Alan Dean Foster - Spellsinger 07 - Son of Spellsinger

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CHAPTER 1
Maybe nothing would have happened if Talea hadn’t found the demon in the
breadbox.
She’d baked six loaves of fresh humberpine the previous day and had left them in the
metal-lined wooden container to cool. It sat on the tiled kitchen counter just to the left
of me big oval window cut in the south side of the tree, overlooking the riverbank and
the willows that clung there like tipsy spectators at a fishing tournament.
Half a dozen was a lot to make all at once, but thanks to a petite, highly domesticated
preserving spell thoughtfully provided by Clothahump, the bread would stay not only
fresh but hot for as long as was necessary. It was also more energy-efficient than
refrigeration.
When she opened the breadbox to remove some for supper she was startled to see,
seated against the nearest loaf, a perfectly formed six-inch-high homunculus. Two
curved horns protruded from the sides of his skull, a single smaller one from his
forehead. Gossamer rose-hued wings lay folded against his back. He wore long
maroon denim pants with matching suspenders, and his clawed feet protruded beyond
the ends of thick rubber sandals.
He also owned a hearty appetite. Half the loaf he was seated against had been
devoured. She’d caught him red-handed (of course, with demons this was not an
especially difficult task).
Startled, he jerked around sharply when she raised the lid of the box, a double-
handful of steaming fresh bread clutched in one tiny fist.
“Azmac!” the creature shouted, waving its free hand at her. “Poreon faytul Begone, or
I shall make of your life Purgatory resplendent!”
“Get out of my breadbox!” Talea was not in the least intimidated by the baroque
threat. Fumbling in a nearby drawer, her fingers wrapped around the handle of a small
iron skillet and thrust it toward the loaf.
Dropping its aromatic prize, the demon scrambled toward the back of the box.
“Emarion! Sacarath sanctus!”
“Never mind that.” Reversing the skillet, Talea used the handle to dig at the back of
the box. “Get out of my bread!”
Though not very big, Talea was deceptively strong, and the demon, sated on
humberpine, was decidedly overfed. There was a loud poing as he lost his grip on the
rear of the box and went flying, arms and legs akimbo, across the kitchen. He soared
neatly over the central butcher block to smack with a slightly wet splat against the
rhomboidal window on the far side of the room. There he seemed to hang for an
instant, suspended, before sliding down the glass into the dish basin.
Hefting the skillet by its handle, Talea rushed to the sink and peered down among the
duty plates and cups. “What were you doing in my breadbox? Does somebody have it
in for me, is that it? I’ll bet it’s that stuck-up possum Mrs. Genfine up the river. She
always stays upside down when we visit.” She watched while the dazed demon
struggled unsuccessfully to stand. “You’re not much of a curse.”
Something buzzed loudly past her head and she twisted sideways, the demon in the
dishwater momentarily forgotten. This new specter was smaller than the homunculus,
with four bright emerald-green wings and a long snaky tail trailing behind it. A face
once removed from toad roadkill sneered back at her. From its four hands hung the
crystal saltcellar that had been a wedding gift from her mother.
She snatched for it but it darted just out of reach, taunting her with a high-pitched
buzz-accompanied version of some cabalistic mantra that sounded very much like
“My Darling Clementine.”
“Now what?” Taking aim with the edge, she swung the skillet. The toadbuzz dodged
once, a second time, and then there was a loud bang as the skillet connected. The song
faded as the apparition fell on the stove, bounced once, and tumbled off to land on the
floor. Unharmed, the saltcellar rolled clear. Ignoring the dazed buzzing of the would-
be thief, she knelt to recover it.
“What the hell is going on here?” she mumbled to herself as she put the skillet aside
and pulled the big broom from storage. Now, where was the dustpan?
As she bent over to search for it, something smacked her in the rear. Clutching the
broom in front of her, she whirled.
It couldn’t be called a demon, though it wore a demonic grin. Considerably larger
than the pair of intruders she’d already coped with, it squatted before her on thickly
muscled, kangaroo-like legs, its flat fish face regarding her blandly. Lavender scales
covered the naked body except for the pair of turquoise tentacles that made swimming
motions against the air. Sprouting from the top of the head was a bright, rotating blue
searchlight.
