had to wait outside for another few minutes until the proprietor opened his doors. The indri wore canvas pants and vest over his black and white fur, and his bright yellow eyes stared at them from behind round rose-colored glasses with thin lenses.
“Come in, come in. You’re early, friends, or late, depending on your time of day preferences.”
Izzy’s shop was a delight, the shelves crammed full of intricately fashioned clocks of all kinds, small mechanical toys, music boxes and animated banks. But Jon-Tom’s attention was drawn instantly to the right-hand wall, on which hung a collection of musical instruments. Many of them were new to him, and several were so alien in design and construction he could not tell by looking at them whether they were intended to be strummed, tootled, or beaten.
A series of small drums wound round a central post like fruit on a branch. Grotesque horns hung next to attenuated woodwinds. On the floor was a pipe carved from the trunk of a single tree. It must have weighed a hundred pounds or more and had fingering holes the size of Jon-Tom’s fist.
“Bear pipe,” Izzy explained. His voice was high and reedy, not unlike that of some of his stock. “I sold the former owner a duplicate of much lighter wood and accepted this in part payment. It’s been here a long time.”
“I can see why,” Jon-Tom said. “No one but another bear could lift it.”
“So true, but I enjoy watching customers try. Sometimes a big cat will get it off the ground. Then they find they don’t have the lung power to operate it. What maybe perhaps possibly can I do for you, sir? By your stance and attire I divine you are a person of means, for all that you appear to enjoy associating with lesser lifes. I will be most very muchly pleased to help you, just as soon as your friend returns the small gold music box to the cabinet from which he has removed it.”