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concave chair, snugging his shell into the egg-shaped receptacle.
    â€œSlowest famulus I’ve ever had.”
    â€œI was meaning to ask you,” said Jon-Tom, “why a sloth?”
    â€œYou know why, lad. He has an excellent memory, a real mind, and some notion of what honest study involves. This contrasts with the attitude of many previous assistants, who all too often seemed to have nothing between their ears except a lump of flavored sponge cake. Ghorpul’s only drawback is that it takes him twice as long as it should to perform the simplest tasks.” The wizard gazed longingly at the ceiling.
    â€œPerhaps someday I’ll finally find a famulus who combines speed and efficiency with intelligence. A brilliant otter, perhaps.” He squinted appraisingly at Mudge, who was slumped in the chair he’d chosen, short legs spread wide, his stained vest hanging open and one finger up his nose.
    â€œThen again,” the wizard concluded thoughtfully, “perhaps not.” He shifted his attention back to Jon-Tom. “Now that you have broken my concentration, what is it so urgent it makes you forget even Crixxas?”
    Jon-Tom looked over at Mudge, who was ignoring him with practiced finesse. Finding no support from that quarter, he looked hopefully at the wizard.
    â€œReally not much of anything, Master.”
    â€œCome come, lad. You can tell old Clothahump.”
    â€œI just did, sir. That is the problem. Nothing’s the matter. Anywhere.”
    Clothahump looked dubious. “I fail to see why you should regard that as a disturbing state of affairs.”
    â€œFrankly, Clothahump, Mudge and I are bored.”
    â€œAh!” The wizard’s face lit with understanding. Which in Clothahump’s case meant it actually took on a slight, pale evanescence. “Adventure self-denial. A not uncommon malady among individuals of your age and intellectual-emotional type. I, of course, am immune to such juvenile disorders. I presume you have given some thought to a possible course of treatment?”
    Jon-Tom edged forward until he was sitting on the rim of his seat. “It doesn’t have to be anything significant, Master. A small dilemma we could resolve. Something requiring the attention of a spellsinger. Nothing drastic, no real perils. Just a little spice.”
    Removing his glasses, Clothahump set to cleaning them with a soft cloth he extracted from one of the drawers built into his plastron. “I wish I could help you, lad, but insofar as I can tell, all is right with the world. There is a faint sense of occasional crises elsewhere, but you say you are averse to any serious commuting.” He shrugged, his shell bobbing. “Now if you will excuse me, I desire to return to the profound mental state in which I had immersed myself prior to your unexpected and intrusive arrival. Remnants of a difficult conceptualization still cling to the heightened edge of my consciousness.”
    â€œOi, let’s leave ’im alone, mate.” Mudge slid off his chair. “I’m ready to reacquaint meself with me bed, I am.”
    â€œBut we agreed,” Jon-Tom protested.
    The otter walked over until he was staring straight into the seated human’s face. “Look ’ere, mate, you’ve asked ’is sorcerership if there were any problems wot needed dealin’ with and ’e’s told you there ain’t. So why don’t you leave the both of us be and go back to your ’ousecleanin’?”
    â€œNo! There has to be something. Anything,” he insisted, imploring the wizard.
    â€œWelllll…” The turtle replaced his glasses on his beak. “There is one little thing. A genuine inconsequentially.”
    â€œAnything,” Jon-Tom reiterated.
    Clothahump considered. “It involves music.”
    â€œThere, you see?” the spellsinger informed a doubtful Mudge. “Something simple enough for me to deal