She hefted the broom and inspected the newcomer. “What are you supposed to be?”
“Beeble,” it burped. It made another rude body noise and took a tentative hop toward
her.
“Keep away from me.” She made a threatening gesture with the broom as she started
edging sideways, away from the broom closet. “I’m warning you.”
The bread demon had recovered and was now busily poking through the kitchen
cabinets, looking for something else to eat, its red belly hanging pendulously over its
belt line.
“What’s going on here?” she muttered. “Jon-Tom!” There was no response. Her
husband wasn’t due home from work for a while yet. She was isolated in her kitchen.
“Somebody! Anybody?”
She dodged as the hop-searchlight took another bound in her direction, extending
toward her face a vile and obscene tongue.
“I warned you.” She swung the broom and smacked the tongue sideways. The
protruding organ whizzed several times around the hopper’s head before the tip
smacked its owner square in the right eye.
“Ow. Ow, ow, ow!” It hop-retreated, trying to recoil the rebellious organ.
The breadbox demon was in an upper cabinet, scattering her victuals. Broom held
high, she charged, shoving the hopper aside. “Damn your demonic ass, get out of my
provisions!”
When she reached the cabinet the demon was nowhere to be seen, having sought the
depths within. But half a dozen brand-new apparitions flew straight out at her,
squealing and screeching. As they circled and darted she swung the broom in frenzied
self-defense, fighting to keep them out of her hair.
“Get away from me, get away!” They were a rainbow of colors and a plethora of
shapes, none very pleasing to look upon save for one with iridescent compound eyes.
It had the body of an undersize, anorexic macaque attached to the wings of a falcon.
They came at her from all directions, forcing her to retreat. “Get away, I’m warning
you!” she yelled as she flailed with the broom. They were pouring out of the
woodwork now: emerging from cabinets and drawers, from cracks in the tree floor,
from behind bowls, from beneath the sink, and from the doorway that led to the den.
Drooling, grinning, gurgling, belching and farting, laughing and hissing as they
crawled, slithered, hopped, and flew toward her. They stank and they gibbered, they
uttered incomprehensibilities and obscenities, they messed impertinently with her
clean dishes, and pawed through her carefully stacked foodstuff’s.
Dozens of the creatures filled the kitchen, and more were arriving every minute.
There was a translucent winged thing that looked like nothing so much as a vampire
butterfly, horrific in aspect save for its decidedly befuddled expression. It kept
beating against the skylight as if trying to escape.
Something was tugging at the sandal on her left foot. Looking down, she saw a small
bright yellow and pink polka-dotted snake with seven heads.
“Excuse me.” The septicephalic slitherer spoke plaintively, its accent unidentifiable.
“I seem to have wandered into the wrong mythology. Can you . . . ?”
Talea screamed and jumped backward. “Get out of my kitchen! Get out of my house!”
The flailing broom knocked two of the heads senseless, while the other five fell to
arguing among themselves.
Something landed on her right shoulder. As she reached up to rip it off, she saw a
small fat man with a cherubic expression. He was composed entirely of layers of
some resilient white substance that threatened to rub off on her blouse.
“Madame, I don’t know what eez going on heere, but I have work to do elsewhere
and I reesent most heartily being sucked in with the rest of theeze undeesciplined and
unrefined conjurations.”
“Don’t blame me. I didn’t conjure anything.” She grabbed the puffy white arm and
wrenched. The limb promptly came off in her fingers. There was no blood, only a sort
of thick black goo that began to ooze from the ruptured joints.
“Now look what you have done. I will meeze my next assignment.”
“Sorry.” She handed back the amputated limb.
“Merci.” With great dignity the creature jammed the arm back into the vacant
shoulder socket. It hopped off her shoulder and bounced across the floor,
disappearing into the otherworldly tumult.
The majority of phantasms were not nearly so polite. One tried to take a bite out of
her left calf. Using the broom, ser left calf. Using the broom, s the heavy wooden
kitchen table. Another leaped at her face, scrabbling at her eyes. All three of its own
were missing. She caught it on the rounded end of the broomstick and jammed it hard
against the cooler. The big box rattled. Have to get the coolant spell renewed, she
thought absently.
