“Master Clothahump did not offer explanations,” Mulwit hooted. “He says for youuu to come now. Dooo youuu want me tooo go back and tell him you’re not coming? If youuu dooo it will go hard on me.”
“If it’s that urgent . . .” Jon-Tom rose and turned to face Talea. “You heard. I’ve got to go. I know it’s late, but it seems to be important.”
Talea stared up at him. “You’re not going off on some sort of silly quest or something again, are you?”
He put his hands on her shoulders. “Now look: I told you when you got pregnant that I’ve done with all that. I’ve a family and a home to look after, a profitable and respected profession, and they come first. The time when Mudge and I traipsed all over the world getting into all sorts of trouble is history.”
“Just so long as you understand that,” she responded. “Because by all the imbalances in the Aether, if that hardshell ropes you into some crazy expedition I’ll cut off your feet and hide them in the closet before I’ll let you go.”
“Now, love.” Buncan heard the moist echo of a kiss. “Clothahump just wants to network with me.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Right, Mulwit?”
“So far as I am permitted to know, Master Jon-Tom. With youuu, and one other.”
Jon-Tom’s brow furrowed. “There’s someone else involved?”
“Not here, not here!” The agitated famulus was flapping his wings as he hopped back and forth from one foot to the other. “Already we have lingered tooo long.”
“Just let me get my cloak.” Jon-Tom hesitated at the open hall closet. “Do you think I’ll need my duar?”
“Wizardry was not spoken of,” the famulus responded. “Only talk.”
“Good.” Jon-Tom swept the iridescent lizard-skin cloak around his shoulders, bestowed another kiss upon Talea, and disappeared into the night in the company of the anxious owl.
As his mother reentered the kitchen, Buncan feigned interest in a piece of cake. “What was that all about?”
Talea stood at the sink, gazing out the oval window in the direction of the dark river. Her demeanor was stiff. “I’ll tell you something, boy. If your father gets himself sucked into something dangerous . . .”
“Didn’t you used to do dangerous things, Mom?”
She turned to him. “That was different. When I was young I had to do certain things to survive.” She attacked the remnants of the innocent dinner dishes, refusing as always to use the cleaning spells stocked in the cupboard under the towels.
“Is there some kind of problem?” The indifference of his query was crafted with admirable skill.
“How the hell should I know? You think they tell me anything? Anyone would think I had no acquaintance with the mysteries of the Universe. I never did trust that turtle completely.”
“You can’t ever trust wizards, Mom. It’s in their nature. They can’t help it.”
“Every time your father answered one of that aged reptile’s calls, it got him into trouble.”
Buncan set the cake aside, rose, and stood behind his much shorter mother, resting his hands on her shoulders. “Now, Mom. If Dad said he wasn’t going to get involved in anything, then I’m sure he isn’t. I just wonder what the rush is all about.”
“Oh, who knows,” she muttered irritably. “Some mother wants to change the sex of her unborn two days before it’s due, or that fat Mrs. Twogg on the other side of Lynchbany is having digestive troubles again. Emergency!” She assaulted the stewpot with a vigor no mere spell could match.
“Yeah, well, I’ve pretty much had it, Mom. I’m going on up to bed.”
She glanced sideways at him. “Kind of early, isn’t it?” He shrugged. “I’ve been reading all evening, and I had kind of a rough day at school.”
She turned to him and put soapy fingers on his cheek. “You have a good mind, Buncan. Better than mine. You also have talent, but not everyone can be a spellsinger like your father.”
“I know, Mom.”
The outside glowbulbs stayed dark as he slipped out his bedroom window and shinnied down the trunk of the tree, heading northwest across the back lawn. There was hardly enough moon to count as an afterthought, and it was difficult to see the way as he hurried along the secondary path through the woods. The Belltrees were silent, their tinkling blooms closed for the night.
Breathing hard, he still managed to arrive at the edge of the clearing surrounding the wizard’s tree just as Mulwit and his father appeared. He waited a suitable interval after they entered. Tethered in the corral out back were a pan: of husky dray lizards and the silhouette of a large wagon he didn’t recognize.
Normally the wizard kept the clearing alarmed, but those spells would likely remain deactivated until his father departed. With care Buncan thought he could slip inside the tree undetected. He edged forward, advancing noiselessly.
The door was unsealed, and he eased it aside. There was no need to lock it, since anyone not familiar with the way would immediately find themselves confronting an impassable dead end exactly like the burned-out core of an old oak. Remembering from many previous visits the curious twists and turns of the tree’s ulterior, he successfully advanced past the entrance and soon found himself standing in the hallway outside Clothahump’s front study. Not too long ago he had sat in that same sanctuary discussing his personal problems with the wizard.
He crept as close as he dared, until he could hear Jon-Tom and Clothahump’s conversation clearly. A third voice kept interposing commentary. Not Mulwit, which meant that part of his attention would have to remain on the lookout for the nosy owl. Cautiously Buncan allowed himself a quick peek into the room.
The venerable turtle was seated in his special chair, while Jon-Tom sprawled on the long couch beneath the window. Seated at the other end was a hirsute stranger, a sloth by tribe. Their kind was uncommon in the Bellwoods, preferring as they did warmer, more southerly climes.
This one wore a thin vest of what looked like metal foil. Even a hasty glance was enough to show that it was too flimsy to be any kind of armor. The long-legged pants of gray cotton were something of a surprise, but the open-toed sandals seemed appropriate. Though severely trimmed, the claws on the visitor’s hands and feet were still formidable. Clearly alert and attentive, the visitor nonetheless gave the appearance of one half asleep, an unfortunate and unavoidable characteristic of his kind. His words were carefully chosen, and no one would mistake his natural slowness of speech for stupidity.
He wore an extravagant amount of delicate gold jewelry.
Jon-Tom sipped from a goblet while Clothahump leaned on the sturdy cane he favored lately and scrutinized the visitor through his thick glasses.
“I have done as you requested, traveler Gragelouth,” the wizard was saying. “I have roused myself from deep slumber and, since you insisted you would relate your tale to no fewer man two witnesses of sorceral competence, caused to be brought hence my junior partner.” (Clothahump always stuck in that “junior,” Buncan reflected sourly.) The wizard leaned slightly but threateningly forward.
“All I have to add is that what you have to say had better be worth all this inconvenience. After a few hundred years, one begins to value one’s time.”
The sloth seemed anxious though unintimidated. “I assure you I would not waste your time, Master.” He looked at Jon-Tom. “As I have informed your colleague, I am a traveling merchant, dealing mostly in domestic utensils and household goods.”
“Saw your wagon and team out back,” Jon-Tom commented.
Gragelouth nodded. “I buy and sell anything, but that is my area of specialization.”
“Enough personal history,” grumbled Clothahump. “Your story.”
“Certainly.” The sloth looked thoughtful as he began to reminisce. “I was far to the north of here, traveling a back road in the vicinity of L’bor, when a singular sight happened to catch my eye. It appeared to be an injured individual lying forsaken by the side of the road.” He sniffed.