That was the trouble with being married to a wizard. Or in her case, to a spellsinger. It
was all very well and good to go toodling off all the time to save the world or close
shattered interdimensional gates or defeat hordes of ravening invaders, oh yes. But try
to get something fixed around the house? No way! They never had any time for
domestic mundanities.
She picked up the skillet and flung it at another advancing horror. Utilizing all six of
its black arms, it plucked the utensil cleanly from the air, studied it intently for a
moment, then plunked it down on its already flattened skull, exhibiting an air of
considerable satisfaction.
“By the Twelve Crinoline Veils of the Most Repentant Sinner,” she bawled irately, “I
want you all out of here! Now!” Yanking open a drawer, she reached for the large
skillet stored inside, only to draw back her hand at the sight of the four tiny imps
cavorting within. They wore brightly striped scarves around their necks and nothing
else as they skated on the fiat metal surface. Tiny wisps of steam rose from beneath
their splayed feet.
“Do you mind?” one said, upset at the interruption of his private reverie.
“Do I mind? Get out of my drawer!” She spun around to swing at something that was
chewing on the hem of her housedress, then thrust the end of the broomstick at the
pan. The skating imps scattered wildly.
Suddenly she felt her feet going out from under her. The broom went flying as she
landed on her front, the impact knocking the breath out of her. Looking down and
backward, she saw four things that resembled a cross between miniature donkeys and
salamanders. Their tack consisted of perfectly fashioned miniature harnesses hooked
up to downsized block and tackle, which had been fastened to her ankles.
Seated atop a matching wagon at the back of the alien team was a tiny drover who
was mostly long black beard and busy whip. He bellowed orders in a deep,
unintelligible mumble as he and his team dragged the frantic Talea toward a gaping,
ominous, and hitherto unsuspected cavity beneath the fruit bin. Conflagrant lights
alternately flared and faded in me black depths.
She dug at the floor, yelling and screeching, while all around her wee monstrosities
and diminutive horrors gibbered contentedly as they reduced her kitchen to rubble.
“That’s enough’.” she roared.
Rolling over, she leaned forward and kicked with both legs as hard as she could. The
block and tackle snapped, and both drover and team went flying. Still mumbling and
babbling to themselves, they vanished into that abiding black maw.
“My sword,” she muttered as she struggled to her feet. “Where’d I store that damn
sword?”
Since marrying Jon-Tom she hadn’t had much occasion to make use of her old
weapon. During holidays it was handy for making spectacularly short work of a big
roast. Otherwise it slept in storage, her thieving and fighting days being far behind
her. But she hadn’t forgotten how to use it.
Was it in with the cutlery? No, not enough room. Behind the stove? No, it would’ve
stuck out there. She finally located it jammed unceremoniously in the back of the
broom closet. Except for a light glaze of kitchen grease it was perfectly functional.
Hefting the familiar old grip in both hands, she turned in her housedress to confront
the room full of clawing, cawing demons. Pots and dishes were scattered everywhere,
food containers had been upturned and then contents dumped on the counters, while
piquant liquids pooled on her painstakingly polished floor.
“Chaos repossess all of you, Spawn of Hell!” Swinging the sword in broad, powerful,
horizontal arcs, she waded fearlessly into the babble.
Heads, limbs, and interesting other body parts went flying as blood of dissimilar
colors spurted, mixing with the spilled honey and milk and household cleansers. She
knew it was going to take a heavy, not to mention expensive, housecleaning spell to
scrub away the carnage, but she was damned if she was going to clean up this mess
manually. Jon-Tom was going to have to drop whatever he was involved with and do
something about it.
Squealing and striking out with long, pointed arms, a giant blue spider rushed her on
stiltlike legs. Skewering it neatly, she swung the sword and bashed its brains out
against the baking counter. Green ichor and pink brains bubbled from the crushed
chiton, getting all over the batch of sprinkle-topped cupcakes she’d made just the
week before. At that sight her fury knew no bounds, and she laid about the kitchen
with a will.
Demonic shapes struck at her, or scrambled to get out of her way, or sought escape in
cabinets and drawers. Yet despite her successes, progress eluded her. Mocking her
efforts, fresh furies materialized whenever another was destroyed. They kept coming
at her: oozing up out of the floor, dropping down from the skylight, spiraling up out
of the sinks—an endless procession of horrors that reinforced themselves even as she
demolished their predecessors.
Gradually she found herself forced to retreat by the sheer weight of numbers. Backed
up against the broom closet, her sword strokes inevitably grew shorter and weaker as
her assailants pressed their attack.
She’d always envisioned herself perishing on some grand quest of Jon-Tom’s, or at
worst while comfortably retired amongst the widows of the local Thieves and
Cutpurses Rest Home. Not like this, not in her own kitchen, brought down by a
conjuration she’d had no part in and couldn’t comprehend. What had happened to the
carefully crafted home protection and insulation spell that usually shielded her
sanctum from nefarious external influences? Admittedly it was primarily designed to
vacuum and deodorize, but it should have restricted the access of demons, gargoyles,
and their ilk as well. That it had failed so spectacularly suggested an even more
powerful sorcery was at work.
Her hair tousled about her, housedress in tatters, she continued to cut and thrust with
the sword. It was just like old times, except that her arms weren’t nearly as responsive
as they used to be, her strokes not quite as economical of arc.
Just when she thought her trembling legs and arms were about to give out completely
and that the fanged and taloned mob of necrotic intruders were going to take her
down for the last time, there came the sound of a thump from beyond the kitchen
doorway.
“Hi, honey,” boomed a cheery voice, “I’m home! Clothahump and I finally got the
old Toolawhip bridge braced with a decent suspension spell. Of course, it’s only
temporary, but . . .”
Jon-Tom strode around the corner and into the kitchen, whereupon something
compact and violet leaped onto his chest and thrust a belligerent bulbous blue nose
into his face.
“ Youse better stay outta dis if you know what’s good for you, buddy. Da broad
givin’ us enough trouble as it is, see? We don’t need no interference from no
kibbitzers, see?”
A startled Jon-Tom clutched the creature by its short, thick neck. It gurgled, and its
eyes bulged hugely. Without a word the spellsinger drop-kicked it halfway across the
kitchen. It struck a shelf, breaking one of Talea’s favorite fairy vases in the process,
and fell motionless to the floor.
“What the hell’s going on here?” He gaped at the bedlam, eyes wide.
“Don’t just stand there.” Talea redoubled her efforts, reinvigorated by his appearance.
“Do something!”
Stunned by the scope of the turmoil, he found himself hesitating. Had he left his duar
in the cart? No, he’d brought it in with him. It needed some restringing, but it ought to
suffice to deal with this. It had better, he thought, seeing how hard-pressed was Talea.
Racing back to the front hall, he yanked the unique instrument from its slot in the
carved umbrella stand and tried to think of an appropriate song as he rushed back to
the kitchen. Years of practice under Clothahump’s aegis had made him facile. He was
infinitely more confident than the awkward young man who’d first found himself
transported to this world.
Still, he found himself struggling as he confronted the pandemonium in the kitchen.
Historically, the domestic household did not figure prominently in the rock-and-roll
lexicon with which he was conversant.
An old ditty by John Mellencamp finally leaped to mind. He began to play, and to
sing, his voice and the mellifluous chords of the duar rising strong and pure above the
uproar.
From cabinets and vents, from fractures in the floor and the seams around windows, a
pink haze began to emerge. Swirling in lazy currents, it picked its way into the
kitchen, smelling faintly of pumpernickel and Simellot cheese. There was nothing
Jon-Tom could do about the latter. Considering what the miasma could have smelted
like, he was rather pleased. Ancillary odors were not his primary concern at the
moment.
The slightly moist mist had an immediate effect on the army of invading fiends (or
maybe it was the smell). From cabinets and shelves, from pots and pans and dishes,
they ceased their activities to stare and sniff r activities to stare and sniff.king and
screaming, they proceeded to get the hell out. Nostrils pinched, mouths puckered,
they plunged back into the depths of the cupboards, the floor, the ceiling, returning at
breakneck speed to the noxious nexi of their respective existences. In their panicked
recision they took with them not so much as a cookie.
The duar pulsed and trembled in Jon-Tom’s practiced hands. Unsourced wind caused
his iridescent green cape (which was overdue for dry cleaning) to stream out behind
him, as though he stood in the forefront of an intense but highly localized squall.
As he strolled deliberately through the kitchen a few of the bolder intruders threw
themselves angrily at him, attacking from every direction. The music beat them back,
the pink haze forming knots around their necks or club-shaped clouds which smashed
them into oblivion.
Her feet and composure regained, Talea warily trailed her husband as far as the sink.
She laid the bloody sword lengthwise in the basin, shaking her head. Getting the
blade properly clean was going to take a lot of scrubbing. Ichor had a notorious
tendency to cling.
Jon-Tom had halted in the middle of the kitchen, his voice quavering. Eighteen years
of practice had improved but not perfected the weakest component of his spellsinging.
The power of his playing more than compensated, however, for his less than operatic
voice.
As she stared, those demons who hadn’t been able to escape, or who had foolishly
chosen to attack Jon-Tom, began to swell like balloons. They started to rise, bouncing
off the cabinets and finally the ceiling. As Jon-Tom brought the song to an end, they
began to burst like soap bubbles. She inhaled despairingly. As if the kitchen wasn’t
enough a mess already.
Finally nothing remained save swirling pink mist and a powerful scent of cheese and
pumpernickel. As Jon-Tom flung his Fingers against the double strings of the duar in
one last dramatic riff, the mist faded and began to dissipate. Taking a deep, relieved
breath, he turned to face her.
“Now, then. Will you please tell me what happened here?” His brows drew slightly
together. “Talea, have you been experimenting with thaumaturgical cooking spells
again? I told you, I’m not that big on fried foods. Sometimes household shortcuts
aren’t worth the trouble they cause.”
She waggled an admonishing finger in his face. “Don’t you lip me, Jon-Tom! I
haven’t done a damned thing.” Moving to the window over the sink, she fought to
open it. Coagulating blood and gore caused it to stick. She waved at the remnants of
the pink mist, backing away as fresh air sucked it outside. The heavy stink likewise
began to disperse, leaving in its wake a faint memory of dill pickle.
She eyed the shattered crockery, the broken crumbs of baked goods over which she’d
labored long and lovingly, the disgusting mess which coated everything, the thin
rivulets of unidentifiable fluids which dripped from counters to pool noisomely on the
floor, and she wanted to scream. Instead she sank tiredly into one of the snakeskin-
upholstered chairs in the breakfast nook.
Jon-Tom carefully leaned the warm duar against the cooler, brushed back his long
hair, and sat down next to his distraught wife.
“Okay, so you weren’t messing with spells.” He indicated the kitchen. “How do you
explain this?”
She glared at him. “Why ask me? You’re the great spellsinger. Someone have a
grudge against you?” She sighed. “I’d kill for a cup of tea.”
He found a reasonably clean empty cup. “Iced or hot?”
“Oh, no,” she said quickly, “no shortcuts!” Rising, she made her way to the stove and
checked to make sure that it was set on medium heat. Filling a pot from the sink, she
set it on the burner. Beneath, the indentured fire elemental set to work, grumbling
audibly. Have to get him adjusted, she thought idly. Thoughtfully, she found a second
cup before resuming her seat.
Jon-Tom had been pondering her question. “Clothahump and I have some long-term,
overdue debtors, but we’ve never used any strong-arm collection techniques. Nothing
that would turn anyone vengeful. At least, I haven’t. I can mention it to Clothahump.
You know how he can get about money sometimes.”
“The old miser,” Talea muttered.
“With him it’s not the interest. It’s the principal of the thing.”
She gestured at the kitchen, her arm shaking slightly. “Jon-Tom, I’m reasonably well
versed in the nature of the inhabitants of the Nether Regions. I’d have to be, being
married to you. But I didn’t recognize half of what materialized here.”
He shrugged. “Other dimensions, other demons. Don’t blame yourself. Even the
standard references have to be updated every year.”
She leaned toward him, smiling at sudden memories. “Sometimes I think things were
easier when you and I were on the road all the time, fighting and slaughtering, living
by our wits. Having fan.”
“We were a lot younger then, Talea. I didn’t have the responsibilities that come with
being Clothahump’s junior partner. We didn’t have a home, or a family.”
“You’re forty-one, Jon-Tom. That’s hardly old.”
He stiffened slightly. “I didn’t say it was. Why, by now Mick Jagger must be . . .” He
changed direction. “Never mind. This doesn’t tell us what happened here.”
She shrugged. “Maybe I mixed something wrong. Maybe I whistled a happy tune the
wrong way. Maybe some netherworld entity has a grudge against you from some
years-old encounter you’ve long since forgotten.”
“I could check the records,” he murmured thoughtfully, “but as near as I can
remember all old conflicts have been resolved, all numinous debts paid off.”
“You’re sure you haven’t offended any important deities or spirits recently? Trod on
the toes of some easily offended Prince of Darkness?”
“Clothahump and I are careful to observe all protocols. We’re very proud of our
work habits. Before signing any contracts we run them through half a dozen legal
spells and have at least three eternally damned lawyers check them for errors. I’m
clean, darling.
“Even if there was a serious problem somewhere, the provoked entity would take up
the quarrel with me, not you.”
“I don’t know about that,” she countered. “All I know is what went on in my kitchen.
Unless you isolate the causality, it could happen again.” She shuddered slightly.
“I know that.” He put a reassuring arm around her. “Interdimensional manifestations
of pure evil don’t just happen. There has to be a reason.” His lips tightened. “It has to
be something I’ve done. Or haven’t done.”
They fell silent. After a moment Talea looked up. “Listen.”
In the absence of conversation or chaos a faint, rhythmic moaning became audible. A
distinctly unpalatable, eerie, pulse-pounding rise and fall of verbalizations that verged
on the incomprehensible. The sound issued not from the Nether Regions, but from
above. From upstairs.
Jon-Tom followed his wife’s gaze. They exchanged a look.
“There it is, then,” she told him confidently. “You haven’t offended any paranormal
princes, and it’s not a consequence of random chance. The Plated Folk aren’t
involved, and neither are the Inimical Outer Guards of Proximate Perdition. It’s
much, much worse than that.” Her gaze rose, tracking the inhuman discord.
“Jon-Tom, you have got to do something about that kid.”
CHAPTER 2
As he mounted the spiral staircase cut into the heart of the interdimensionally
expanded tree, the music, if such it could be called, grew steadily louder. Actually,
some of what he could hear through the heavy-handed, sound-dampening spell was
no worse than borderline awful. The awkwardness of the lyrics, however, made him
wince.
Standing just outside the room, he was better able to judge the volume within. He
estimated that it fell somewhere between deafening and permanent brain damage.
Steeling himself, he hammered on the solid door.
“Buncan! T\irn that racket down and open up! I’ve got to talk to you.”
There was no response from within. Either his son couldn’t hear him over the din, or
else he was pretending not to. The instrumental work wasn’t bad, Jon-Tom decided,
but as usual Duncan’s voice was excruciatingly off-key. In fact, his singing was so
bad he made his father sound like a La Scala heldentenor by comparison.
He pounded on the wood afresh. “You hear me, Buncan? Stop that wailing and open
this door!”
Something was coming through the barrier. Jon-Tom retreated to the far side of the
hall and watched with interest as a two-foot-long white whale emerged, glanced to
right and left, then swam off down the hall. It was attached by a thread to a small
wooden boat crewed by half a dozen nautically garbed mini-imps wearing tormented
expressions. There was barely room in the boat for their tails.
Standing in the bow was a wee fiend with skin the hue of pea soup. His forked tail
flicked wildly back and forth, metronoming time for his crew to row by. One leg was
fashioned of white ivory, and his expression was suitably demented.
Chanting a plangent tune, he directed his reluctant rowers in pursuit of the retreating
mini-whale. They drifted off toward the stairway and disappeared below.
The inevitable scream reached him a moment later, followed by the outraged and
angry voice of his wife, who, from the tenor and tone of her voice, he could tell had
had it up to the proverbial here.
“Jon-Tom, you make your son quit that now!” This time he kicked the door. “Last
摘要：

CHAPTER1MaybenothingwouldhavehappenedifTaleahadn’tfoundthedemoninthebreadbox.She’dbakedsixloavesoffreshhumberpinethepreviousdayandhadlefttheminthemetal-linedwoodencontainertocool.Itsatonthetiledkitchencounterjusttotheleftofmebigovalwindowcutinthesouthsideofthetree,overlookingtheriverbankandthewillow...

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